:' . '' ■ ■ .,■■.■■■ PS v35cfb CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM S»H.Bu.vnlicn Cornell University Library PS 3503.R8835A7 April — marching! / 3 1924 022 345 171 The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022345171 APRIL— MARCHING ! BY MARION FRANCIS BROWN BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER THE GORHAM PRESS Copyright, 1922, by Marion Francis Brown All Rights Reserved A(i!rt$3£> Made in the United States of America Press of J. J. Little & Ives Company, New York, U. S. A. To My MOTHER and FATHER AND SARA HUFF I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THESE VERSES Many of the poems in this volume originally appeared in The Boston Transcript, American Poetry Magazine, Ainslee's Magazine, Los Angeles Graphic, Contemporary Verse, Ladies' Home Journal, The Colonnade, McCall's Maga- zine,- New England Magazine, The Designer, Modern Priscilla, Femina Magazine, Boston Daily Advertiser, Boston Herald, The Multi- tude — Chicago, Springfield Republican, Chris- tian Advocate, Chicago Tribune, Youth's Com- panion, The Lyric, and Good Housekeeping. The author desires to express her appreciation of the Editors' courtesy in allowing their publi- cation. CONTENTS PAGE Spring Song 13 Dawn Paint 14 Love Walks in April 15 When Spring Comes Back to Gilead 16 Souvenir 17 In March 17 Dogwood 18 The Rose that Kept the Spring Alive 18 After Parting 19 With August Days 20 Prisoner 21 At Twilight 22 The Princess 22 Sarki 24 Love Me 25 Valentine 26 Words that You Have Spoken 27 The Garden Gate 28 Thoughts 29 Life's Garden 29 Your Name 30 Poppies 31 To One Distant 31 In Japan 32 Perplexity 33 Rosemary 34 Had I Hailed You in the Rain 35 ix Contents PAGE Wistaria 36 Music in the Night 36 Love's Completeness 37 Because of Your Dear Faith 38 The Gray Stone Church 38 Ballyclair 39 Vagabondia 40 Drfam Vineyard 41 Shipmate 43 Tribute to William Huff, G. A. R, on His 87th Birthday 44 The Road to Caverley 46 The Mother 47 Cradle Song 49 Spring in the Factory 50 Board for Two S 1 Boyhood's Town 53 The Return 54 To My Grand-Dads 55 Loneliness 55 Old Songs 56 Autumn 56 Inconsistency 57 A Prayer in April * . . . . 57 Invocation to the New Year 58 The New-Born 60 My Heart is Like a Hungry Bird 62 Gypsy Lad 62 Chastisement 63 In Greenwich Village 64 To a War Time Striker 65 For King and Country 68 The Whirlwind 69 x Contents An Unknown Grave 70 The Volunteer 7 1 The Singing Sergeant 7 2 In the Night 74 War Christmas — 1915 75 La Panne 76 The Red Cross 77 Prayer for Christmas — 1914 77 God's Ghost 78 A Yankee Private Speaks 79 The Lancers of Louvain 81 Chateau-Thierry 83 Red Easter 85 Linen Musk 86 Resignation 87 Palm Sunday in the Trenches 87 Ben Arad 89 Royalty 89 The City 9° Pharisee 9 1 Magdalene 93 Celia 94 Slivers 95 In Memoriam 96 To Charles Frohman 96 Lincoln 97 Dog-Pal 98 A Birdcage Comedy 100 Mother O' Mine 101 Tribute to the Spirit of Motherhood 101 "Traumerei" 103 Soft in the April Dusk 104 Hero Worship 105 xi Contents PAGE Orthodoxy 1° 6 Identity 107 Youth's Requiem 108 Philosophy 108 Gladness 109 Challenge 110 A Thanksgiving Prayer 112 Prayer for Courage 113 Sea Waves 113 Song of a Country Lane 113 The Song Sparrow 115 Jonquils 116 Bluebird 116 To a Bird in Flanders 117 The Tavern 118 Wanderer's Song 119 The Fork of the Road 120 Woods in March 121 A Cycle of Seasons 122 Prairies 126 Quatrain .' 127 Bridges 127 Third Avenue J28 The Call of the Road \ \ 128 Wax Wings J29 XII SPRING SONG I have heard a River's singing And the music of a Tree. Now Life may clip my winging And lay her yoke on me. Yet I shall still remember, Long after I am dead, The stir of leaves in April And what the River said. 13 April — Marching DAWN PAINT March ! and turn of the year to Spring! Gusty wind and a driving sleet. Lean, my Heart, to your listening . . . Click of the gate and marching feet ! What if across the years Love came Unheralded tonight, and laid His hand in yours, breathed low your name- Heart ! are you fluttering, afraid ? Footfalls stepping across the stars — Lean and listen, and slake your fill ! Ghostly creak of the pasture bars ! Dream-blown note of a daffodil ! March! and turn