Px*^ i""** K C^ OEMS DANA BURNET POEMS BY DANA BURNET HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON POEMS Copyright, 1915, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America Published September, 1915 H-P TO MY WIFE 330305 ACKNOWLEDGMENT The poems in this collection, with one or two exceptions, are those which have appeared pre- viously in various prints. For permission to issue them in book form my acknowledgments are due the editors and publishers of The Evening Sun (New York), The North American Review, Harper's Magazine, Life, The Masses, Puck, Harper s Weekly and The Cornell University Era. D. B. CONTENTS POEMS OF WAR PAGE THE BATTLE OF LIEGE 3 WAR 8 THE PLAINT OF PAN 10 THE DESERTER 12 "SLEEP, LITTLE SOLDIER, SLEEP" 15 THE GLORY OF WAR 17 THE GUNBOAT 18 THE FIRST DEAD 20 THE SURVIVOR 22 STORM 23 THE BUILDER 24 THE FORGE OF GOD 26 THE FLEET SAILS 34 CHRISTMAS IN THE TRENCHES 36 AMMUNITION 40 THE DEAD 42 IN A VILLAGE 44 ALBERT OF BELGIUM 47 THE RETURN 50 [viil CONTENTS POEMS OF PANAMA PAGE THE SACK OF OLD PANAMA 55 THE VISION 74 PANAMA CITY 75 THE HOSPITAL 77 THE OLD PRISON 80 THE CANAL , . 82 GAYHEART GAYHJBART 85 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS SONG 109 HARVEST no BALLAD OF DEAD GIRLS 112 LINCOLN 116 THE DANCER 118 THE HOME LAND 121 BALLAD OF THE DEAD KING ....... 123 IN A WINDOW 127 LITTLE WHITE HEARSE "128 PEACE 129 BALLAD OF THE LATE JOHN FLINT 131 HILLS 135 THE PARK . . ..: 137 [ viii ] CONTENTS PACE * ROSES IN THE SUBWAY 139 BALLAD OF A CRUEL FATE 140 Our OF THE FOG 142 LOVE'S LIGHT WORLD 144 THE JESTER 146 PAPER ROSES 147 HUMORESQUE 148 THREE SWORDS 150 To THE CITY 152 SONG IN THE DUSK 154 THE VASE 155 IN A CAFE 157 A FACE AT CHRISTMAS 159 PILGRIM'S PRAYER 161 THE VAGRANT 162 HOUSE OF YEARS . . - 164 "THREE MEN o* MERRI" 165 THE TEACHING 167 IMPRESSION 168 THE SINGING 169 CHRISTMAS PRAYER 170 THE RIDDLE 172 "I HAVE So LOVED THE DAY" 175 THE OTHER SIDE THE HILL 176 THE ADVENTURER 178 AUTUMN 181 THE PRODIGAL 182 HUNGER 185 [ix] CONTENTS PAGE THE BRIDE k . . . . 187 THE RAGGED PIPER 189 SISTERS OF THE CROSS OF SHAME 193 POEM FOR EASTER 196 IN A DEATH HOUSE 197 IN A GARRET 203 THE DREADNOUGHT 205 "WHO DREAMS SHALL LIVE" 209 WAYFARERS 210 MY SAINT LIES SLEEPING 214 SONG FOR YOUTH 216 THE VAGABOND 217 LIFE . 219 POEMS ABOUT TOWN THE WOOLWORTH BUILDING 223 JIMSY 225 THE WINDOW POSTER 227 THE OUTCAST 229 SUBWAY TRACK-WALKERS 231 THE HAND-ORGAN MAN 233 THE MILLS HOTEL 235 THE UNEMPLOYED 2*37 THE BREAD-LINE 239 FROM AN "L" TRAIN WINDOW 241 OUT OF THE NIGHT 243 WASHINGTON SQUARE 244 CONTENTS DIALECT POEMS PACK THE ROAD TO VAGABONDIA 249 THE GOLDEN WEDDING 252 HAVANA BAY 255 MAGGIE McFAY 258 LADDIE 261 THE BALLAD OF DENNIS McGiNTY 263 LITTLE FISHERMAN 265 CHRISTMAS ON THE ROAD 266 [xi] DEDICATION A little while to pass within the throng, To dream y to toil, to weep, to love, to die And then the silence and the closing Song, And no more of the riddle that was I! My Book shall stand upon the quiet shelf Like some bright banner that the fates have furled; My dust, that was the symbol of my Self, Shall scatter to the distance of the world. Yet who in this brief passing finds despair Denies the certain God within his breast. Life has a crown for every man to wear, Though 'tis a thing of moments at the best. A thing of moments, scattered preciously Across the level causeway of the years! And yet what sudden Light may I not see? What Vision making glory of my tears? Mayhap if I sing bravely, true and well, My song shall strike God's universal rhyme, And like the echoes of a sweet, stilled bell Live in the heart of heaven after Time. POEMS OF WAR THE BATTLE OF LIEGE Now spake the Emperor to all his shining battle forces, To the Lancers and the Rifles, to the Gunners and the Horses; And his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream! "'Tis a twelve-day march to Paris, by the road our fathers traveled And the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road's unraveled Get you now across the border, God's decree and William's order Climb the frowning Belgian ridges With your naked swords agleam! Seize the City of the Bridges Then get on, get on to Paris To the jeweled streets of Paris To the lovely woman, Paris, that has driven me to dream!" [3] A hundred thousand fighting men They climbed the frowning ridges, With their flaming swords drawn free And their pennants at their knee, They went up to their desire, To the City of the Bridges, With their naked brands outdrawn Like the lances of the dawn! In a swelling surf of fire, Crawling higher higher higher Till they crumpled up and died Like a sudden wasted tide, And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide! They had paid a thousand men, Yet they formed and came again, For they heard the silver bugles sounding challenge to their pride, And they rode with swords agleam, For the glory of a dream, And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth and withered there and died. . . . [4] The daylight lay in ashes On the blackened western hill, And the dead were calm and still; But the Night was torn with gashes Sudden ragged crimson gashes And the siege-guns snarled and roared, With their flames thrust like a sword, And the tranquil moon came riding on the heavens' silver ford. What a fearful world was there, Tangled in the cold moon's hair! Man and beast lay hurt and screaming, (Men must die when Kings are dreaming!) While within the harried town Mothers dragged their children down As the awful rain came screaming For the glory of a Crown! So the Morning flung her cloak Through the hanging pall of smoke Trimmed with red it was, and dripping with a deep and angry stain! And the Day came walking then [51 Through a lane of murdered men, And her light fell down before her like a Cross upon the plain! But the forts still crowned the height With a bitter iron crown! They had lived to flame and fight, They had lived to keep the Town! And they poured their havoc down All that day . . . and all that night . . . While four times their number came, Pawns that played a bloody game! With a silver trumpeting, for the glory of the King, To the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame! So they stormed the iron Hill, O'er the sleepers lying still, And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns, But the thunder flung them wide, And they crumpled up and died, They had waged the war of monarchs and they died the death of pawns. [6] But the forts still stood. . . . Their breath Swept the foeman like a blade, Though ten thousand men were paid To the hungry purse of Death, Though the field was wet with blood, Still the bold defenses stood, Stood! And the King came out with his body-guard at the days departing gleam And the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the King his dream. [7] WAR ALL down the reeking trail of years the mailed armies go, With mock of flags and bitter drums and dead hearts in a row, Behind them in the gloom of blood the broken nations lie And o'er them wheels their gruesome god, a buz- zard in the sky. For some have marched with heathen curse, and some with Christian prayer, But all have paid the vulture god that beats the darkened air; And women know and children know that hear the trumpets' breath, There is no god goes with them but the wheeling god of death. A thousand vineyards rot and die, a thousand hearths lie cold, And still earth sends her armies down for some new shame of gold, And still the little mothers sit with faces white and wan, And watch the buzzards wheeling in the crimson smoke of dawn! i How long, O Liege of Heaven, ere Thy fearful judgments cease? What sin is on my brother's hand that will not give him peace? What flaw is in the Potter's clay that molds us to such shame, And puts upon a murdered man the grinning mask of fame? Down all the reeking trail of years I see the armies go, With mock of flags and waste of dreams and dead hearts in a row, And high above the blighted road their iron feet have trod I see the awful clouding wing that blots the face of God. [9] THE PLAINT OF PAN MARS has my reed! My pipe of water rush, Whereon I played the shepherds to their toil, And whistled up the reaper in the dawn, And whiled the plowman furrowing the soil. My reed! My precious pipe! The trill in it Was lighter than the laugh of water-brooks 'Twas life itself, I tell you oft and oft I've charmed a savant with it from his books. And made a wise man of him, too! And then When twilight hazed the pretty woodland streams, I've led my lovers with a lilt of faith Until their eyes were wonderful with dreams. I've piped the winding caravans of peace, And set a singing wind to blow the ships [10] Now Mars, the braggart, thieves my pipe away, And claps it to his rough and blowsy lips. Jupiter, listen! Does he know the stops? Can he awake those silver twining airs By which I bound my world? Hark, as he pipes Afar the angry strident trumpet blares 1 My song is twisted out of all its sweet! Souls cry in agony! The loosed sword gleams; Oh, Jupiter, give Pan his pipes again! The world's awry and there are no more dreams! I"] THE DESERTER THERE was a face at a window As we went marching by There was the face of a woman, And I'll see it till I die! The drums beat like a strong man's heart As we swung down the hill; The flags were snapping in the wind And the fifes were blowing shrill . . . And then I saw a woman's face And I knew I could not kill. 'Twas gone again in half a flash * I only saw her eyes As I have sometimes seen a star Fall blindly down the skies. And then ... I heard the beating drums, And knew that they were lies. [12] I could not take another step God help me! for my life; A madness gripped my whirling brain, And stung me like a knife. . . . I threw my lance down in the road And cursed the blowing fife. An officer rode up ... I saw His naked sword outdrawn; But he only sat his horse and smiled With a face most strangely wan, "I know," he said, "I saw it, too." And then, "You'll die at dawn!" He beckoned. Soldiers took my arms And dragged me to the rear. I passed a thousand staring eyes, I heard my comrades jeer; They said that I had been afraid They lied! It was not fear. . . . It was a woman's stricken face That looked across the sill [13] As we came down the iron road With our fifes a-blowing shrill. It was a face that looked at me And would not let me kill. And so I wait beneath the stars, A soul condemned to die And down the curling road I hear My comrades marching by. And all the fifes and all the drums I know to be a lie! There was a face at a window That looked out and was gone There was the face of a woman, And I'll see it till the dawn! [14] "SLEEP, LITTLE SOLDIER, SLEEP" Do you lie alone beneath the moon? Sleep, little soldier, sleep. A mother's heart is broken soon Sleep, little soldier, sleep. They say that you will come no more Yet I place my lamp within the door Lest you look back from that other shore Sleep, little soldier, sleep. Was there any hand to cool your brow? Sleep, little soldier, sleep. Where's all the laughter of you now? Sleep, little soldier, sleep. Another year, with sun and rain, The field will bear its golden grain, But you will never smile again Sleep, little soldier, sleep. Oh, light his dreams, thou mother moon! Sleep, little soldier, sleep. [IS] A woman's heart is broken soon Sleep, little soldier, sleep. The King, he wears his royal crown, The gay flags wave above the town; But the little soldier lays him down- Sleep, little soldier, sleep. [16] THE GLORY OF WAR HOOF-BEAT and trumpet blast, And banners in the dawn! And what of the grain in the fallow field When the husbandman has gone? Sword song and battle roar, And the great grim fighting-line! And what of the woman in the door And the blown grape on the vine? Drum-beat and draped flag And he beneath his shield And what of the woman weeping low, And the dead grain in the field? [17] THE GUNBOAT OUT in the good, clean water where it's blue and wide and deep, The pride of Britain's navy lies with thunders all asleep, And the men they fling their British songs along the open sky, But the little modest gunboat, she's a-creepin' in to die! The First Line's swingin' lazy on the purple outer ring, The proudest ships that ever kept the honor of a King! But nosin* down the roadway past the bones of other wrecks Goes the doughty little gunboat with her man- hood on her decks! [18] Oh, the First Line's in the offing, with its shotted lightnings pent, The proudest fleet that ever kept the King his sacrament! But down the death-sown harbor where a ship may find her grave, The plucky little gunboat is a-sinkin' 'neath the wave! Then sing your British chanteys to the ends of all the seas, And fling your British banners to the Seven Oceans' breeze But when you tell the gallant tale beneath the open sky Give honor to the gunboat that was not too small to die! THE FIRST DEAD (VERA CRUZ 1914) BOY, in your shroud of blue, We are so proud of you Slain in your splendid years; There in the foreign street, Slain, while the years were sweet- See, all our eyes have tears! Now rolls the muffled drum Mourning thy martyrdom, Boy in the shroud of blue; Smiling and unafraid, Still in thy youth arrayed, We are so sad for you! Toll, toll the bitter bell, Hearts have a grief to tell, Dead is the boy in blue! [20] Dead with his dreams denied, Yet that he laughed and died, Give him his honor's due! Give him the loud salute, Give him the homage mute, Boy that was brave and true! Now, while our eyes have tears Give him his deathless years, Honor the boy in blue! [21] THE SURVIVOR HAVE ye heard the thunder down the wind? Have ye seen the smoke against the sky? Nay, for my love goes from my arms To march and die! Have ye seen the scarlet battle flags, The distant lightnings of the sword? Nay, for my house hath lost its king, My heart its lord. Have ye heard the splendid lifting song The wind-blown paean of the strife? Nay, for they sing of Death and I Am chained to life! [22] STORM Our of the thunder leaps a crooked sword Bright as a serpent's tongue aye, bright as blood, And men within the moment cast their cloths And stand forth naked in a snarling brood. The storm treads on like some great-booted god, Roaring and slaying with its bloody fists, And men are milled between its awful palms Their vaunted masteries are blown like mists. . . . We have not conquered elemental things, Not chained the lightnings, nor controlled the skies The storm breaks and the world's a beast again, Snarling, at bay, with terror in its eyes! [23] THE BUILDER AMERICA, thou Builder! Thou readier up to God! Thou, whose tall cities grope with thrusting spires Into the shining empire of the sky, Stand now with thy good weapons in thy hands, There's a task here for a Builder. Hark the wind That moans in from the sea! It hath no more The song of proud ships going unafraid Nor the sweet hum of cities at their mills; The beat of souls is in it ... and the wings Of wasted dreams, and the great gasp of Death. See, there's a flame to eastward! Half a world' Burns to its naked timbers! Heav'n itself Is stained, and all the dynasty of stars Which we had built our stone to like a song Is blotted by the angry bloodied fires! [24] They burn! Our brothers' cities! All those towers Where History lay cradled and where Truth Dwelt in her golden garments like a Queen, And Art, her handmaid, brushing from her robe The dust of rotted centuries, stood forth Clear-eyed, a star-smudged palette in her hand And God Himself upon her brush's tip They burn! Those ancient splendid cities burn! What Art is left? What Truth? What History? The whole's to build again and we alone Are strong to build it! Now, my country, rise And take the stone up in thy straining hands. To thee of all the nations and the tribes That e'er have played the game of Destiny Is giv'n the task to shape the world anew! Then wake, for dawn is shining on the stone! Fling thy tall spires to Heaven like a song! Come, lift the world up to the rising sun, America, thou Builder! [25] THE FORGE OF GOD WE had dug a trench in the broken field, in the field just plowed for sowing, Behind us stood the taken town with its fired towers glowing, And high above it on the hill a scarlet flag was blowing. . We had sacked the town at dusk, Left it black and cold and still On the shoulder of the hill, With its beauty all a husk, Empty, empty in the dusk And a scar upon the temple that was lifted to His name. But the Emperor had smiled Like a pleased and haughty child, [26] Clapped his clean white hands and cried, At the splendor that had died, At his scarlet flag flung skyward like a sudden wisp of flame! There was naught but red and black In that conquered world of ours; 'Twas a bitter town to sack With its cursed priestly scars! Though we said, the name of Mars As we laid it on the rack, Still it turned us ghostly faces when we smote it with the rod; Turned us faces black and red; Looked with eyes we knew were dead, Till the very earth was horror where our iron feet had trod. . . . Trampled soils and shaking airs, Smoke and screams and futile prayers, And the sunset like a bleeding wound upon the breast of God! We had ringed the town with steel, We had compassed it with flame, [27] And our royal master came With his gentlemen at heel To the temple where the solid shot had torn their grinning holes. And below the blackened hill Slept the creatures of his will, Slept his soldiers in the trenches like a brood of weary moles, But the whimper of their breath Told how deep they dreamed of death And the faces of the things they'd killed made trouble in their souls. There was blood upon their hands, And they moaned again, again; They were not machines, but men Freed from fetters and commands, And they whimpered till the Emperor came stumbling from his wines Came his gentlemen close after With their lips still set for laughter, Heard, and sickened at the horror of the Wind that swept the Lines. [28] So stood shaking in the street, With their laughter stricken dead, With their chaos at their feet, And the temple overhead, And the monarch struck the pose he loved, the pose he hoped was fame. But the whisper on the night Made his cheek a sickly white, And the tower made him little; stripped him naked to his name. Then a Light leaped suddenly From the temple's inner gloom, Like God's glory in a tomb When the sheeted soul goes free, From the gutted temple's dusk, From the wither and the husk, Glowed a Light of sudden splendor like a fallen brand of dawn. It was glory, it was wrath, It was fury of His name, As it beat its crimson path To the cross upon the spire [29] Stabbing star-ward, higher, higher, Till it fluttered down and faltered like a gleam- ing sword withdrawn. II A burning priest stood in the door. I swear he burned; his garments burned, His face was fire as he turned, A thing no man had seen before! A miracle ... a burning man! And some there were who cried and ran But he came with a crucifix between his smoking fists. An iron crucifix, he had; A Cross ... an image of the Tree On which our Lord of Galilee Was tortured by a world gone mad Came he afire from the door Strode down and plucked the jeweled brand, From the pale monarch's shaking hand, Held high the arms of peace and war, Held high the Sword; the Cross held high Till their great shadows marked the sky Flung dancing up by that same Light that played about his wrists. [30] Then in that scarred and sacred spot, The great Light leaped full-wrathed again; He thrust the glittered sword within, And when the blade was glowing hot He beat it with the heavy Cross, God's iron on hell's steel. . . . The toss Of sparks made starry radiance about him as he toiled, And while we waited, shorn of breath, He lifted up the thing he'd made A rough-wrought plowshare. . . . Then he swayed And fell, and lay there cold in death. He was a man, and he had burned. He lay there, stilled; his face was turned To the first gray of dawn that marked the temple all despoiled. ill Up from the trench in the broken field, in the field of iron reaping, There rose a cry of frighted men, and a thousand men came leaping, [31] Came up the hill with staring eyes and spirits shocked from sleeping. There was moan upon their lips, There was terror in their eyes, They had seen against the skies God . . . with smoking finger-tips, Smite the glowing blade of war Snatched from their pale Emperor! In the furnace of the morning they had seen a plowshare wrought! They came crying up the hill Where the town stood like a husk, In the morning's pearly dusk, To the temple, charred and still, To their posing monarch's feet, In the stricken wasted street, All their costly iron discipline made nothing by a thought. And they took him in their hands, Took the King in their rough clasp, Till he cried out at their grasp, Shouting futile wild commands, But they laughed ... a thousand men, [323 Laughed and cried and laughed again, Caught the King up in their hands and flung their weapons all away, And they beat their breasts and sang, Marching downward from the hill, Masters, masters of their will! And their wild hosannas rang From a thousand throats to God Lifting, lifting as they trod, And above the ruined temple, lo, the sudden breaking day! [33] THE FLEET SAILS DOWN through the smother of the gray mist, through the dull-shot silver morning, We watched a proud ship streaming with a ribbon in her hair. And the men's red blood beat faster in their veins to see her there, And we said, "She flies the flag that lifts for no man's scorning!" Wind shook the water into music as a great hand shakes a zither, And suddenly we saw the flag flame through the torn mist's lining. And tears were in the women's eyes, but the men's eyes were shining, And we said, "She sails for honor's sake, so God go with her!" Out to the sky's gold and the blue sea, and the wide arms o' the morning, [34] We saw our proud ship steam away, with all her grim guns sleeping. And the women's hearts were breaking slow, but the men's hearts were leaping! And we said, "She is the thing that lives for no man's scorning!" [351 I STILL the guns! There's a ragged music on the air, A priest has climbed the ruined temple's stair, Ah, still the guns! It's Christmas morning. Had ye all forgot? Peace for a little while, ye battle-scarred Or do ye fear to cool those minds grown hot? Up the great lovely tower, wracked and marred, An old priest toils Men of the scattered soils, Men of the British mists, Men of France! Put by the lance. Men of Irish fists, Men of heather, Kneel together ' [361 Men of Prussia, Great dark men of Russia, Kneel, kneel! Hark how the slow bells peal. A thousand leagues the faltered music runs, Ah, still the wasting thunder of the guns, Still the guns! ii Out of the trenches lifts a half-shamed song, "Holy Night!" Here, where the sappers burrowed all night long To bring the trench up for the morrow's fight, A British lad, with face unwonted white, Looks at the sky and sings a carol through, "God rest you merry, gentlemen!" It was the only Christmas thing he knew. And there were tears wrung out of hard-lipped men, Tears in the strangest places, Tears on troopers' faces! Ill They had forgotten what a life was for, They had been long at suffering and war, [371 They had forgot old visions, one by one, But now they heard the tolling bell of Rheims, Tolling bell of Rheims; They saw the bent priest, white-haired in the sun, Climb to the hazard of the weakened spire, They saw, and in them stirred their hearts' desire For Streets and Cities, Shops and Homes and Farms, They only wanted space to love and live; They felt warm arms about them women's arms, And such caresses as a child might give Coming all rosy in the early day To kiss his world awake . . . The British lad Broke off his carol with a sob. The play Of churchly musics, solemn, strange, and sad, Fluttered in silver tatters down the wind, Flung from the tower where the guns had sinned Across the black and wounded fields. . . . The bell Sang on a feeble protest to the skies, Until the world stood like a halted hell, And men with their dead brothers at their feet Drew dirty sleeves across their tired eyes, Finding the cracked chimes overwhelming sweet. [38] IV Aye, still the guns! And heed the Christmas bell, Ye who have done Death's work so well, Ye worn embattled ones, Kneel, kneel! Put by the blood-stained steel, Men from the far soils and the scattered seas, Go down upon your knees, While there is one with faith enough to dare The wracked cathedral's crumbled broken stair While there lives one with peace upon his eyes, While hope's faint song is fluttered to the skies, In that brief space between the Christmas suns, Still the guns! [39] AMMUNITION How do ye load your guns withal, Ye little Lords of waste and war? With shotted steel and lightnings chained, And the pent thunders' roar? Or do ye, as I sometimes think, To quell the foeman's onward flood, Ram home a charge of human life And spit it forth in flesh and blood? Oh, is it steel or is it bone, Or iron price or human toll? Is yonder noise the crash of guns Or is it cry of mortal soul? How do ye load your guns withal, Ye little Lords of brief command? What drips upon the cannon's mouth, What stains the scarlet of your hand? [40] Are those the faces of the dead That stare from out the battle pall? How do ye feed those smoking mouths? How do ye load your guns withal? Think not, ye Princes of a Day, To cloak the thunders with a lie. There never was a war of steel, There is no battle save men die! [41] THE DEAD THE dead they sleep so deep, The dead they lie so still, I wonder that another man May look on them and kill. The dead they lie so pale, The dead they stare so deep, I wonder that an Emperor May look on them and sleep. Their hands are empty cups, No dream is in their hearts. Their eyes are like deserted rooms From which the guest departs. Ah, living men are fair, Clean-limbed and straight and strong! But dead men lie like broken lutes Whose dying slays a song. [42] Oh, will there come a time Beneath some shining king When we shall arm for living's sake, And turn from murdering? The dead they lie so pale, So empty of all breath I wonder that a living world Can make a means of Death. [431 IN A VILLAGE (BELGIUM) THEY were so happy! Merely that, no more; They did not ask for riches or the pomp Of palaces. Their eyes had smiles and tears For such small dramas as the laggard day Fetched o'er their homely door-sills. They lived truths, Came by the world's ruts to the world's delights, Their hearts leaped up to hear a baby laugh They went out in the morning to the fields. A church spire lifting slender to the sun Made them sufficient symbol for their faith. They thrilled at commonplaces; and their hearths Were forges of the day's mild happenings, Where life was welded, link by glowing link, And all so simply that it never galled The limbs that bore it. [441 All they asked of earth Was leave to live on it, to reap its fruit, To drink its wine, to eat its daily bread, To love a woman and to trust a man To worship God unhindered and to sleep At last beneath the honest soil they loved. That and no more. It seems a bitter thing That man should so deny the common bond Of godhood as to slay his brother man. And when life's little is that brother's all, The deed becomes a riddle thrice accursed. What menace breeds in simple villages? These folk had only need of bread and love; They dreamed of no far empires, nor of lands Beyond their hedgerows. They were all content To wear the yoke of peasantry, to toil From sun to sun. They were the simplest souls That ever dwelt beneath a smiling sky. They lived, they loved, they laughed, they wor- shiped God, They broke their bread and drained their cups of wine [451 Looked out across the fields at even-tide With mute and nameless happiness. . . . Their eyes Were but the eyes of children unafraid. And now their gutted houses gape and stare With awful empty doors. Their hearths are dust, Their spire of faith is broken like a reed, Their women, wives and mothers torn apart From those whose very souls they were lie slain With awful butcheries. A flame leaps out, The dust lifts 'neath the tramp of iron feet. The village fades behind a crimson cloud, Above the marching column writhes the smoke Of stricken homes, a banner flung to God And in a trooper's knapsack for a sign Of victory ... a baby's withered hand. [46] ALBERT OF BELGIUM IN the twilight of the kings When the purple sun of pomp Sank on bloody wings Into a sea of spears And Death's mad romp Tossed against heaven with a surf of tears, When to be royal was to be half cursed, A man stood clean against the waning light, By fate, by manhood, and by virtue first Of all the hearts he led to Honor's fight. They said to him: "Stand not against thy gate With futile swords, else we shall trample thee, But rather let us through. These things are Fate. Wouldst thou with straws seek to forbid the sea?" "Aye," said the King, "if duty bade me to! There is no honor in me if I stand l47l Weakly aside and let your black swords through." They said: "Count ye the cost in men and land." He answered: "I am well content to pay, If in the payment faith and honor lie. Come, if ye must! 'Twill be a bloody day, And ye shall see how carelessly we die!" And so it came to pass that on that gate The black swords beat incessantly until It opened, and the brutish hordes rode through, Moving the heart of all the world to hate. Henceforth they fought a foe they could not kill, They fought the prayers of men, they fought the rue Of women's tears, the dreamers' dreams, the songs Of splendid singers. They had only death To work their will, and they were weak with wrongs. Against them moved the protest and the breath Of all mankind. Whatever thing they trod Became upon that hour a sacred thing. The Shrines they broke were eloquent of God, The crown they snatched at only proved a King! [48] He fought them foot by foot, a losing fight, Yet ever in defeat found victory, Until at last, crowned by that waning light, He halted with his back against the sea! And there he stands, and will stand through the years, Till God doth break the Great Seal of the skies, A hero who shall live, 'twixt songs and tears, As long as men have visions in their eyes. Then come, ye bards, and all ye hearts that sing, Smite silvery lutes against Oblivion's ban! Say how for honor's sake there stood a King, Albert of Belgium, soldier, monarch, man! l49l THE RETURN HOME across the clover When the war was over Came the young men slowly with an air of being old, On a morning blue and gold Through the weed-grown meadow-places Marched young soldiers with old faces, Marched the columns of the Emperor with dull, bewildered eyes, And the day was like a rose upon the skies; But they feared both light and life, Feared the aftermath of strife. Slow they came Now that it was over Silent and sick and lame, Home across the clover. A woman knelt in a garden by the road, Patting a little mound of earth [SO] With aimless hands. Along the highway flowed The gray tide, while the day was at its birth. She heard the drums, looked up, half smiled: "Why do you march," she said, "and play at soldiers? There's none to laugh at you no little child! Not one. They've all gone back to sleeping." She fell to awful weeping. "Why do you play at soldiers?" Then dropped down To pat the little grave. The line went on and on into the town. They saw it first in the city's eyes, Old men grouped by their fright, ran here and there In startled herds, with shrill unmeaning cries. And there was white in every woman's hair, And when a window yielded them a face 'Twas like a flower blasted by the sun; Children there were none. The world seemed robbed of joyousness and grace, A young girl with a head of snow Sat weaving garlands in the market-place With hands unearthly slow, [Si] As though her toil must be The very measure of eternity. A boy ran from the ranks, stooped, touched her brow; "Mar got, M argot! Is it thou?" She did not glance up at the white-faced lad. Deep in the gray line rang a sudden shout: ''They're mad! They're mad!" "Silence, you dogs, until you're mustered out. Forward, to greet the Emperor!" The line Wavered and moaned and stumbled through the town Like some dark serpent with a broken spine. Before the palace gate, in cloak and crown, A shriveled figure sat with shaking hands, Forming toy soldiers into various bands. A figure in a jeweled diadem, Who as the swords leaped with a ringing noise, Lifted his wasted eyes and looked at them. "Ah!" said the Emperor, and smiled: "More toys!" POEMS OF PANAMA THE SACK OF OLD PANAMA THEY sat in a tavern in wicked Port Royal, Grim Morgan and Brodley and one or two others, A flagon of rum on the table between them And villainy binding them closer than brothers. And Morgan dropped hint of Old Panama's riches; Said little, but said it with evil suggestion, Till Brodley swayed up, with his glass in his fingers, And swore that a Don was an aid to digestion! But Morgan said, idly, "'Twould be a long journey" Cried Brodley: "What odds, when the end of it's yellow ? I mind me the pockets of dead men I lightened That year of our Lord when we sacked Porto Bello!" [551 Then Morgan stood straight, with his face of dark smiling: "I'll rake them once more then I'll stop all such capers; Come home and be Governor! Aye, but I will, though, And hang every master that can't show his papers. "I'll have me a house that will front the blue water, And devil a pirate shall sit at my table; But now, and once more, I've a will to go courting, To dance with a Don while I'm hearty and able." He laughed, and drew breath; and they tipped up the flagon, And fashioned his words in a stormy sea ditty. Then swiftly fell silent, with dream - darkened faces, And thought of their hands at the throat of a city. . . . [56] Said Morgan, "You, Brodley, will take San Lorenzo" " I'll take it," he cried, " as a man takes a woman, With bullets for billets-doux! Aye, and for kisses The lips of my sword on the face of the foeman!" '"Od's blood," spat a third, "'twill be glorious wooing," They lifted their glasses and smote them together. "A health," roared a fourth, "to all lovers of cities!" Said Morgan the Pirate, "God send us fair weather." II The sea was as blue as the breast of the morning When Morgan went down to his last bucaneering; His sails were like low-fallen clouds in the distance, Blown onward, and fading, and slow disappearing. And so he put out and was part of the distance, A blur of slow wings on the blue