of the year to Spring! Wind and flame and a cleansing tide! Turn, my Heart, to its blossoming. Saddle its beauty! RIDE! 14 April — Marching LOVE WALKS IN APRIL If we could fling back time tonight, Beloved, Cut clean the snarls of malice with a sword, Snuff out false pride, and let the winds of April Surge us with pity, temper us with God, If we could take the cattle trail at twilight For one last ride together, You and I, In the old way, with clinking spur and laughter, Whisper and song, as in the days gone by, Tell me : would scent of sagebrush on the prairie, Or thunder of the River running blue, Or stir of sap on amber-blazoned ranges Mean more than "just another spring" to you? Trailing the dusk, could breath or blare of beauty Wake you and break you — make you understand ? Then, oh come back! and finish out the journey, Saddle to saddle — riding — hand in hand ! 15 April — Marching WHEN SPRING COMES BACK TO GILEAD When Spring comes back to Gilead, I wonder will she find Her flaming squills of April That once she left behind ? Will there be jonquils blowing, And amber whirring bees, And dainty petaled shimmering Of dogwood trees? When Spring comes back to Gilead, In blazing whirl of white, With tripping toe — and singing Across the scented night, Out of her world of lovers, Oh, will she miss us two, If we should fail this year to keep Our rendezvous ? When Spring comes back to Gilead, O Heart of Me, who knows But pride may be forgotten In every flower that blows, And hearts that now are yearning May flame to life — and sing, When Spring comes back to Gilead, And warm lips cling! 16 April — Matching SOUVENIR Out of Love's ashes Rose a fairer dawn. Out of Love's silence Sweeter song was born. A wood thrush caroled in the lane. The poppies flamed the wheat again. Just this ! — yet I who had put away Life, as a gift of yesterday, Clutched it back And found its scars Burnished gold Of a myriad stars. IN MARCH When March winds whistle through the eaves, And willows crackle in the lane, And the cold snow with flurrying grace Drifts to my window-pane, I should be lonelier than the hills But for the thought of You that springs Like a white crocus in my heart — And sings and sings! 17 April — Marching DOGWOOD The dogwood never blooms in spring But in my heart a song is born Of witchery. For less a thing The dogwood never blooms in spring. Bud, bole, and leaf, and flashing wing, And You beside me in the dawn ! The dogwood never blooms in spring But in my heart a song is born. THE ROSE THAT KEPT THE SPRING ALIVE The little hothouse rose, my Dear, Has lost its bloom since then. And many an April day of cheer Has come and gone again. Yet still I hold its petals' dust. Ah! can you ask me why? You who would keep my dreams from rust, And still my passion's cry ? Across the silence of the snows, Through icy blizzards' drive, Your little April hothouse rose Has kept that spring alive. IS April — Marching AFTER PARTING Left foot! right foot!! So — the parting's over ? Trailing through the fragrant dusk Arm in arm again. Left foot ! right foot ! \ Jessamine and clover, And dripping scent of lilac-musk After the rain ! ! Once you would have laughed along With a merry madness. Once you would have flung your song High on its wing. Once you would have thought it wrong, Dear, in your gladness Not to have thrilled to The pulse of the spring ! Left foot ! right foot ! Life brings many changes. Maybe you are thinking I Am not just the same As in the dream-days of The blue-purple ranges When we lit our altars by The sunset's flame. Heigh-ho-nonny-o ! Well, we are together ! 