ring of heaven, With two thousand devils adream below hatches, And steel, and dry powder, and ships thirty- seven. [571 And all down the decks there was talk of the venture How Morgan had wind of unthinkable treasure; How Panama's streets were the sweetness of silver, Where men in gold gutters threw pearls for their pleasure! And Brodley went forward and took San Lorenzo, With patience and passion, as men take a woman, And Morgan came up, with his face of dark smiling, And saw the sword's kiss on the heart of the foeman. Said Brodley: "The dead are asleep in their trenches, But we must press on, with our Dream and our devils" He spat to the southward. "There's war in those mountains, Red death in the hills, and white plague on the levels." But Morgan was smiling. . . . "The end of it's yellow; A fortune for each, and for each his desire!" [58] Below them his men stood with dark upturned faces, And naked swords turning the twilight to fire. . . . And Brodley laughed, softly: "For each his heart's fortune Aye, aye, let's get on to the end of our wooing. For life is the sweetest when set to adventure, And gold lies ahead and the interest's accruing." The dawn saw them marching twelve hundred brown devils, With steel and dry powder and gay crimson sashes; And so they put on ... and were dead in the jungle Of great shaking fevers and little barbs' gashes. . . The remnant toiled on at the heels of a vision, While death strode behind them, a scant twenty paces And many fell down, with a last bitter laughter, And buzzards flapped in, and made holes in their faces. I 591 The tenth day was sleeping in tents of red splendor When Morgan crept up to the walls of the city Behind him his madmen came shouting and sobbing, And mouthing the words of an old pirate ditty. Their souls were in tatters! And still they came singing, Till all the hushed foreland was waked from its dreaming, And high in their towers the sweet bells of vesper Were drowned and made dim by the mad, measured screaming. A gun roared, and deep in the heart of the city Wild pulses began. ... A young mother ran crying, " The English are on us!" Swords silvered the twilight, And priests turned their books to the prayers for the dying. [60] Then out from his gates came the desperate Spaniard; The swords were like flame, and the towers were ringing But Morgan's men waited; lay down with choked muzzles, And dealt out their death to the pulse of their singing. Their volleys belched forth like a chorus of thunder, A great whining Song that went on without pity, Till night drew her veil . . . then they rose from their bellies, And spat at the dead and went into the city. HI High noon. In the house of a wealthy dead Senor Sat Morgan and Brodley and none to disturb them. The world from their window was blood to the heavens Sighed Morgan, "I fear me that nothing will curb them." [61] He stared at the stain in the sky to the westward : "They've fired the church of St. Something-or- Other. Much good may it do them! I called there at daybreak And borrowed the keys from a little brown brother!" He grinned, and made free with a fat-bellied bottle. (Below, in his cellars, the master lay tumbled, A knife in his throat and beyond the barred window The voices of drunken men gathered and rumbled.) A sailor lurched by, and stared in at the casement, A screaming dark woman flung up at his shoulder; The crowd knitted swiftly behind him. . . . Said Brodley: "They've found you, by gad! And I think they've grown bolder." The murmur swelled hoarsely; a stone struck the window, And Morgan was up, with an oath for the clatter. [62] "The dogs! They want treasure! It's iron I'll give them Fling open the port there we'll argue the matter." A painted blue balcony hung at the window, Hung over the street, like a lip thrust for sneering; And Morgan stepped out and stood silent above them, His hand at his belt and his little eyes leering. The hot clamor died ... he leaned down in the stillness. "Well, gentlemen, well? Have you business with Morgan?" His words caused a murmur, confused and un- meaning, That passed like the sob in the heart of an organ "What then? Are you bashful ?" A sudden voice lifted: "Ask Blackie, the Bo'sun, sir. He'll answer for us; [63] He says to divide it the gold and the jewels. 1 * "Aye, aye," roared the crowd in a wild drunken chorus. The Bo'sun stepped forward, a bold man made bolder By rum and crowd-courage: "We think we've been cheated. We want our just share o f the loot an* the treasure, It's my notion, sir, we've been shabbily treated !" Then Morgan stooped down, with his right hand extended, And smiled at the fellow; smiled gently and fired. The shot roared and died . . . the brave Bo'sun fell kicking, And lay on his face as though woefully tired. "My answer!" said Morgan. His face darkened slowly : "Get back now, you dogs, to your drinking and pleasure. [64] We march at the dawn . . . and you've ten days of jungle! 'Tis those who live through it may talk of the treasure." He turned and went in through the window. Said Brodley, "You're iron!" But Morgan stood absently scowling. "I've counted the loot, and there's not enough in it, With our shares deducted, to stop those wolves howling." He snatched up the bottle: "Good health and fair fortune; A glass to our safe return. Come, lad, and drink it. This pirating pays if you captain the pirates! We'll put back to port, and buy life like a trinket." IV 'Twas night; and the stars were in silver for sleeping; Across the stilled water the dim ships lay molded 5 [6 S ] In darkness, pricked out by their yellowing port lights, And on the blurred masts the great sails hung half folded. The fleet drowsed at anchor. . . . The wind in the cross-trees Sang light as a woman, and lazily threading The forest of spars came at last to the flag- ship And there met the cheek of the mainsail out- spreading! Up quietly, then, like a startled bird's pinions, Went Morgan's sly wings, till the stars were all blotted With bellying silver; and so she crept seaward With no lights to speak her, and guns double- shotted. > And Morgan leaned down from his place at the taffrail, And smiled at each ship that went by in the smother. . . . [66] All down the dim deck his spent devils lay grinning, As glad for the sea as a babe for its mother! Afar on the headland the camp-fires spattered The hem of the dark, and the shore in full measure Was lifted, and bloodied, and stained against heaven, Where Morgan's mad armies sat counting their treasure. But Morgan laughed long ... for his ship was heeled over With strong-handed sea winds, and down the lee railing The sudden white foamed as she trod the long furrow, And none but the stars knew that Morgan was sailing! And Brodley came up from the waist, breathing deeply: "We're out! Smell the sea! Gad, they'll curse us to-morrow." [67] "Nay, lad, I've but lifted ill-luck from their shoulders, For riches breed woe and I've saved them much sorrow!" Their laughter was lost in the loud talking water. Behind them the world waned, and all the great fires Were littled to candle-flame! Only in heaven The stars held the lamps of their ancient de- sires. , The Governor sat in his window at evening, His window that looked on the star-furrowed water; A ship had come into the clasp of the harbor, Clear-lined from the darkness the bright moon had wrought her. She strode with white sails, like a ghost in a shadow, Came up at her chain, and stood nosing the bubbles. [68] Afar at his window Sir Thomas leaned breathless, Forgetting the brood of a Governor's troubles. "He's in and alone. What a fox! What a devil To do what he said he'd do! Now for the profit That swells the King's coffers. Egad! there's a fortune In wearing a crown an you know when to doff it!" He clapped his fat hands; and a black lad stood bowing. "Bring candles and rum," said the Governor, grinning. And then he sat down with his boots on the table, And dozed until Morgan should come from his sinning .... He came, with an oath, in his great greasy sea- boots, A sash at his waist, and a pistol stuck in it, His beard to his throat, and his little eyes leering "Your voice," said Sir Thomas, "is sweet as a linnet!" [69] "My pockets are sweeter," said Morgan; and, winking, He drew from his sash a creased bag of black leather, Unloosed it and spilled on the bare wooden table Red jewels that kindled like swords struck to- gether! "There's blood and men's souls and the price of a kingdom; Take half, and let's drink. God! I'm dry to the marrow " He caught up the flagon of rum . . . but Sir Thomas Sat fondling the gems, and his eyes had grown narrow. "They're perfect! They're wonderful!" "Aye," said the Pirate, "I bought them with dead men but that's a long story. Come, count the Crown's share, and we'll drink to the bargain, These trinkets are turning unpleasantly gory/' [70] The jewels lay warm in the dusk of the candles, Like soulless red eyes that no tears might set blinking . . . And Thomas Sir Modyford crooked his hot fingers, And chose the King's profit, whilst Morgan sat drinking. "Sweet baubles! Sweet pretties! They've blinded my candles. They're flame, Pirate, flame! See my hand, how they've burned it." He laughed, and drew forth from his pocket a parchment "It's yours, by our bargain; and damme, you've earned it." They spread out the parchment between them. Said Morgan: "God's name! I'm respectable!" "Aye," said Sir Thomas, "You're Leftenant-Governor, lately appointed By will of the Crown in accord with our promise!" VI Day broke . . . and the throat of the harbor was clouded With sail. 'Twas the fleet of the pirates re- turning But down their grim ports no black muzzles peered frowning, Nor naked steel leaped for the dawn to set burning. They came as calm merchantmen, shriven with morning (For in the King's harbors the law is hard- fisted!) And so they stole in, like whipped hounds to a kennel, Their loosed anchors lolling like tongues when they listed. The candles were dead in the Governor's chamber; And in at the window the young light came creeping Asprawl at the table sat Morgan the Pirate, And under his boot-heels Sir Thomas lay sleeping. [72] The anchors splashed down in the ruffled blue water, The great wings were furled with a rattle of gearing; But Morgan sat clutching a folded gray parchment, A glass at his lips, and his little eyes leering. [73l THE VISION "WHAT did you see in Panama, Voyager with the eye of dream?" "7 saw the squat dredge breathing in the dawn, And the great white breaths of steam "/ saw the dim amazement of the hills, And the red suns burning; And the long, long trains of laborers at dusk returning. "7 saw fair ships beyond Balboa's gates That waited for the morrow, And I saw a man go by me with a face of sorrow." "What did you see in Panama, Broken hills and a breath of steam?" " That, and the long, long trains of laborers, And a man's face touched with dream!" [74] PANAMA CITY Blue balconies, dust and old silence, The patter of naked brown feet; And the sea caught in sudden cool glimpses At the ends of the shimmering street. A maze of thin highways that wander, And turn with a thousand desires, Till they come to the Square in the twilight, And the little lit fires Till they come to the Square and the laughter, And the little gold lamps in the trees And the drift of the strange burning faces Cast in from the seas; And the throb of the lovely slow waltzes, And the narrow gay sidewalks aswirl, (For the heart of a city is music, Like the heart of a girl) [751 iAnd there, at the edge of the twilight, They turn from their gipsy unrest, And sleep in the wind of the waltzes, With the feet on their breast. Blue balconies, dust and old silence, And naked strange faces that stream And somewhere a ghost in the shadow, And the sense of a long-vanished dream. [76] THE HOSPITAL ON the green hill, above the breathless town, They built a House of Hope and Death, and there, Tracing the white road through the flame-fringed dusk, They dragged their broken bodies for repair. All down the Work the word went whispering: "Upon the high hill stands the House of Hope!" And the white hands were many in the dusk, And the slow feet fell throbbing on the slope! They were the Builders, broken at their task; The wounded and the dying, and they came, Each with his separate cross upon his soul But none cried, "Holy, holy!" at their name. [77l None saw the thorns upon their sweating brows, Nor heard their spent souls crying through the dawns; To you and me, Fat Citizen, it was Only a needed sacrifice of pawns! ii I saw them at the windows of their House, Hopeful and Hopeless, all the wistful-eyed, Watching the far, faint sails along the sky, Their eyes upon the distance till they died. Below them was the endless shining sea, And the great moons rode up behind the hill; But they sat at their windows, wistful-eyed, And on their knees their knotted hands lay still. They could not laugh at twilight and go free, Nor lie with pleasure, nor go up to fame, They were but Workmen, wounded unto death, Poor pawns that died to speed the Master's game. [78] At evening wound the noisy work-trains home, And labor ceased, and love ran through the town; But they were only Faces in the dusk, They could not don their laughter and go down. [79] THE OLD PRISON Now where the blue Pacific spends Its wealth of sapphire at the gray sea-wall They made a prison; and along its foot Watched the slow sea-tides crawl; But stabbing deeper than the tides, Down through the solid masonry they made A dreadful thing; a cell both deep and dark, Where the blue water played. And there they placed their evilest, At ebb-hour, when the purring tides were low- (Almost I heard the fearful cries he made Who knew that he must go! Almost I saw his stricken face, And that curled, cruel smiling of the guard; Almost I heard the moaning of his friends Who walked the grass-grown yard.) [80] They took him out when all the sky Was flushed with morning, and the sea was down. Into his ears was borne the matin chime Of church-bells from the town But he was dark with agony, And from his foot there dragged an iron ball; A dozen steps across the sweet green grass, Then shrieking to the wall, And there they seized him in their hands, And cast him like a dead thing to the dark About the yard his friends stood rigidly, With faces still and stark. His dull cries died behind the stone, Then, smiling their curled smiles, his keepers took Fresh mortar and sealed out the last small light, As men might close a book. Anon the tides rose at the wall, Rose softly, gently, seeping through the stone. . . . To-day as I was walking in that place, I found a crumbled bone. 6 [81] THE CANAL THE linked worlds stand in wonder at their bond, The nations quicken and the two seas stir The waiting spars make mist along the East. It is the triumph of a Laborer! The wonder is the wonder of a soul, A heart that dreamed in terms of continents, A hand that wrought with mountains and with seas, A warrior with no murder in his tents. Oh, there are poems in the clang of steel! And mayhap there are songs to sing of steam. Let others cry the glory of the deed, I only see the Dreamer and the Dream. [82] GAYHEART GAYHEART A STORY OF DEFEAT I GAYHEART came in June, I saw his heels Go through the door, and broken heels they were. His eyes were big, and blue, and young. He said, "Could you direct me to the Basement, Sir?" I knew the Basement; I had grubbed there once Before a client tumbled in my net And brought me riches. It was coffin-cold And on its bare walls seeped a moldy sweat. Twas next the kitchen, too, and had the breath Of cheap things cooking but I led him down. The stairs dropped naked through the clammy dark- He paused, and gasped, as men do when they drown. [8 S ] "Is it down there?" I turned and took his arm (Thin as a boy's it was; all skin and bone); I said: "The dark is just a pleasant cloak To veil you off, and keep your thoughts alone. "A Boarding-house is all-inquisitive; You're safer here." "How did you know," he said, "That I would want to be alone? Am I An open book to be so simply read?" We stumbled down until I felt the door Beneath my fingers. Then I struck a light The room grinned at us like an ugly face Caught in a heart-beat from the cloak of night. The boy's breath cracked his lips. I saw his soul Stand in his eyes, and look, and shrink again, Sick with the moment's shattered visionings, And on his face went the slow feet of pain. "It strikes you bleak, eh? Come, it's not so bad. The gas won't whimper if you turn it low. The bed is lame, but friendly. Here's a desk To scribble at." He said: "I write, you know. [86] "I've come to be a writer." And he smiled, As boys do when they say their heart's desire; "I'm from the South a paper took me on, But that's just keeping fagots in my fire." He smiled again, for he had all his youth To smile from. "My real work," he said, "will be To sketch the city not in prosy books, But in its native, living poetry. "Cities were made for measures and for rhyme, They have an ancient minstrelsy of feet, And rivers sweep their shipping like a song, And there is endless music in a street. "Endless, I say, and never caught by man. Your books? Ah, how they walk, walk, walk, with words; But verse runs on light feet, as Cities do O God, I've dreamed it till it hurts like swords "Not to be writing; but I've got to learn, Learn, learn it all the streets, the parks, the ships, [8 7 ] The subway and the skyscrapers!" He stopped And brushed his hand across his trembling lips. "Excuse me, sir. You were the first kind soul I'd spoken to the rest are like the tomb." He smiled and touched my hand; and then I turned, Leaving him standing in his wistful room. II June passed, and weather came that seared our flesh. The soft streets crawled; old men dropped down and died; Within the House our summer tempers snarled, And every night the lady boarder cried. Her alcove shouldered mine and so I knew. She came at six, her feet as slow as lead Dragged through her door, and cried till supper- time. I never saw her but her eyes were red. [88] Poor Gayheart whitened slowly, till his face Was like the paper that he scribbled on. But he had youth, and some vague bravery That held him taut until his task was done. He rasped our nerves, though, with his restless ways, His restless, silent ways. ... He never seemed To see us when we passed him in the hall His eyes were distant with the thing he dreamed. He bolted dinner like a dog, as though He feared his fate would snatch him unaware With all his dreams unproved then, starting up, Would grope the shadowed hallway to the stair, And down to his eternal folderol, His spitting gaslight and his scratching pen, Until we cursed him for his industry, His being different from the ruck of men. Then one dead night when all the stars did sweat He plucked my sleeve, and smiled, and drew me down [89] His damned black stairs. Then, while the clogged jet whined, He read me what he'd written of the Town. It struck me wonderful. It had the ache Of rush-hour traffic in it, and the swing Of wheels, as though he'd listened in a street, A crowded street where life ran thundering. . . . It made me think of going to my work; Of men in crowds, and women's faces drawn With painted lines, and shops and ships and spires And skyscrapers that reached up for the dawn. And then beneath the step of rhyme I heard The boy's soul speaking. . . . And I knew that he Had spent himself like dust among the crowd To catch the heart-beat for his poetry. His voice went out like flame. I found myself Shocked by the still, small room. To me it seemed [90] Great throngs had passed with various noise. He said: "That's just the gateway to the thing I've dreamed !" HI There is a street's end, where the coasters sleep, And there, at twilight, purple waters run, And o'er their breast the crimson-coated day Trails the last silver of the fallen sun. A wall is there, for men to dream upon; And so young Gayheart went, with all his scars Unhealed . . . and saw the lights sown through the dusk, And his tall city in a cloak of stars. Tier upon tier the golden windows burned, As though man sought new freedom in the skies; And somehow, lured by starlight and by dawn, Built his blind cities up to paradise! Afar the bridges spun their silver webs, The mellow whistles talked along the stream; [91] But Gayheart leaned athirst upon a stone, Hurt with the shining beauty of his dream. And he was like a child with wistfulness, Holding his hands out through the summer night, Where in the dusk the great, clean towers flared, Like swords thrust up in some red battle-light! And then he turned, all dumb with his desire, And stumbled through still streets, until he found The great bridge trembling underfoot and heard The trains go by him with a tempest sound. Black, shapeless forms came shrieking with bright eyes; The sea-wind rolled like drums against his ears, And he was singing, singing as he trod, And in his eyes were sudden, smarting tears. The tallest spire enraptured him! He strode Under the roofed bridge, where the newsboys cry, And out into that little breathing-space From whence the windows go into the sky. [92] And there he sought a bench and sat him down, Between two snoring vagabonds, who lay Sprawled on their faces, . . . but his wakefulness Was like a lamp within him till the day. What did it mean? the stone flung like a song? The desk-light brothering the star? The whole Up-sweep of roofs that is our native land What meaning had it, and what secret soul? He sat with upturned eyes, as young men do, Until the lamp upon his face grew wan; He saw his nation toiling in its House, Its tall, strange House that reached up for the dawn! \ And dreaming, saw the Elder Worlds asleep \ In their low houses, beautiful with Time. . . . The vagrant at his left side groaned and breathed, Lifting a face of cumulative grime "What's in yer gizzard, lad, that twists ye so? I know! You're one of them wot's got a brain! [93] Now me " His brother raised a blowzy head: "Aw, hell!" he snarled, and fell asleep again. Across the roofs the first, faint gold of dawn Streaked the dun heavens, and the Day Men took The windows of the sleepless, so that life Went smoothly like a never-written book. And Gayheart shook the cramps from his dull limbs, Rose and went up the paper's curling stair Until he reached the City Room. The Staff, Half stripped of cloth, already sweated there. But he dropped at his crazy, limping desk, In the dim corner where the gubs are kept, And wrote: "America is wakefulness!" And fell face down upon the words, and slept. IV Gayheart's book came back, and back again, And still he mailed it out, with little lies [94] To cloak its failure but I think we saw The naked, frightened soul behind his eyes. The lady boarder knew. I heard her say A cruel thing. "Your book is home," she said, "For Sunday dinner." But he passed her by Without the slightest turning of his head. She hated him. . . . And so mid-autumn fell, With no abating coolness. Each new sun Was like a murderer let out of locks, And life went sickly, praying to be done. A night fell when all sleep was vain. ... I rose And stumbled to the windowful of stars, That was my share of heaven. . . . There I stood Letting the soft night seep into my scars. The window opened on a little court, And suddenly a feeble thrust of flame Stabbed like a pettish dagger through the dark, Out of the night a ragged breathing came. [951 . . I saw the Basement boarder stooping down, His lean face bloodied with the touch of light. A tongue of fire licked his hands . . . and died, Brief as the flutter of a star in flight. Somehow I sensed a tragedy. . . . The gloom Was like a grave, the light leaped up no more. I turned and groped down through the breathless house; Until I saw him crouching by his door. He stood there, staring at his empty hands As though they'd done his dearest dream to death; The palms were soiled and smeared with paper ash; There was a reek of whisky on his breath. "What's this?" I said. He raised his head and smiled With a deep drunkenness that touched his soul. "I'll tell you what it is! I've been a fool The sort of fool that makes a dream his goal. [96] "I've worked my heart out; done a decent thing And no one wants it! No one wants to look Beneath the surface of this world of ours. It's all damned artifice. . . . I've burned my book." Even to me the thing seemed tragical As though he'd set a torch to half himself. "What!" I cried, "burned your splendid poetry? Laid yourself out like that upon a shelf? "What will you do?" "I'll do as other men; Harness my talent as a modern should. I'll do the obvious with all my age The cheap, the counterfeit, the understood! "I've a new job this night; a fine, new job He spat into the shadows of the place "Verse-making on a magazine! The sort That wears a painted simper on its face. "I'm rich . . . and drunk. I had to drink or scream, And drink goes deep with me; ... get me to bed. 7 l97l I've slaughter on my soul and verse to make. My editor wants something light he said "Something that's brisk and funny." There he stood, With those raw, suffering eyes and stared at me, Until I near cried out. He was so white! And older . . . older than a man should be. I swear whole ages crumbled in his face, For he had dreamed, and dreams are ancient things, Bearing a harsher reckoning than Time When once despair has crumpled up their wings. I got him stripped and into bed at last. The poor, spent lad! He lay there still and stark, His smudged hands clenched acrossliis shallow chest, And moaned once as I crept out through the dark. Success came to him swiftly; made him drunk. He gulped life as a drunkard gulps his bowl, [98] Forgetting all his splendid futile dreams He was an altered person to his soul. He fattened and grew flushed; he learned to sneer; His verses ran like swift, malignant flame, Smirching the thing they touched and burning on To wipe the pathway for his striding fame. He left the Basement then; soared up two flights With braggart wings, bought furniture and prints, Nonsense, we called it! and to crown the show Decked out his trappings in a flowered chintz. But that phase passed. His true self's tide flowed back, We saw him drowning in his own strange deeps; A crawling restlessness crept from his eyes, The sort of serpent thing that never sleeps. A month or two he clung to his gay nest, Beat his wings breathlessly within a shell, Made himself live with all his flaunted things, Grim as a tortured convict in a cell. l99l And then his self's self conquered. . . . One May night When earth was breathing fragrance to its core, And open windows drank the breath of Spring, He came and stood within my open door. "Please," he said, "would you mind?" . . . And there he stopped, Sucking his cheeks in like a timid boy. "I've gone back to the Basement. . . . I've gone back! The other room made life seem just a toy. "And that's not right. . . . There's something more to life Than turning it to playthings I've gone back, To find my book again, to do the work I'd planned to do according to my knack." "Your book," I said, "your book? You burned it, boy!" He flinched. "I know. I feel its ashes still Here on my hands. That's what I want of you I know that you can help me if you will." [100] His tone was light, and yet '! hcancl him" breathe As men do in the ache and grip of strife. I rose and went with him. Again he said, _ "There's something more than toys to make of life." The Basement, with its yellow tooth of light, Grinned at us like a long-familiar face, Whose daily wont of ugliness, revealed, Mounts to a sin within the moment's space. Its gaping door still breathed the winter's chill, Its single window level with the street Flickered with fragments of the passing world, Hummed with a whispered drudgery of feet. And yet to him its very barrenness Was like a savage penance. Standing there He bruised himself upon its ugliness Until the sweat stood out beneath his hair. "I asked you down," he said, "to help me think, To help remember." Once again the sweat Stood out on him, and as I looked I knew It was his soul had made his body wet. [101] He gripped me with the hunger of his eyes, Hard as a knife his glance was, hard as steel. "How did it go? My book? I've thought and thought Until my brain is like a going wheel." I stared at him in sudden choking pain. "Boy!" I said. "For my life" He cried, "You must! It's all behind a door inside your mind; It's there, if you will brush aside the dust! "My own mind's locked against me. Now and then A line comes back, a bare crumb at the most. My plan, my meaning all the soul within Peers with the faded features of a ghost." "It was the Town," I said, "in all its guise. The Town! It was the crowds along the street; Faces and spires and stately ships and dreams, Desires, and winnings, and I think defeat." "Defeat," he gasped, "defeat!" And then he dropped [102] Down at his palsied desk and bowed his head Upon his arms. ... I felt my flesh grow cold As though that gesture meant a man struck dead. "Oh," he said, from the prison of his arms, "What god would wreck a man with one mistake ? Give him two selves and to each self a sword So he's half slain or ever he's awake!" He raised his haggard face. "In every man There is division of the dust and dream, And Youth is just the crossing of the swords Before he takes his place within the scheme. "The Town's a citadel for all things flesh, And yet a man might storm it with a song, Played he not traitor to himself. ... I quit, And oh, it was the quitting that was wrong! "I was so lonely for a thing to love, A single look, a passing word of praise I was as near to triumph as a smile, And now defeat, defeat for all my days! [103] "Cities are cruel things," he whispered then, "Their slaves are Failure, and their gods Defeat." In at the window came a thrust of wind, Bearing the weary music of the street. . . . He leaped up with an oath, snapped off the light, An instant, unforgetable, there gleamed His white face. . . . Then a whisper through the dark, "I would to God that I had never dreamed." The years go slowly in a boarding-house, Sharpened with neither passions nor despairs; Time seems to falter in those dim, gray halls The days are only footsteps on the stairs. The Basement yawned for tenants, but none came; It seemed completer for its emptiness. Gayheart had been its last. ... To me the room Still wore the mantle of his soul's distress. I never saw his face but once again; It was a sharp cold midnight in the fall; [104] Broadway lay flaming like a polished sword, As though one night were given to flame its all. The theaters, bright-mouthed, poured forth a stream Of pallid faces that the glare struck dead. The street crawled, and the noise went up to God In formless cries, like some great need unsaid. The buffet of false brightness swept the night With rosy blushes to the firmament. Here ran the riot of a hoarded world, Here life was only reckoned to be spent! And here, carved in that graceless art of fire, Stood Gayheart's name, a star's height o'er the street. His words came back to me as clear as bells, " Their slaves are Failure, and their gods Defeat!" Was this defeat, then? Was his fame defeat? ' I knew the sort of comic thing he'd done. Had he forgot those ashes on his hands? Had he by hard forgetting played and won? [105] Then suddenly I saw him in the crowd, Beneath that scarlet flaunting of his name. A smooth, smug mask of flesh was on him now; He was the very creature of his fame. His boyishness had died. . . . His hard, clean youth Was gone for ever 'neath a whelm of clay. Yet as I looked I saw him lift his head, And all his grossness seemed to fall away. His hungry look went straight to Heaven's throne, High up into the folded book of stars, And on his face I saw the Quest again He was the seeker, fainting with his scars! One glimpse and he was gone, ... a soul blown on And lost at last beneath those -painted skies. Yet he still lives! There never dawns a day But I behold him in the City's eyes. [106] SONG LOVE'S on the highroad, Love's in the byroad Love's on the meadow, and Love's in the mart! And down every byway Where I've taken my way I've met Love a-smiling for Love's in my heart! [109] HARVEST THERE was a schooner came ashore this fall; A graceful thing flung on the bar and slain, With draggled gear, her stays about her trucks Like blown hair, . . . and her beauty all in vain. She floundered through the spray with crumpled wings, A gray bird smothered in a leaping doom. We huddled there at dawn to see her die, A circle of white faces in the gloom. There was a cold light reaping in the east, A slow scythe cutting at the field of stars, And wind to beat a strong man down. We stood Watching five dots that specked her tossing spars. Five human souls. . . . We saw the sea reach up And pluck at them with great white-fingered hands [no] Three times the life-boat thrust against the surf; The sea laughed loud . . . and broke it on the sands. So there was nothing more to do. The end Came as the sun burst through its iron clouds. The racked ship staggered, reeled, and disap- peared The flung spume served the dead men as their shrouds. And then, clear-voiced, the village church-bell sang Above the wind and sea. . . . We had forgot What day it was. Now suddenly we turned Together toward the house where death is not. No word was spoken, yet we all went in To the still aisles and knelt upon the floor. A man was there, a drunkard and a thief, One who had never been in church before. He kneeled beside us, twisting his red hands, A startled glory in his sodden eyes. . . . I thought of five men silent in the sea That one might bring his soul to paradise, [in] BALLAD OF DEAD GIRLS SCARCE had they brought the bodies down Across the withered floor Than Max Rogosky thundered at The District Leader's door. Scarce had the white-lipped mothers come To search the fearful noon Than little Max stood shivering In Tom McTodd's saloon. In Tom McTodd's saloon he stood, Beside the silver bar, Where any honest lad may stand And sell his vote at par. "Ten years I've paid the System's tax." (The words fell quivering, raw), "And now I want the thing I bought Protection from the law." [112] The Leader smiled a crooked smile. "Your doors were locked," he said. "You've overstepped the limit, Max A hundred women . . . dead!" Then Max Rogosky gripped the bar, And shivered where he stood. "You listen now to me," he cried, "Like business fellers should. "Pve paid for all my hundred dead, I've paid, I've paid, I've