19 April — Marching Little matters that the glow May have left Life's hue, Or that dreams and passion go Drifting down the heather. Left foot! right foot! ! Still— I have YOU! WITH AUGUST DAYS With August days I have you back again. The blush of poppies crimsoning the wheat, The wild soft sobbing of the summer rain, And whirr of south wind winnowing the grain Are things we knew and loved together, Sweet. With August days I have you back again. It needs must be, we loved them so, we two. And in your coming, Dear, I drown my pain. Your look, your voice, your touch are mine again, And all the harvest yields the peace of you. 20 April — Marching PRISONER After you went — when the first spring came, Yellow and gold like a wild young flame, I closed my heart and I cried: "I'm free! Never again your kiss for me ! Or voice, or touch, or look, or vow, Or step, or song ! I am finished now ! ! Free ! free ! !" — Then April dawned With dogwood bloom and violet wand, Plum tree white and jonquiled hill, Red-cap, lark, and whip-poor-will. And I knew I had spoken a lie — a lie, For no one was ever less free than I, Since Love is only a bondaged thing That cannot forget — in spring! 21 April — Marching AT TWILIGHT Twilight at the end of day, Trembling sunbeams on the wall, Tinted shadows laced with gray, Creeping in, and shrouding all. Yonder hangs your pictured face, Roseate in its glow of hope — And beyond, a little space, Buds an April heliotrope. Dusk will deepen in a while, But the darkness of the hour Can not rob me of your smile, Or the fragrance of your flower. THE PRINCESS I wonder if she thinks of them — Those halcyon days of playtime, When fields were gemmed with jonquil gold And violet amethysts, How oft she came to "Sherwood," To "Sherwood" green with May-time, Where frowsled yeomen jousted In the fragrant orchard lists. 22 April — Matching So tall she seemed — and stately, So sweet yet so commanding, I used to think if Robin Hood Came back but for a day, To watch her crown our childhood With her dear understanding, The vision of his own love Would fade quite away. Would fade like merry magic On the pleached breezes carried. Maid Marion — nay, nor Little John Could hold his heart in fee, If once he heard the Princess sing In "Sherwood" where we tarried — In "Sherwood" green with May-time, And fair as Arcady. So deep she grew a part of us In days of make-believing, That even now in dreams sometimes I'm in the lists again, Wearing her favor on my breast — A scarf of crimson weaving, To win my spurs of knighthood In a world of doughty men ! 23 April — Matching SARKI Today when Sarki came And stood before us with the flame Of love and life and laughter in her face, A sudden tensioned silence held the place From gallery to gallery. Why, I thought, Should Sarki choose a theme so strangely fraught With tragic hopelessness — Sarki whose grand, Brave, laughter-loving soul could hold the wand Of merry magic o'er a winter's day Until its grayness burgeoned into May. The song was Tosti's passion-shaken cry To dying summer — that divine goodbye Of love to hope. As Sarki sang, we heard The heart sobs of a woman anguish-stirred Beyond what life can bear. We saw Sarki's own quivering unmasked soul, with awe, Singing itself to faintness of despair As the last cadence trembled through the air: "A pleading look! a stifled cry! Goodbye forever. Goodbye! Goodbye!" Why in unguarded moments, God, I ask, Must souls tear down their superficial mask, And fling the lie to happiness In their distress? 24 April — Matching Almost I wish I had not learned to know That Sarki 'neath her laughter hid a woe As deep as Rachel's. Now through all my years I'll hear in surface-laughter rain of tears, And see beyond the sunny autumn flowers Flecking the meadows through the mellow hours, The tawny forests wailing dismal breath Of wild sad music, undertoned with death Like Sarki's laughter — Sarki, glorious, gay, Who broke our blindness in her song today ! LOVE ME! Love me, that I may hear In all the winds that blow A little song of ecstasy From out the Long-Ago. Love me, that I may see In April's bluest skies, As it were only yesterday, The glory of your eyes. Love me, that I may feel — Oh unforgotten bliss ! In the warm fragrance of the sun, Dear Heart, your kiss. 25 April — Marching VALENTINE When trees were icicled in white, I heard you sing. Without was winter, cold and bright. Within was spring. You never sang again to me, O Heart of Mine, Yet each year brings with memory A Valentine ! 