paid. . . ." His ragged laughter rang, and died For he was sore afraid. "I've paid for wooden hall and stair, I've paid to strain my floors, I've paid for rotten fire-escapes, For all my bolted doors. "Your fat inspectors came and came, I crossed their hands with gold. And now I want the thing I bought, The thing the System sold." 8 [113] The District Leader filled a glass With whisky from the bar; (The little silver counter where He bought men's souls at par.) And well he knew that he must give The thing that he had sold, Else men should doubt the System's word, Keep back the System's gold. The whisky burned beneath his tongue: "A hundred women dead! I guess the Boss can fix it up; Go home and hide," he said. All day they brought the bodies down From Max Rogosky's place. And, oh, the fearful touch of flame On hand and breast and face! All day the white-lipped mothers came To search the sheeted dead, And Horror strode the blackened walls Where Death had walked in red. [114] But Max Rogosky did not weep (He knew that tears were vain); He paid the System's price, and lived To lock his doors again. LINCOLN I THINK he is not dead I think his face Is in our faces, and his hands grope through Our hands when we do any kindnesses And when we dream I think he means us to. I saw a man stand in a shrieking street Preaching a hopeless Cause. Deep in his eyes A glory flickered and I knew he looked With other ecstasies at God's mute skies. He was a workman, risen to a Dream; His face was bitten as with sharp-edged swords Yet he had gathered him a little world From life's loud street to hear his halting words And we who listened, bound by some strange awe, Sensed the vague god shine through the dusty tramp, [116] Saw the dim Presence kneeling in his eyes, And that, I think, was Lincoln at his lamp. And so I say he is not dead; not he! He was too much a part of us to die. Deep in the street I see his faces go; His light is in my neighbor passing by. THE DANCER (TO MLLE. ANNA PAVLOWA) THE Wind has laid its dim commands Upon her feet, and hair, and hands It seems she has nor will nor mind Save that white bowing to the Wind. Her body is a stem of grace That bears the flower of her face And whitely through the mazing dance She treads with fairy elegance, Until the Wind blows swifter. . . . Then She flings beyond this mortal ken To some far heaven where it seems She dances at a Shrine of Dreams; [118] Before the Threshold, yet untrod By aught save Life, and Death, and God, She dances in a great Wind's breath, A spirit in a mock of Death! Bears out the movement and the urge, The vital, vast, unending surge Of Life that goes with spirit red Against the stilled worlds of the dead. Whirls there, and wheels, and goes again, Until her hair is loosed like rain Until her hands are like white doves That flutter in their Springtime loves; Until her lovely body flings Her eager spirit sudden wings So in the hot flame of her dance Rebuilds earth's ancient radiance. And with her gay, eternal youth Lays finger on the hidden Truth Laughs at God's breast, while Life stands by, And, dancing on, flings Death the lie! All motion breathes within her mind She is a flower in the Wind. She is a leaf blown down the sea That men have named eternity A woman, drawn to some dim goal By that mad butterfly, her soul! [120] THE HOME LAND MY land was the West land; my home was on the hill. I never think of my land but it makes my heart to thrill; I never smell the west wind that blows the golden skies But old desire is in my feet and dreams are in my eyes. My home crowned the Highland; it had a stately grace. I never think of my land but I see my mother's face; I never smell the west wind that blows the silver ships But old delight is in my heart and youth is on my lips. [121] My land was a high land; my home was near the skies. I never think of my land but a light is in my eyes, I never smell the west wind that blows the summer rain But I am at my mother's knee, a little lad again. [122] BALLAD OF THE DEAD KING THE dead King lay in his stately hall; The guard paced slow, paced slow; The stars shone in at the shuttered port, The candles fluttered low. Sore wearied was the sleeping King, With all his kingdom's care. His face was like a winter's day The snow was in his hair. The candles threw a broken light About his resting-place, And all the stillnesses of earth Were gathered on his face. It seemed he came a distant way Through harsh, unfriendly lands, And laid his labor at God's feet, And slept with folded hands. Across the wall where life began Men stopped and praised the King; And Some One hauled the banners down, And made the bells to ring. And Some One said the King was good, And Some One wept aloud, And Some One labored night and day To make the King his shroud. But little Carl, the weaver's son, Who played beneath the wall, He laughed, as only childhood laughs, And tossed his bright new ball. "He gave me this, the tall, gray man," Thus Seven-Summers sang; And still they hauled the banners down. And still the dull bells rang. I i*4] "He stopped as he went riding by, And bought my ball for me." The childish laughter shrilled and died. The bells tolled ceaselessly. The dead King lay in the Halls of State, The guard paced slow, paced slow; The dawn came in at the shuttered port, And the candles flickered low. Sore wearied was the sleeping King With all his kingdom's care, His face was like a winter's day The snow was in his hair. They bore him down at break o' day And laid him in his place; And all the stillness of the tomb Was gathered on his face. They sang his name in chanted psalms, They praised him, being dead; Their grief was like a wind of tears "He was the King!" they said. Then high above the sobbing wind All suddenly there came The tribute of the Secret Deed That has no thought of fame. Shrill, shrill it rose above the crowd, The fairest praise of all The laughter of a little child Who played beneath the wall. [126] IN A WINDOW THE world sits by an open window now, Parting the silver curtains of the rain With spirit hands and peering like a child Searching the dusk for all its dreams again. > No more I drowse beside the winter's hearth, Building my secret castles in the flame; Out of all houses now the soul must go, Seeking the thing that never had a name. Seeking the new, sweet ways across the grass, Seeking the little gods that ride the rain; Pausing to laugh with some fresh fluttered leaf, And going on ... and going on again. Winter is dead with all her lily snows, Dead in the ashes of a lonely hearth. I sit beside an open window now Sending my soul for laughter down the earth! [1271 LITTLE WHITE HEARSE CARRY her softly, Little White Hearse, Down through the dusk of the careless street; She will be glad for the graveyard green And the wind that blows so sweet. Quick were her hands in the busy loom, But now they are crossed on her childish breast. Carry her softly, Little White Hearse; She will be glad for rest. She will be glad for the long, long sleep, And the night that breaks on a toilless day. Carry her gently, Little White "Hearse, Down through the streets of play. Muffle thy sound, O Little White Hearse, Go through the town with a gentle tread. Why should we pause in our golden hours To know that a child is dead? [128] PEACE A BROAD blue water moving to the sea A world asleep upon the water's edge A wind that breathed the perfume of the pine A saintly lily floating in the sedge. . . . And through the dim cathedral of the wood A low light, burning like an altar flame, Where the stilled voices of withholden choirs Wove the slow shining musics of a Name. . . . And then afar upon the hill's round breast A young girl, standing white and slim and fair, The rippled grasses going from her feet, The new stars like a circlet on her hair. . . . Then a song lifting, lifting to the stars, A reaping note that gathered all the peace And said it cleanly to the twilit world As though to buy the day's worn soul release. . . . 9 [ 129 ] And afterward the water moving on, And the last golden glory of the flame. . . . But I had heard the singing on the hill, And the hushed responsive musics of a Name! [130] BALLAD OF THE LATE JOHN FLINT THE late John Flint he sat him down To banquet in his pride; A serving-man in scarlet cloth Stood humbly at his side; Across a bank of orchids sat His million-dollar Bride. The feast was done; the wedding wine In precious cups was poured. No other guest, John Flint could swear, Was bidden to his board, Yet yonder sat a ghostly Thing And held an empty gourd. It had a beard of waving mist, A pale, unwinking eye; The hand that held the gourd was white, As hands of men who die. [131] Its face was many faces, each As bitter as a lie. The Bridegroom smiled a twisted smile; "The wine is strong," he said. The Bride she twirled her wedding-ring, Nor lifted up her head; And there were three at John Flint's board, And one of them was dead. The Bride she twirled her wedding-ring, And, ah, the Bride was fair! A rope of pearls burned her white throat Bright jewels starred her hair; Her fingers lay in golden gaols John Flint had put them there. All suddenly she raised her head: "What seest thou?" she cried. The Bridegroom wet his lips with wine, Then swept the glass aside His smile was like a crooked knife, And yet he smiled, and lied. "I only see my scarlet man Who serves me all the year; I only see my yellow cups That hold the wedding cheer What moves you, Sweetling, that you look With such a face of fear?" The Bride she clutched the shining cloth (The wine spilled warm and red Between the precious cups of gold) "I am afraid," she said. "I am afraid of men who sit As though they saw the dead." "Nay, Sweet, and why should dead men leave Their graves to trouble me? The world knows well how much I gave To holy charity. Did I not move the Poorman's Bill That made the graveyards free?" His head sagged low, and from his lips A broken laughter fell; "I gave the poor their graveyards free Because I loved them well; [133] I swear no man may send his ghost To drag me down to hell!" He stood erect, with staring eyes Fixed on the empty place; Then staggered like a stricken thing, And fell upon his face. . . . So lay upon his Sweetheart's breast In passionless embrace. The City Fathers tolled a bell And dolorously sighed; The Board of Trade embossed regrets And mailed them to the Bride, Who gave them to the serving-man, Who cast them all aside. The distant relatives flocked in Pale uncles and proud aunts; But John Flint's Bride was young and fair, She loved to laugh and dance She married John Flint's serving-man And went to live in France. [I34l HILLS I HAVE remembered the hills through all my street; Though life press close, and Sorrow brush my hand, Still I have kept my last horizons sweet With all that memory of a lifted land. Safe from the years my windows hold them still, Far citadels from whence a glory streams! Upon their heights my spirit goes athrill And in my heart are old forgotten dreams. . . . You may look out and see them in the dawn, Their cowls thrust back, and crimson in their dress; For you are young, and splendidly withdrawn, And life has still its golden distances. [135] But I have walked a street with straining crowds, With surging men who would not say their names; We were no more than dust and dreams and shrouds, And dress and gold and little passing fames. And some there were who did not lift their eyes From the dun, bitter highway where we trod, But I was rich! Against the distant skies I saw the hill that raised my world to God! [136] THE PARK ALL day the children play along the walks, A robin sings high in a brave, green tree, The city lifts gray temples at its marge, But still it keeps the heart of Arcady. Still blows a flower in the waving grass, Lifting a face of beauty to the sun; Still bursts the bough in joyous burgeoning Still comes a lover when the day is done. Here the white moon, with magic in her train, Stoops from the starry lanes of paradise, And, with her ancient witchery of dreams, Lays some new hope upon a poet's eyes. See, on that bench beneath the drooping bough, Did not yon grief-bowed figure lift its face? Look how the moonlight finds him through the leaves, Touching his brow with sudden crowns of grace! [1371 O little park, O little land of hope, Snatched from the world and held for God and me, Still through thy walks the wistful cities go, Searching the dream that yet might set them free! [138] ROSES IN THE SUBWAY A WAN-CHEEKED girl with faded eyes Came stumbling down the crowded car. Clutching her burden to her breast As though she held a star. Roses, I swear it! Red and sweet And struggling from her pinched white hands, Roses . . . like captured hostages From far and fairy lands! The thunder of the rushing train Was like a hush. . . . The flower scent Breathed faintly on the stale, whirled air Like some dim sacrament I saw a garden stretching out And morning on it like a crown And o'er a bed of crimson bloom My mother . . . stooping down. [I39l BALLAD OF A CRUEL FATE " The Piper Came Down from the Crest of the Hill." THE Piper came down from the crest of the hill; His pipe it blew sweeter than any bird's trill. "I follow the road to the Morning," said he, "And who will go roving the highroad with me?" The King at his casement looked wistfully down; Said he: "I would go were it not for my crown, But I've battles to wage and I've business to do, And I cannot go roving the highroad with you." The Piper strolled on with a smile in his eyes. His song swept the street as a wind sweeps the skies; "I follow the road of the Summer," said he, "And who will go roving the highroad with me?" A Banker leaned down from his window above; Said he: "I would go were it not for my love, [140] But I've treasure to tend and I've money to make, And I cannot go roving for Phyllis's sake." The Piper turned into the clattering mart. He piped of the laughter that lay in his heart. "I follow the road of Contentment," said he, "And who will go roving the highroad with me?" A Merchant glanced up from his counter o* trade; Said he: "I would go if my debts were all paid, But I've bargains to drive and I've mortgages due, And I cannot go roving the highroad with you." The Piper went on to the end o* the street. His song it blew wild and his song it blew sweet; "I follow the road to the Morning," said he, "And who will go roving the highroad with me?" A Beggar crawled out from the dusk of the Gate; Said he: "I would follow you early and late; I'm only a wastrel a poor thing that begs But, Lor', little Piper, I 'aven't no legs!" 1 141] OUT OF THE FOG OUT of the fog Death rode with great, still bows; Then ship met ship with horrid agony Steel locked and broke . . . the bloodied faces stared With sudden understanding at the sea. All movement ceased; the world was sick and still- Then footsteps beat the buckled deck, and cries Began . . . and all the humanness was gone, And light and life were little vanished lies. And there were women futile, precious things; And round-faced babies that they clutched and kissed, And tearing wood, and the white name of God, And dead men dropping blackly through the mist. [142] Then through that hell a lad stood smiling, calm: "Here, ma'am . . . take my belt. . . . Hurry now. . . . Good-by." Came the last shudder of the broken ship And Youth once more had taught us how to die! [1431 LOVE'S LIGHT WORLD SUPPOSE I should fashion you Love's light world, With a cool, dim wood where the Spring shines through, And a hill beyond, where the sun stays late, And a thrush to sing in the hedge for you? Suppose I should paint you a silver brook, With violets marching in wind-blown crowds, And rushes to nod in a hidden nook, And lilies asleep like a nest of clouds? Suppose I should hollow a secret place With wild-rose edges and meadowsweet, And a little wind to spread the lace Of dream-spun cobwebs at your feet? Suppose I should build you a garden wall, With stars thrust over, and flowers tucked through, [ H4 3 And nightingales sobbing, and vines over all, And chinks where the gods may peep at you? Garden and wood and the hill beyond A hedge through the dawn and brook to the sea Suppose I should fashion you Love's light world, Would you go there to live with Love and me? 10 [ H5 1 THE JESTER MASTERS, I cannot make ye jest to-day; My laughter's left me like an outworn coat. Yonder the dead lie in their somber casques I cannot get the gay song from my throat. Tears, tears! I feel them burn my blinded eyes, I cannot see my Masters for the tears. What are these dead to me? I know them not. Yet, see! I lay my poor jest at their biers. 'Tis all I have a Jester's faded mock Yet if I weep for them 'tis not in vain. Slept they not there, the Fool and all his world Might not to-morrow make their jest again! [146] PAPER ROSES "How earnest thou by thy roses, Child?" "I toiled at them in a little room." "Thy window flaming with the dawn?" "Nay, master; 'twas in fearful gloom." "What gave thy rose its color, then?" "My cheek's blood, as I bent my head." "Thy cheek is cold and lifeless, Child." "Mayhap it was my heart that bled." "One white rose in thy basket, Child?" "Aye, master, that's to crown the whole.' "What is it, then, O Little Child?" "Mayhap . . . mayhap it is my soul!" [I47l HUMORESQUE (A.D. 2914) A PLOWMAN, toiling in a furrowed field, Turned up a pretty bauble with his steel, Stooped down and raised it in his great gnarled hands, Striking it lightly on his leathern heel. The mold shook loose; the gleam of gold showed through, The stare of jewels flicked the plowman's gaze He bore the bauble to the market-square. The people gathered round him in amaze. But none knew what it was, its name or use, The pretty plaything that the lout brought down, Till rumor flew with rumor's nimbleness And fetched the only savant in the town. [148] He took it from the grinning plowman's hand Studied it, while the folk stood in a ring. "Good sirs," said he, "a thousand years ago This bauble chafed the temples of a king." The plowman whistled; then with impish mock He snatched the baub and set it on his head And ran back to his toiling in the field, Capped with the crown of royalty long dead. His fellows struck their hips and roared aloud, Vowing him better than a frisking troll But the savant shook his solemn yellow mane. He said there might be meanings in it all. [149] THREE SWORDS THREE blades from out the smithy fire He drew, and forged with starry blows. Beyond his door the skies of God Bloomed like an unplucked rose. "Three swords," he said, "I make for you, O little Knight of Love and Youth! One blade is Knowledge, one is Faith, And one is Hope, forsooth." I was so young and life, a rose That bloomed beyond the smithy door. "Give me the first," I cried, and rode Out like a Knight to war. Another year I came again His forge was like a rose agleam. "Give me the second sword," I said, "That I may fight and dream!" [150] The second sword lay in my hand, I rode once more, as Knights must do, But all my casque was wet with tears, And my heart's blood trickled through. Then came I back along the road, Thrice-ridden, till I saw his fire Glow redly through the bitter dusk Like a flower of desire. "The third," I gasped. "Give me the third, The last sword, that I fight and die!" Then turned again, and lo, I saw A dust of roses through the sky. [151] TO THE CITY COME out! The day has fallen like a rose Flung from the basket of a drunken god; Come out! The lights have made a street of stars, The golden street where Folly oft hath trod, Your mad, mad bells, your cloak of burning red, The little peaked cap upon your head! Come out, gay Dancer, to the court of night, To madness and the brimming bowl of joy; Here's last year's youth, patched till it's whole again, Here's last year's laughter like a mended toy! Come out! Here's Love with crimson on his lips, Here's Life in motley, with a wine-glazed eye; The gods at wassail fling you down a rose, The petals of the daylight drift and die. Here's wine for wisdom and for truth a mask. Comfy plunge your hands into the scarlet cask! Come out, come out, to shining artifice, To cups and capers and to all that's sweet; The world's a dancing-place; a laugh's enough Come, here's a heart to tread beneath your feet! [1531 SONG IN THE DUSK A SINGER, passing on the star-flecked stream, Sang to the moon, in heaven's window framed, His dipping oar dragged silver through the dusk, His voice was full of music still untamed. The echoes lived and lived along the night Till they were old with ecstasy. . . . The note That clasps the meaning of a universe Lifted and thrilled from that far Singer's throat. I know not what he sang, this Voyageur, I only know it was his heart's 4esire; Within the cottage we sat listening, He with his years and I with dreams and fire. . . . Through the long twilight, till the dark grew deep, We sat together, silent, distant-eyed. In me there was a need of worlds to storm, In him it seemed that worlds on worlds had died. [iS4l THE VASE THE Potter rose up smiling in the dawn, Ere Heav'n had plucked the white stars from her hair, And with a daze of dream upon his eyes, Molded a vase surpassing smooth and fair. The red flow'r of the sun flamed up the sky, The bright shops cast the shutters from their hearts, A beggar 'gan his wailing in the dust, The merchants droned their loud wares through the marts. Yet still the Potter molded at his vase, Touched it with trembling hands until the day Passed, and the shadows strode the twisted street, Folding the light like some gay cloak away. Then came the Potter to his house, and said, "See, I have done at last a perfect thing!" His women peered into his pouch for gold, And, seeing none, made angry muttering. But he with that dazed smile upon his eyes Put them aside, as shadows in a dream; And, weary with the labor of his soul, Lay down to slumber in the day's last gleam. Then came a crawling babe, the Potter's son, Caught up the vase with hands that clutched in vain, And while the women whispered in the door, Dashed the fair plaything into dust again. [156] IN A CAF THE wine was cheapi and red, But I smiled in your eyes as I quaffed, The tenor's voice was cracked*, and old, But the song that he sang was purest gold, And I looked in your heart and laughed. We were young, so young that we did not care^ For the world was all in our raptured eyes, Though the wine was cheap and the song was old, My heart, we were touching paradise. The cloth was patched and worn, But so was that jacket of mine, The fiddles were shaky and out of tune, But they gave us the world in a cloak of June, And we laughed: as we sipped our wine. We were young, so young that we did not care, Though the cloth was old and the strings were wrong, [I57l For the world was all in our dream-blind eyes, And a god leaned out of us through the song. A round-cheeked boy came by, With his violet merchandise. The blossoms were faded and smacked of the street, But they gave us a world that was April-sweet, And they deepened the blue in your eyes. We were young, so young that we did not care, Though the bloom be done and the light take wing, For heaven lay deep in our love-blind eyes, And the song in our hearts was a perfect thing. [158] A FACE AT CHRISTMAS A WHITE face at the glowing window-pane, A face of Failure, weary and ill-scarred; Nor can the merry holly shut it out, Nor the bright Tree, flame-dressed and candle- starred. Eyes at our window, hearts! Nor all the light Of all our wicks can touch them into gleam; Deep in their dusk a soul with empty lamp Kneels at the crumbled altar of a Dream. How can I give the gifts of cloth and gold? How give but dross who might give paradise? My brother's hurt, laid at my door, is mine; Myself in judgment startles from his eyes. Myself and more! Myself and all men's selves, Bound in that look of his that weary nod; [I59l Though one bruised soul shall don the world's defeat, Yet all souls share it. ... And the sharing's God! A white face at my threshold! Fling the door A house withholden is a house for sin! Call to the Tramp. . . . Yet hark, what voice replies ? What light leaps up, what Shining Guest comes in? [160] PILGRIM'S PRAYER LOVE, when the day is done, When all the Light grows dim, When to the setting sun Rises the Vesper Hymn Let us stand heart to heart, We who have toiled so far, Bidding the day depart Seeking the risen star! ii [161 THE VAGRANT GIVE me my staff and my boots o' brown leather, And give me my cap with its bonny red feather; The gold dawn has stirred from the night's purple cavern, And silver's the road that leads down from the tavern. Then fill a last cup and we'll drink to the parting, The day's at the door, and it's soon I'll be starting Farewell then, ye houselings, old ties we must sever; Farewell for a day, hearts, or farewell for ever! Haply no more we may meet at this table, While night at the window hangs star-dusted sable, Or sing a good song as we tipple together For life's but a cat's-paw, and man's but a feather. \ So now fare-ye-well, lads, and grant ye fair measure; A lass for your faith and a glass for your pleasure. [162] My love's at the doorway, all dewy and glowing, A rose in her hands and her wild tresses blowing! Then give me my staff and my boots o' brown leather, And give me my cap with its bonny red feather; My love's in the doorway; old ties we must sever. Farewell for a day, hearts, or farewell for ever! [163] HOUSE OF YEARS A ROOM of joy; a room of tears, This is my House of Years! Wherein I walk with blinded feet Through bitter halls and sweet; Through windowed rooms where all lights are Of land and sea and star Through doors of dark where no lamps gleam; Through doors of dawn and dream! Through room of Song and roorp of Moan, All through my House alone, With echoed step and closing door Until I walk no more Then one last Room where old heads nod, And peace, and sleep, and God! [164] "THREE MEN O' MERRI" THERE were three men o' Merri, That lies along the sea; They swore the oath of Salt and Wind That they would hold them free From woman's charms and woman's arms And woman's witchery. And Eric met a fisher-lass A-walking on the sand; "The sea is Loneliness," she said, And touched him with her hand, And smiled into his blinded eyes And wed him to the land. And Petri watched a bold girl dance, With paint upon her lips; The light fell from the tavern lamp And touched her finger-tips Like marriage-gold! Another man Hails out in Petri's ships. And Barrac, of the heart of brass, Red-maned and huge of arm, He laughed and kissed a woman's lips And found them fresh and warm And went across the little hills And squatted on a farm. The Moral of this simple tale Is plain enough to see; There is no oath to bind a man From woman's witchery At least I know that it is so In Merri, by the sea. [166] xv*- THE TEACHING v ; How learned thou thy song, Pierrot?" "By yesterday's sorrow." "What set ye to singing?" l The hope o* to-morrow." Who taught thee thy jest, Pierrot?" -HA fool and his winning." "What led ye to say it?" "The folly o' sinning." "What gave thee thy laughter, Pierrot?" "A king in his power." "What moved ye to sound it?" "The flight of an hour." " How learned thou of love, Pierrot ?" "By all that is holy, By Dream and by Song And my heart breaking slowly! [167] THIS I remember of the long day's boon; The sun's red going, and the risen moon; The road half bound with shade, and struggling free, And my love laughing by a golden sea! I have forgot a thousand lovely skies, But not that dusk-hid heaven of her eyes! And there comes never any song to me But my love's voice returning from the sea. This I remember of the whole day's sweet; The moon, with her great water at her feet; And my love calling, from the road that ran Into the shadows where our world began! [168 THE SINGING LAST night I sang with careless heart, Indifferent who should hear my song. And mockingly I took the gold Flung by the drifting throng. To-night you crossed the little Square. . . A glory filled the bitter street. I sang for Love, and singing's sake And the gold lay at my feet. [169] CHRISTMAS PRAYER GOD grant no little child may go With hungry heart or empty hand Give this Thy world one radiant day To understand, to understand! Give us the fitting word to say, The spendthrift smile, the brave caress; Disclose our hearts, and give us now The courage of our tenderness! Lord, we are old with toil and tears, Our souls are veiled with various art, Yet still the little children keep Thine ancient simpleness of heart And they alone of all Thy breath May bind the burning Angel's eyes, And striking laughter from the Sword, Retrace the years to Paradise. [170] They are so brave with love and dreams, So eager-eyed, and, ah, so dear I think we must return them now The faith they bore across the year. I think that we must give them now The spendthrift smile, the kindly word, That earth may keep its ancient Hope And we Thy full commandments, Lord. THE RIDDLE WE were laying the road to a Riddle, And never a man knew why, Nor Oleson, nor little Giuseppe, Nor Sandy McGregor, nor I; It lay on the hills before us, And the hills were strange with its gleam, And mayhap the Thing was a City, And mayhap 'twas only a dream. We started our picks in the morning, We quit when we came to the stars, We held out our hands to the camp-fire And told off the miles by the scars; Long miles that we laid with our labor. And never a man knew why, Nor Oleson, nor little Giuseppe, Nor Sandy McGregor, nor I. We sat by the fire at twilight And guessed at it gleaming there, With a little red cloud above it Like the rose in a woman's hair! And all of us held by the guesses And toiled to the visions they made, And some of us wondered, and cursed it, And some of us wondered and prayed. But each of us cherished his vision And fought for his guess in the gloam, And one of us dreamed it was heaven, And one of us dreamed it was Home. Old Sandy McGregor saw heather, And moorland and thistle-blown sod And little Giuseppe stood forward, And guessed it was Naples or God. Then Oleson, the Swede, broke the silence; He surged to his feet like a tide And said it was Snow on a Mountain, And turned to his blanket and cried. But how could I tell them my vision? A rose in a woman's hair Mary and Spring in Killarney And never a face more fair! We were new and strange to the country As we laid the long road through, And all of us had our guesses, But none of us really knew. Old Sandy, he toiled to the heather, And little Giusep' to the sea, The Swede laid his road to a mountain, But it was Killarney to me! Four of us, laying a roadway, And never a man knew why, Nor Oleson, nor little Giuseppe, Nor Sandy McGregor, nor I. The road ran on to a Riddle, The hills were strange with its gleam! And mayhap the Thing was a City, And mayhap 'twas only a dream. [174] "I HAVE SO LOVED THE DAY" I HAVE so loved the glory of the Day, From surging dawn to wondrous setting sun, I think some light must linger on my eyes, When life is done. I think some glow of sunset or of dawn Must touch the sleeping altars of my soul, So they who look into my face at last Shall wonder of my goal So they who come at twilight with wet eyes Shall look upon my stillness, smile and go A little surer of their Paradise Because I loved life so. [I75l THE OTHER SIDE THE HILL THE other side the hill, Where the water-lilies are, There's a pirate ship a-riding, With the moon-mist on her spar; And the bucaneers are waiting Till the winds o' dawn shall blow, And the day will be at morning When they go, when they go. The other side the hill, Where the lilies lie so pale, There's a pirate ship a-sleeping With the moon-mist in^her sail; And the captain, he is seven, And the crew is six or so, And the day will be at dawning When they go, when they go. The other side the hill, Where the water silver gleams, There's a pirate ship a-waiting For the plunder cruise o' dreams And the stars will soon be paling, And the winds o* dawn will blow, And my heart, it will be breaking When they go, when they go! 12 [ 177 THE ADVENTURER I NEVER have gone sailing, sailing on the sea; The winds that sing to sailormen have never sung to me; Yet I have heard the Voice that calls the sea- winds to their blowing, And I have known the glory of the galleons out- going! I never have gone strolling, strolling from the Road, For me no meadow-path has wound, nor little brook has flowed; Yet I have known the Dream that lights the by- way through the clover, And I have heard the voices calling, all the long world over. The other lads go roving, roving down the world; For me no road has stretched away, nor gipsy sail unfurled; Yet I have seen the blue sea break upon the yellow sands, And I have known the fullness of the earth be- tween my hands! Between my hands, and all my own, both dawn and evening star And, ah, to slough my toil and go where all the new dreams are, Beyond the outer rim of seas, beyond the heart's unrest, To Arcady that does not lie by East or South or West That does not lie by West or East, nor yet by North or South, Nor at the foot of distant hills, nor by the river's mouth, Yet lies somewhither, up the world or down the world I know, Else why should God have given me the youth to dream it so? [I79l I never have gone boldly, boldly to the free! Yet I have seen the shining sails that fleck the outer sea, And I have heard, across the Road, the vagrant thrushes sing, Wherefore my soul has sped away to great ad- venturing ! [180] AUTUMN SWIFTLY my heart, while fades the summer rose, Speak thou of love, ere Youth and Love grow cold! The year hath turned her face unto the snows. The earth is old, is old. Now, while the flushed leaf falters from the bough, Speak of thy love, and, ah, speak soon, speak soon! God flings us no deep day to laze in now, Nor masks His face with June The brief suns fall like petals from the rose, The days dawn whiter than a wheeling dove. Heart o* my heart, before we face the snows, Speak thou of love, of love! [181] THE PRODIGAL HAD I the golden days of June To spend again, to spend again, The yellow treasures of the moon, The slow, sweet silver of the rain, I know what bargains I would drive With Autumn's sad-eyed chatelaine. I know what purchase I would make With my bright trove of summer gold, I know that I would buy me now A crackling fire from the cold A flame of all the withered days That flutter down, when hearts are old. Oh, I would buy the fee o' faith, To stay me as the nights grow long, A corner by the glowing hearth To dream in