26 April — Marching WORDS THAT YOU HAVE SPOKEN Words that you have spoken Come back to me like music, Trailing tones of loveliness For the four winds to share: Whispers low and broken That quicken me to battle, Or place a rainbow in my heart, And on my lips — a prayer. Words that you have spoken Are pulse and wine to hunger. I know no emptiness of heart Or weariness in power When they come back in token Of beauty unforgotten, To snatch from out eternity One shining April hour. 27 April — Marching THE GARDEN GATE I know a little garden gate, Where crimson roses are. And early morn or evening late, Its latchstring stands ajar, Awaiting through the hours blown Above a summer's day A gentle touch it has not known Since You went away. I know a little garden gate. Come back, my Sweet, come back From hollow hills grown desolate Along Life's wind-swept track. Beyond a thousand lonely miles The hungry heart of me Is calling You across Love's aisles To Arcady ! 28 April — Marching THOUGHTS My thoughts are yellow butterflies That flitter in the grass, And You a wind across the skies That hails them as they pass. My thoughts are dust-white moths that blow On frail wings of desire, And You the golden candle-glow That kindles them with fire. LIFE'S GARDEN Kisses once I thought so sweet, Stolen in the braken — Colin's, mischievous and fleet, And Philon's passion-shaken, Now are but as thistle-blow Scattered down Life's garden — Little ghosts of Long-Ago, Craving tender pardon. Kisses once that made me wise Now have lost their leaven In the kiss of baby eyes Drawing faith to Heaven ! 29 April — Marching YOUR NAME A name is but a simple thing, Yet yours means this to me : The glad wild wonder of the spring In bird and blade and tree, Life that is quenchless, hopes that know No doubting — hold no fear, But keep where purple violets blow- A rendezvous with cheer. Death has no place where worship shines. Tears have no place in song. Give me a little road that winds A silver stream along, With latticed cot, and chimney-flame, Hearth-smoke and trampled sod — And but the mention of your name Will quicken it with God. 30 April — Marching POPPIES Bright poppies in a waving mass, A wind-swept field — a laughing lass, An autumn sky with clouds on wing, Oh what a simple little thing To think of down the wake of years ! To think of through a mist of tears ! TO ONE DISTANT Because you wrote, I feel the distance spanned Between our singing selves Across the miles. You've tipped the rose-jar. Lo ! and from your hand Are scattered petals Through my garden aisles! 3i April — Marching IN JAPAN If you will come with me some spring, When April's forged her gold, And all the woods are burgeoning Above the forest mould, I'll be your comrade as of old, And in Love's caravan Will take you gypsying to my fold In far-away Japan. Oh Love, Love, Love! you and I together! Hand in hand to roam Japan Through all the fragrant weather ! Love, Love, Love! oh sometime cross the sea And take a Pippa's holiday In old Japan with me. We two will seek our heart's ease there Where white tea roses blow Their perfumed petals through the air In fairy flakes of snow; And we will watch the lanterns glow Beneath the opal moon, While painted junks glide to and fro Along the blue lagoon. Oh Love, Love, Love! you and I together! Hand in hand to roam Japan Through all the fragrant weather ! Love, Love, Love ! oh sometime cross the sea And take a Pippa's holiday In old Japan with me. 33 April — Marching PERPLEXITY All the streams o'erflowing From the April rain. Gentle breezes blowing Through the reeds again. Thrushes northward flying To their rendezvous. All the woodlands sighing Just a hint of YOU. Flowers sweetly breathing. Insects on the wing. Oh — why should I be grieving In the spring? 33 April — Marching ROSEMARY Remember you the day I first came down To gay New York — an April loiterer ? And You, all muffled in a waving fur Of costly maribou that caped the brown Silk, shimmery draperies of your gown, Surprised me, as I came with pulse astir Swift from the docks — where all the ferries were Tooting our gladness to the towering town ? New York was ours ! the barrel-organ's air, The clean, white sparkle of each granite spire That reared its head up to the noonday's fire, And every murmuring crowded thoroughfare Sang of our love — and crowned us with desire To seek in Arcady release from care ! 34 April — Marching HAD I HAILED YOU IN THE RAIN Had I hailed you in the rain, Passing by, Would we suffer now such pain, You and I ? Swift! a sudden glance of fire! Through a mist Eyes held eyes in mute desire Till they kissed. I had known you worlds before. Love can tell. Yet I let you pass my door, Knowing well We might never meet again, You and I, Just like that in the rain, Passing by. Now I'm trying to forego All regret. Maybe it were better so. Dear! — and yet ? 35 April — Marching WISTARIA A sprig of wistaria hangs from your picture. A meaningless token to all but ourselves. I doubt if our secret be ever discovered By even the smartest of fairies and elves. A sprig of wistaria? A touchstone of magic! How simple a token can banish despair ! Why, Sweet, I believe that this moment I'm hearing The click of the gate — and your step on the stair ! MUSIC IN THE NIGHT Music ! low liquid music in the night ! Tones that return Like winging birds, to waken old delight From memory's urn. Across the tides of melody, your face! My cup o'erflows As through the dark impenetrable space Your vision glows. 36 April — March ing LOVE'S COMPLETENESS Strong as the flail Of a gale On the seas — Deep as Death's power In the hour That it frees — Rich as the gold In the mold Of a star — Free as a bird Faintly heard From afar — Glad as all living, All giving, All cheer — So do I measure my love for you, Dear ! 37 April — Marching BECAUSE OF YOUR DEAR FAITH Because of your dear faith, when days are long, And all the starless hours of the night Pass, like the lingering echoes of a song, Into the silence of the new dawn's light, I shall be able with a smile to greet The sadness that Life holds, and call it sweet. Because of your dear faith, I shall not mind The long drear years that hold our souls apart. But putting all Grief's vestiges behind, I'll dare the battle with a singing heart, Filled with the hope which only Love assures To prove my worth in God's eyes — and in Yours! THE GRAY STONE CHURCH The gray stone church I used to know In Brooklyn days long, long ago, Still stands imposing to the view, Facing the broad elmed avenue. I would go oftener there to pray With others at the end of day. But somehow, somehow kneeling there, My courage wavers even in prayer, For from the choir-loft I see Ghost faces smiling down on me — And hear ghost voices lingering yet In songs the church can not forget. 38 A pril — Marching BALLYCLAIR As I rode into Ballyclair, Lo! all the spring was flinging A robe of jonquiled tapestry Where fallow meadows lay ; And down the little homeland road The tanagers were winging, Flashing scarlet meteors Beneath an April day. Hawthorn whiter than the snow, And honeysuckled garden ! Swift! it seemed a voice called Above the kettle's croon : "Macushla! Macushla!" Till sweeter than God's pardon, It purged the homing heart of me, And set the world in tune. 39 April — Marching VAGABONDIA Twilight is lacing the branches. Dusk's on the hill. Carry me back, Vagabondia, When it is still. Back to the glow of the clapboards Silvered with stars, Back to the croon of the hinges Creaking the bars. There will be frost on the asters, Wind in the leaves, Whispers and fluttering footfalls Under the eaves, Ljittle gray ghosts in the garret — You and I know Ghosts couldn't leave the old cabin, Loving it so. We will be ghosts, Vagabondia, Ages from now, Guarding it — chimney and rafter, Gable and bough. But for tonight we were better Lost in its dream. Carry me back, Vagabondia, Back to the gleam 40 April — Marching Of "Rosemary" spangled with moonlight, Lintel and sill Shedding the rays of her candles Over the hill! DREAM VINEYARD Back within my heart's dream vineyard There's a cabin in the lane, Where grim Time has hung his cobwebs Lightly on the window-pane, And the chimneys on the rooftop And the shingles on the eaves Are as sear and weather-beaten As the autumn-showered leaves. Yet to me as I roam Over memory aisles toward home, That little wind-swept cabin Wears a halo in the gloam. For I see it always studded In the glow of setting sun — Kettle-croon, out-blowing curtains, Hearth-smoke when the day is done, Mother standing in the dooryard, Clothed in all her simple grace, Waiting with the light of welcome In the radiance of her face ! 4i April — Marching How her beauty wraps around me ! How her truth upholds me yet! How the memory of her quickens Little scenes I can't forget — Dust-white road and hedge-trimmed ivy, Oxen lowing at the plough, Bumbling of the bees at noonday, Blackbirds trilling from the bough ! Is it wonder as I roam Over memory aisles toward home, That the little wind-swept cabin Wears a halo in the gloam? 42 April — Marching SHIPMATE Shipmate ! my shipmate ! ! The flying spume is hoary. The decks tonight are strewn with stars; The tide swings high. And the years like ghostly galleons Glide by in spectral glory From ports of unforgetten spars Across a sunset sky. Shipmate! my shipmate!! Our sails are set for dawning. The wind is lashing froth and foam. The seagulls swirl. And our dreams ride by in pageantry With benison and warning Like aery pilots drifting home Upon a cloud of pearl. Shipmate ! my shipmate ! ! Forever and forever I shall remember, when I'm dead, The troths we've made . . . To sail beyond the Pleiades, Just You and I together, When the last port has trumpeted The singing stars' crusade. 43 April — Marching TRIBUTE TO WILLIAM HUFF— G. A. R. ON HIS 87TH BIRTHDAY There's a white battalion marching Through the wilderness and prairie, With drums that thunder jubilee And banners pricked with scars ; And they're flinging songs of triumph To the four free winds of heaven, And setting camp-fires gleaming In an acreage of stars. Left foot ! right foot ! rank on rank of khaki ! Left foot ! right foot ! rank on rank of blue ! Soissons ! Cambrai ! Metz ! and Argonne ! Richmond! Gettysburg! and Shiloh! Young and old, they're swinging nearer, Cheering someone — is it You? For I've caught their broken phrases — "William Lewis Huff, Crusader ! Soldier of the great Republic ! Woodsman! Plainsman! Pioneer! Christian of unswerving duty ! Patriot of granite courage ! Blazer of old trails to freedom ! Patriarch without a peer !" 44 April — Marching And their song is like a whirlwind Blowing all of truth before it. And their coming is a sacrament of Altar wine and bread. And their presence, though unbidden, Is a benison from Sinai That rolls the tides of silence back Between the Quick and Dead. For it's left foot! right foot! Sherman! Grant! and Farragut! Left foot! right foot! Hooker! Lee! and Schley! Lincoln in his old shawl ! Washington and Sheridan! Roosevelt with his Eagle Son Now are trooping by! Singing: "Happy Birthday, Comrade ! Peace and Love and Honor bless you !" Singing: "God and Glory crown you In the gloaming!" 45 April — Marching THE ROAD TO CAVERLEY Christmas in America! Goodbye to troop and bivouac! My heart has saddled Pegasus To ride the stars tonight — The white stars of Carchemish And Babylon and Nineveh That crown the Christian highways With their galaxy of light. And maybe from their orbits I shall find the road to Caverley, The little silver river-road That winds beyond the sea, Where rafters ring with carols And windows glow with candles, And the War is long forgotten, And the flags blow — free ! For America is calling, Plain and mountain, vale and desert. There are altars in her wilderness, And anthems in her streams, And a deeper love of hearthside Since our Legion marched to glory; And a kinder love of neighbors, And a purer love of dreams. 46 April — Marching So it's ship me far from Coblenz Where my heart can feast in furlough ! The latch is up ! the board is set ! And the four winds sing Of the homing road to Caverley That leads to peace and freedom, Where comrades walk in brotherhood, And Jesus Christ is King! THE MOTHER "Dead," you say ? Nay ! nay ! ! Alive as I am now, today. There's her tea-pot on the stand With her blue cup near at hand, Waiting for this afternoon When I'll sing her favorite tune To her, as she sips her tea Oh so very daintily ! Souls that learn so well to live Never die — but stay, to give. So hers like God's benison Lingers with us every one. All the flowers of her choice In the garden breathe her voice. 47 April — Marching And the sunshine of the