when the shadows throng- [182] And I would buy my weary heart The right to croon a last, sweet song. To-day the sun was spent so soon I had no time for any play; The evening found me still at toil; There was no laughter in the day; And, ah, that I had saved a tithe Of all the hours I flung away! But June's the month of prodigals, And who has youth must laugh and spend, For every lass has smiles to trade, And every lad's a needy friend And never looms the reckoning, And never gleams the journey's end. And so I spent the stars o* June, And so I spent the summer rain, And now the solemn harvesters Are come to reap the ripened grain, And, oh, had I but Youth and Love To spend again, to spend again! ['183 1 I know what I would buy me now, With all my wealth o' vanished gold A corner by the glowing hearth, To shield me from the winter's cold, And Love to sit beside me there And keep my heart from growing old. [184] HUNGER THE Starving Men they walk the dusk With hunger in their eyes. To them a Lighted House is like A lamp of Paradise. It is the Window in the dusk That marks the drifter's coast; It is the thought of love and light That mocks the drifter most. Now I have been a Starving Man And walked the winter dusk; And I have known how life may be A Heaven and a Husk. . . . The Fainting Folk they pulled my sleeve, And bade me curse the Light. But I had seen a Rich Man's face That looked into the night. [185] A hungry face, a brother face, That stared into the gloom, And starved for life and starved for love Within a lighted room! [186] THE BRIDE FLING her your roses, red and white; She is the Queen of the world to-night! Back from the Altar, Turning slow, Fire and Flower, Dust and Snow She is the Hope of the world to-night. Fling her your roses, red and white. Woman and Angel, Wife and Maid, Bold with the Giving, yet all afraid. Fling her your roses, red and white; She is the Youth of the world to-night! [187] Fire o' Spring, And Faith o' Years, Laughter and Wonder, Love and Tears. Fling her your roses, red and white; She is the Queen of the world to-night! [188] THE RAGGED PIPER THERE is a ragged Piper walks the byways of the town, His eyes are small and twinkling, and his cheeks are full and brown; He strolls the streets at twilight when the sun is sinking low, And he sings fa, la, la, lorum and fa, la, la, lum, ti, o! A stranger song was never piped beneath the stars o' June, And yet I trow it has a worth beyond the common tune, Whatever you would have it mean, it means just that, you know, With its fa, la, la, la, lorum and its fa, la, lum, ti, o! The goodwives To trick some fat purse into buying it. Now/like a god he gives his painted sea And one white ship that sets the whole room free, Blots the gray wall and lifts a gallant wing For our adventuring! Come, let's crumble them away! You and I, Build us a world of sea and sail and sky. [203] The mind gives title where the law gives none. The soul has more possessions than the sun. Here's Petri's art! //That proves a man may go Into more worlds than wait upon his purse. See, where his brush has made the water glow! That's wealth without wealth's curse. And here where morning trembles on the skies Is freedom and a hint of paradise. And you and I have love! Shall we not dare Farther than Petri? Here's the lamp of art Lighting the road. . . . Come, there are worlds to share, And you and I shall share them, O my heart! [204] THE DREADNOUGHT ONE Fall they sent a fighting-ship to sea, With wine-stained bows, and pennants stream- ing gay- Men watched her from the docks: said she was fair, And felt their hearts lift as she dimmed away. . . . She was the triumph of the world she sailed, The sea's supremest, proud and tall and fair; We watched her to the far horizon's rim Until her smoke thinned to a single hair; Then, turning, said one man with withered eyes: "She'll last her day, and then she'll rot and die. To-morrow, matey, they'll invent her death Somewhere beyond that point she touched the sky"- [205] His vague hands fluttered in their prophecy, "Somewhere across the world they'll sweat and scheme, And break their hearts behind their secret doors, To find a murderer for Steel and Steam. . . . "A German, mebbe, or a Japanee Will guess at heavier guns and then she'll fall. I know her breed! I fought the Merrimac In sixty-two. . . . What benefits it all?" But we, who still stood watching her dark hair, Mocked him to silence: one by one we hailed Her strength, her beauty smiled and drifted on, Boasting that we had seen her as she sailed. Three years she reigned; three years we spoke of her, Vaunting her name along the waterside; Then came the news a newer, foreign ship Of heavier guns. . . . Slowly our old faiths died. [206] Another Fall we gathered on the docks, To watch her creep back through the autumn rain; Her men stood dully at her sullen breasts, Knowing that she would never sail again. She came like some vast Sorrow, brooding, slow, Damned by her dead perfection, hugely sad; I heard a voice behind me in the rain: "Three years! Three little years is all she had"- The rain dripped down, and then the voice again: "Three years! My youngest died three years ago Plain starved, they said. . . . And yonder in the Roads. . . . Ah, mates, in God's name why should life be so?" We turned; a man stood with uplifted hands, A laborer, with Death upon his face, And in his eyes the dumb bewilderment Of those who wear injustice for the race. [207] And still the great, gray ship came creeping in, Sullen and sad. ... I heard his laugh ring wild: "For what it costs to feed her lightest gun I might have saved my little child . . . my child!" A vision smote us of an Iron God That taxed the world with fearful wrack and pain; We saw the unguessed sacrifice of souls Dead faces on the canvas of the rain. . . . Then suddenly a man with withered eyes And vague, wan hands came leering through the crowd "I said she'd fall," he quavered, gesturing; "I know her breed! The Merrimac was proud. * "But, mates, she passed." . . . His voice trailed off; was still. There was no sound except the drear rain's fall. We watched the dead ship creeping to her grave I thought again: what benefits it all? [208] "WHO DREAMS SHALL LIVE" WHO dreams shall live! And if we do not dream Then we shall build no Temple into Time. Yon dust cloud, whirling slow against the sun, Was yesterday's cathedral, stirred to gold By heedless footsteps of a passing world. The faiths of stone and steel are failed of proof, The King who made religion of a Sword Passes, and is forgotten in a day. The crown he wore rots at a lily's root, The rose unfurls her banners o'er his dust. The dreamer dies, but never dies the dream, Though Death shall call the whirlwind to his aid, Enlist men's passions, trick their hearts with hate, Still shall the Vision live! Say nevermore That dreams are fragile things. What else endures Of all this broken world save only dreams! [209 WAYFARERS THEY were met in the Last Inn's tap-room, where the road strikes hands with the sea, And one was come from a weary ship that slept with folded sail, And one was come from the brown highroad that spins across the lea, The third sat by the glowing hearth and sipped a mug of ale. The sailor said: "It's good to be where warmth and safety are. I'm weary of great waters and the never-broken sky; I'm sick of hanging dizzy to the death-end of a spar; I want another sort of life before I come to die. [210] "I want a bit of meadow, where the grass is to my knees. And a little patch where I can kneel and watch the green things grow. I want to look at flowers, cool my eyes with blooms and trees. I am weary of great waters where the blind white vessels go." The landsman said: "The sea is wide and ships are graceful things, No man may say his life is done until he dares the deep. When I was but a lad I dreamed of vessels with white wings, And ghostly galleons made bold adventure of my sleep. "I know a little meadow, like the hollow of God's hand, And if you have a mind to trade I'll tell you where it lies, [211] And I will take your seaman's berth and you will take my land. And you will look at blossoms for the cooling of your eyes. "But I will look at naked things and find their utmost worth, Learn wisdom from the Book of Stars that guides me through the wave. Your life for mine! Come, will you trade blue water for brown earth?" "Aye," said the sailor. "Life for life and grave for certain grave." The drinker by the fire stirred .and spake with curling lips. "What fools," he said, "what fools ye be!" and looked into their eyes. "Let landsmen cleave unto the land and sailors keep their ships, For he who seeks to prove a dream shall lose his Paradise!" [212] The morning thrust a golden face in at the tavern door, The day wind blew upon the sea and rippled through the grass, And one man sailed in a white-winged ship and one stayed on the shore, The third sat by the glowing hearth and smiled into his glass. [213 1 MY saint lies sleeping, robed in white, A single lily at her breast, The sum of all her perfect years In one white bloom expressed. A lily in her folded hands And over all her stillness, Light, As one who bears a lamp into The contemplated night. Oh, more than all inspired words Of God's most shining ministers Earth finds its hope of heaven proved In that sure faith of hers. Then wake her not with any tears From out her miracle of rest; She sleeps, with all her perfect years Laid whitely at her breast. [214] And so, farewell! For Love and Hope Shall stand as angels at her tomb, But, ah, to bear the silent house, The aching, empty room! [215] SONG FOR YOUTH GATHER all the sweet of May Lock it tenderly away, Precious night and perfect day. Make a trove of shining things, Roses, raindrops, dreams, and wings; Catch a skylark while he sings! Gather all the summer's sweet, Hush of heaven, song of street, Stars that dance on silver feet! While thy breath is young and warm, While love nestles in thy arm, Take thy trove and weave a charm. Then grow old with gallant ease, For I'm told such wealths as these Make the fairest memories! [216! THE VAGABOND OLD Time has turned his pockets out And here's a golden day. And if I spend it foolishly There's none to say me nay I Tramping down the highroad, Spending as I go, Sleeping in the shadowed dales Where the daisies blow, Waking with the meadow-larks. When the world* s aglow! Emperors have purple cloaks, And vagabonds have none, But who will wear the lighter crown When all the roads are run? Light upon the hilltops, Glory in the sky! [217] Who will have the cleaner gold When we come to die? Who will have the greater wealthy Emperor or I? Time has turned his pockets out And here's a bit of gold, And you will hoard, and I will spend, And we will both grow old. When the count is settled, Who shall -profit more, You who hoarded God away? I who spent my store? Who will lay the richer heart Down at Heaven's door? [218) LIFE A LITTLE road went laughing From the willows by the stream; It ran to dustygoid distance, Dropped,/ and lifted all agleam; Tripped, and fell into a hollow, / Where it called to me to follow And I followed it as children do the byways of a dream. It spun through shining grasses Where the feet of Spring had gone, And it stole down to the brookside Like a timid thirsty fawn; Kissed the reed-rush, and thereafter, With a sort of breathless laughter, Spurned the plain /and stormed the mountain like a footpath of the dawn! So, laughing, reached the summit By an ancient water-stair; [219] Poised on high as though to venture Further journeys through the air; And so, hov'ring, drew me even To the outer edge of heaven Drew me outward to the utmost edge-^-and laughed, /and left me there. [ 220] POEMS ABOUT TOWN THE WOOLWORTH BUILDING I AM one of the things at your feet, I have laughter and hope and tears But you have the Clouds and the Wind, And the hallowed defiance of years. You are stuff of the dreams that I dream; You are Beauty, made tall and white, And you live with your foot on the rock, And your face to the fountains of light! I am part of the world at your feet, I have sorrow and laughter and days, But you have unmeasurable dawns, And the firmness outlasting the phase. You are God in a sermon of stone, The dim God that we search at your feet; You are faith lifted unto the stars, But we do not look up from our street. [223] We do not look up from our tears, To call you divine as we go; But you are the temple we built, And then did not know, did not know! 224] JIMSY JIMSY is a little chap, Only nine or so; / Has to use a wooden crutch (Says it doesn't bother much)- Jimsy's lame, you know. Jimsy has a cheery way Never saw him glum Jimsy's face is sort o' thin, But you ought to see him grin, Cheers a fellow some! Jimsy's got a yellow dog Sorry little tyke! Never leaves his master's side Guess he'd die if Jimsy died Never saw the like. 15 [ 225 ] Jimsy greets me every night "Here's yer poiper, Boss/' When the other newsies play, Jimsy turns his eyes away That is Jimsy's cross. If I ever do a thing Brave/or kind/ or true, If I give a squarer deal-A It's because I sort o' feel Jimsy 'd want me to. [ 226 THE WINDOW POSTER WE stood, a little wistful, shivering group, Before a window. It was such a day As March wears in her wildest moods; but we Walked a blue city by a sapphire bay. Above us bowed the courtiers of the palms, Stirred to a stately homage by the breeze; A jeweled city slumbered at our feet, Clasped in the arms of tender, languid seas. A vagabond stole in beside me then, A graybeard with a pinched cheek and a cough. He said: "I'd like right well to go there, pard, Just once before my trouble takes me off. . . ." A little woman with a face of crowds, And loneliness, of noisy shops too shrill, And tawdry rooms too silent, raised her hand Smutched with cheap rings, and touched the window-sill. [227] Then with a shrug she turned and faced us all; Her faded eyes were cheapened of their dreams. "Touch it and see, you fools!" She laughed aloud. "I'm going home! The cold's got through my seams." Slowly we crept away. The vagabond Set his face whitely to the winter hosts, The Sapphire City faded . . . but I knew Its streets were thronged with weary, wistful ghosts. [228] THE OUTCAST A MAN died in the open park to-day Dropped down upon the new green grass and slept With his face turned toward the little sailing clouds That went with shining wings along the sky. He was a laborer., He had not seen The clouds go ever sailing down the blue; But all his bitter days had cast his eyes At Misery's boot-heels,/ as she led him on. He lay now with that still surprise of Death Upon his face, as though before he died His startled soul had paused/ between his lips To wonder at the sails along the sky. His shabby hat was off. His hair seemed damp With some last sweat of toil, and it was gray And like an iron halo on his brow And there was some great wonder folding him. f 229] His coat lacked even patches; there was no Soft mark of woman's fingers on the cloth His hands stretched lifeless from the raveled sleeves, And his poor boots were worn to nakedness. About him, in the sunlight stood a crowd, A throng of idlers, staring, curious; And down the drives the rolling limousines Moved with their lithe, rich smoothness past the place But he lay still and looked upon the sky, Upon the little sailing clouds that went Like ships of silver down their lovely seas, And at the sunlight, shining in their sails. . . . He was a laborer, and all his years Were reaped at Misery's boot-heels ... so he lay With his tremendous wonder folding him, And looked nis first upon the splendid sky! [230] SUBWAY TRACK-WALKERS WHO are ye hopeless who go with dull faces, Treading the terrible floorways of night? Oft have I seen ye flick by in the shadow, Framed from the dark by a flutter of light. Do ye gaze up at the hurtling windows, Streaking your dusk-world with sudden bright lanes? Do ye dream dreams of the lights and the faces ? Do ye think thoughts of the eyes at the panes ? Far is your path through the burrows of darkness! Fearful the death if ye falter or blunder! Once I saw one of you caught in the whirlwind, Hurled to his fathers with steel and great thunder. . . . [231] What is your vision, and where is your meaning? Do ye walk only for Saturday's pay? Or are ye sent for a desperate service That 1 may ride to my true love to-day? [232] THE HAND-ORGAN MAN HE stands in his rags at the sun-spattered curb, A swarthy brown fellow of tatters and smiles, Above his black curls are the vagabond skies, The light of long journeying lurks in his eyes, And over his shoulder are yesterday's miles. . . . His coat it is broken, his airs are outworn, Yet somehow we pause on the sidewalk to hear The children come running, with May in their feet, To dance to his tunes in the clattering street, And Age at its window looks down with a tear. So out of the clamor and toil of the day The Organ-Man comes, with a nondescript tune, A smile in his eyes where the world's wisdoms are, A heart in his breast like a struggling star And over his shoulder a garment of June, Lord of the Summer, come up from the South! Come, little Organ-Man, come to my street, Play me old Aprils of sunlight and rain; Play me the long-ago Springtimes again! Play . . . till the world is once more at my feet! [234! THE MILLS HOTEL IN from the ends of the Highway, weary and spent they came, Seared with the scars of hoping, tagged with a bit of name; There in the warmth they gathered, letting their garments steam, And never a heart in the Motley but flaunted its rags o' dream! Out of the mouths of ditches, up from the holds of ships, With grime on their broken fingers, and life on their gray grim lips, They slouched in the dingy hallways, the queer, the strange, the odd, And never a face went by me but glowed with a flash of God! 1235] Lost in a Book of Silence, their strangest stories lie, Tales of the Greater Service, that run when work- men die; And so they came from the ditches, the deep ships and the sea, And never a soul in the shelter but carried a scar for me! [236] THE UNEMPLOYED THEY did not ask for lordly things, For temples or for lands; They only asked ^he-light to use The glory of their hands. I never saw a sadder thing Beneath God's vaulted blue Than that grim line of staryingmgn^ Who had no tasKto do. They came before the frozen stars Had faded from the sky, And all day long the wealthy folk Rolled curiously by. And all day long the waiting line Stood shaking in the street. And, oh, tkeirjwilling, idle hanjs! And, oh, their aching feet! [237] 1 never saw a sadder thing In all the City's strife Than that worn host of ragged men Who waited there for life. They did not ask for alms of gold, Nor things of lordly worth. They only asked l;he right to share The labor of the earth. [238] THE BREAD-LINE THE word went down the moaning street, Through the rotting rooms where the children cry And the broken mothers die Bread! Free Bread! "Go forth," they said, "And see if the little whispers lie." The coughing men went forth to see. They came in herds, like starving goats, And they shook in their threadbare coats; "Is it true," they said, "That ye give us bread?" (And their hands clutched white at their icy throats.) "It is true," said the men by the stacked brown loaves, And they smiled with a wonderful slow, sad smile. [239] But the line stretched half a mile "Bread, free bread, It is life," they said, "It is life and hope for a little while." I said to a starved soul passing in, "The theory's wrong all wrong, you know, A wise man found it so." He raised his head, And with blanched lips said, "Was the wise man ever hungry, Bo?" [240] FROM AN "L" TRAIN WINDOW I SAW bent figures toiling in a dusk That seemed beyond the reaches of the Day, Pinched faces at the grimy window squares, Youth turned to something wracked and old and gray. I had left sunshine on my study floor, Laughter behind me in a woman's eyes, Paintings and books and friendly smiling things, The sum of which is mortal paradise. Yet here in that same world bent figures toiled From gloomy windows to the deeps of gloom, Thin-fingered women, sad as prisoners, Plied glinting needles in a coffin'd room. The Quarter Lodgers, sprawled upon a bench, Read crumpled papers in the half-slain light, Draining the sordid romance of the press, Finding some little comfort from their plight. 16 [ 241 1 And then a child, with eyes to break my heart Leaned from a window and with hands that shook Poured water on a dead geranium And that alone was worth a wise man's book. End o' the line, and lifting overhead, As in a graveyard costly shafts are wrought, The House of Government, white to the sun, And in one room a fat man, doing naught. [242] OUT OF THE NIGHT OUT of the blur and the drift of the faces, Out of the night, She comes in the cloak of a purpling shadow, Into the light. Over her head burns the guttering street-lamp, Touching her face The crowd surges by her with jest or with loathing, Grudging her place. Men in the garments of Priests and of Savants Pass with no word She leans at the lamp-post, half dead and all-dying, The prey of the herd. Mother of God, can you still grant us laughter, Seeing her die? We who have murdered thy holiest vessel, My world and I! [243] 'TwAS a long-ago summer when Romance and I Came trudging to Washington Square, And, oh, what a laughter illumined the walls Of our room at the top of the stair Our poor little, odd little jest of a room At the top of the boarding-house stair! Laughter, and Youth, and a heart for the game, The short road to Love, and the long road to Fame; And all roads before us and all roads to dare, And that was the glory of Washington Square! Romance was twenty and I was no more, And there was a window, you see, That gave us the park and a bit of the sky, And sometimes a breath from the sea; And small, ragged children would pause in their play To laugh up at Romance and me. [ 244 1 Children, and Wind, and the blue sky above. The drear road to Fame, and the dear road to Love; And all roads beginning and all roads to dare. And that was the wonder of Washington Square! I think I was painting the face of a dream, And Romance was posing in red, And daylight was only the throb of my heart, And the tremble of sun on her head, And twilight was only the sound of her voice, And the sense of a radiance fled. Twilight, and Dawn, and the dream without name. The fair road to Love, and the far road to Fame; The star of her face and the light of her hair, And that was the vision of Washington Square. The gold of earth's giving has lain in my purse, Of laurel I've taken my share But where is the laughter that hallowed our room At the top of the boarding-house stair? And where are the Children, and where is the Dream That led me to Washington Square? [245] Laughter, and Youth, and a heart for the game, The old road to Love, and the bold road to Fame; And all roads beginning and all roads to dare, And that was the glory of Washington Square! [246] DIALECT POEMS THE ROAD TO VAGABONDIA 'E WAS sittin' on a door-step As I went strollin' by; A lonely little beggar With a wistful, 'omesick eye An* 'e weren't the kind you'd borrow, An' 'e weren't the kind you'd steal, But I guessed 'is 'eart was breakin', So I w'istled 'im to 'eel. They 'ad stoned 'im through the city streets, and naught the city cared, But I was 'eadin' out'ard, and the roads are sweeter shared, So I took 'im for a comrade, and I w'istled 'im away On the road to Vagabondia, that lies across the day! Yellow dog 'e was; but bless you 'E was just the chap for me! [249] For I'd ruther 'ave an inch o' dog Than miles o' pedigree. So we stole away together, On the road that 'as no end, With a new-coined day to fling away And all the stars to spend! Oh, to walk the road at mornin', when the wind is blowin' clean, An* the yellow daisies fling their gold across a world o' green For the wind it 'eals the 'eartaches, an' the sun it dries the scars, On the road to Vagabondia that lies beneath the stars. 'Twas the Wonder o' the Going . Cast a spell about our feet An' we walked because the world was young, Because the way was sweet; An* we slept in wild-rose meadows By the little wayside farms, 'Til the Dawn came up the 'ighroad With the dead moon in 'er arms. [250] Oh, the Dawn it went before us through a shinin' lane o' skies, And the Dream was at our 'eartstrings, an' the Light was in our eyes, An' we made no boast of glory an' we made no boast o* birth, On the road to Vagabondia that lies across the earth! I 251] THE GOLDEN WEDDING "THERE, Mother, they've gone, all our young uns, That's John in th' new-fangled rig, And Billy is drivin' his roadster, And Jim's got a yellow-wheeled gig. "Fred's bought a new car. It's a racer. Pray Heaven it holds t' th' track! And Tom's got a spindle-legged shofer To drive him to business an' back. "Well, well, times have changed a whole jugful, An' I ain't th' one to complain; Our boys are as good as their decade, There's none of 'em warped in th' grain. "But different, Mother, an' wiser, Not much like the old-fashioned sort. We're classed with oil-lamps and religion They're classed with hygienics an* sport. [252] "There, there. I don't mean to be bitter, Not now, on our own precious night. Lord, Mother, you're just like a picture A-sittin' there, framed in th' light! "Come, pull up your chair to th* fire, And put down those socks for a spell. Th' runs an* th' holes that you've mended Would swallow th' space in a well. "There's fifty glad years in th' ashes, An' plenty o* wood in th' box. An' this is a special occasion, So put down that basket o' socks. "There's fifty glad years in th' ashes, An' more in th' leapin' red flame; The rest o' the world has been changin', But, Mother, we two are th' same. "You're just as you were at th' weddin', A girl, an' a purty one, too. We laid our first fire together It's lasted us all the years through. [2531 "The flame that we lighted that evenin' Is still mighty bright on th' hearth, An', Mother, we'll keep it a-burnin' As long as we travel this earth. "The new generation may rule us, There ain't no escapin', it seems, But Age has its port from the changin', Its little odd harbor for dreams. "An' that's by th' side o' the fire, Where years are so easy to spend. The world may belong to our children, But we'll be ourselves to the end. "So give me a kiss, my heart's dearie, It's love glowin' red in 'our flame. Though all th' wide world has been changin', My Sweetheart and I are the same!" [254] HAVANA BAY Now I've been down the world, mates, From London to Bombay; I've seen some pretty harbors, If you'll let me have my say But never was a sweeter port Than blue Havana Bay! Blue as the eyes of Love, mates, As you put in from the sea With dream-dusk in the outer depths. And sapphire at the quay; And if you must take ship, mates, From here to Judgment Day, You'll never find a sweeter port Than blue Havana Bay. Twas half a week to Christmas When we rounded Sandy Hook, And there was nigh a ton of ice In every sea we took. And heading down to Hatteras, The cook he says to me: "It's hard to do your dying In a roaring winter sea!" Twas winter down our decks y mates, And winter in our spars, And once I thought the foremast light Was tangled in the stars, But down across the sky, mates, And half a world away, The great, gold dawn was storming up To blue Havana Bay. And first the sticks went out of her, And then she sprung a leak; (The cook, he said he'd never spent So sad a Christmas week.) But then we rigged a jury-mast, And cut the wreck away, And swung our broken bowsprit 'round To blue Havana Bay. [256] Blue as the eyes of Love, mates> As you put in from the sea With dream-dusk in the outer depths. And sapphire at the quay; And, oh, to see the shadow Oj 'old Morro lifting gray As you stumble down the Cuba coast To blue Havana Bay! Now I've been down the world, mates, From London to Bombay, But never will my soul forget The glory of that day When we came down from the coast of Death, To blue Havana Bay. [2571 MAGGIE McFAY A BALLAD OF THE TRAFFIC SQUAD THIS is the story av Maggie McFay, And Dennis O'Toole av the Squad, A Ser-rgint av mounted police be rank And a man be the grace av God. He was sivin fut tall wid his cap and all And he paid for his boots be the mile, But gurls av his beat they forgave him his feet For the sake av his heart-melthin' smile. Yit he threated thim crool, -did this Ser-rgint OToole, And the divil a bit did he care; Till Maggie McFay turned the corner that day, Wid the gold av the sun in her hair. Wid the light av the skies in her soft, blue eyes, And her hair av a golden sheen, [258] And she smiled like a witch at wan side av the ditch, And the thraffic, it rumbled between. Faith, the autymobiles made a river av wheels, But Dennis, he lifted his hand Wid a gistoor like fate makin' speeches av state, And he brought all the wurrld to a sthand. Thin, crookin' his finger at Maggie McFay, And swillin' his chist like a King, The Thraffic Squad's pride crossed the street in wan stride, Wid Maggie tucked under his wing. And the fat millionaires and the Lady Eclaires, And the whole av the Great Embossed, They nivir moved wheel av wan auty mobile Till Dennis and Maggie had crossed! "And phwat is the pay for me throuble the day?" Says Ser-rgint O'Toole wid a grin. Says Maggie, "'Tis this!" And she landed a kiss On the p'int av the blatherskite's chin. [259] And that is the sthory av Maggie McFay, But sthop! There is wan thing more This Dennis av mine, he was twinty-and-nine, And Maggie McFay was just four! [260] LADDIE 'E's a bit of a vagabond, same as me, 'E's brother to beggars, and friend to a flea, 'E's a son of the 'ighroad, the old sea-and-sky road, The road that leads out to the far and the free! They say it's a wrong road God knows it's a long road! But Lor', it's a song-road to Laddie and me. 'E's blind in one eye, and 'is tail is on crooked; 'Is legs is too long a misfortune o' birth. But Vs gay as a man, and 'e's true as a woman, And twice 'e 'as followed me over the earth! 'E's only a dog but 'e followed me true, Which the flesh o' your flesh won't sometimes do. We 'eld to the byways, the old sea-and-sky ways, [261] The ways that lead out to the gold and the blue! God knows they were far ways! and stranger than star-ways, But Lor', they were our ways, so what could we do ? Then 'urry the Spring! Sweep the snow from the passes! The roads they are callin* us far away; To-morrow . . . we'll sleep in the sweet o' strange grasses, Sleep long, and wake slowly, as vagabonds may. 'E's a bit of a vagabond, same as me, 'E's brother to beggars, and friend to a flea; 'E's a son of the 'ighroad, the old sea-and-sky road, The road o' strange fortune that heads to the free! God knows it's a long road but if it's a song- road, It cant be the wrong road for Laddie and me! [262] THE BALLAD OF DENNIS McGINTY "I WILL marry none but a King," she said, Wid a flash av her eye, and a toss av her head; (And she was but barely turned twinty). And all av the lads who came ridin* down, They smothered their sighs and wint back to town All excipt Dennis McGinty. "I will have me a riyal Prince to wed, A Prince on a milk-white steed," she said; (And she was then two-and-twinty). And all av her lovers, they looked at their nags, And fled wid their hear-rts in their saddle-bags, All excipt Dennis McGinty. "I will marry a landed lord," she cried, "Wid castles tall and acres wide"; (And she was then four-and-twinty). [263] But all av her gallants, they turned away, For divil a bit av a castle had they, All excipt Dennis McGinty. "I will marry the bravest who comes," she sighed, "The man av most courage shall have me to bride"; (And she was then six-and-twinty). And out came the weapons for miles around, And all the lads fought till they fell to the ground All excipt Dennis McGinty. "At least I will marry a man," she said, Wid a blush to her cheek and a hang to her head; (And then she was eight-and-twinty). But there wasn't the likes av a marryin' lad Left alive in the land excipt wan, bedad, And she married Dennis McGinty. [264] LITTLE FISHERMAN "Ho, bonny little Fisherman with the blue eye and the basket. . . . Where are ye goin' now if I may ask it?" "Oh, I'm goin' down to the tinklin' brook, that flows beneath the willow, An' I'll sit in the shade of a pretty tree, with a green moss pillow." "An* what '11 ye do when ye're sittin* there, my little Fisher-laddie, Will ye catch a whoppin* spotted pike, or a siller shaddie?" "Oh, I'll catch nae one nor t'other, lass, nor siller fish nor mottle, But I'll sit in the shadow of a green tree, an* 4rink fra* a brown bottle!" [265] CHRISTMAS ON THE ROAD 'TWAS the gray o* Christmas morning when we struck the open road, Behind us in the withered dawn the lights o* Christmas glowed; The little lights o* Christmas-tide that stand upon the trees, And warm the hearts o* vagabonds across the Seven Seas. Across the wide, wide seas, Laddie, where you and I have gone, And de'il a light is lit for us adown the Christmas- dawn; But all the road's a gift, Laddie, and all the world is ours, And there'll be Christmas candles when we lift the winter stars! [266] You're nothing but a mongrel, with a memory for a tail, And your hide is lemon-yaller, and your pedigree is pale, But to-day you'd be plumb precious if you weren't so bloomin' sad: 'Cause it's Christmas, Laddie, Christmas and you're all I ever had. Its Christmas on the road. Laddie, so kick your heels and go; The little lights o' Christendom are shining on the snow; The lights are on the trees, Laddie Lor\ how the windows gleam! And all I've got's a yaller dog to keep the Christmas dream. , The rich they set their candles on their blinded window-sills, But all the Light o' Christendom is streaming from the hills, [267] And you and I shall trail it to the twilight or beyond. So Merry Christmas, yaller dog, you precious vagabond! The rich are none so gay, Laddie, they bear a weary load; But yaller dogs, and raggea men, they walk the open road. So turn you to the dawn, Laddie, and kick your heels and go The fairest Day o* Christendom is shining on the snow! THE END THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW AN INITIAL FINE OF 25 CENTS WILL BE ASSESSED FOR FAILURE TO RETURN THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY WILL INCREASE TO SO CENTS ON THE FOURTH DAY AND TO $1.OO ON THE SEVENTH DAY OVERDUE. , S6l 9T HVW tf * 22 NOV 25 1946 REC'P LD MAY is LD lil-'JOw. 330305 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY \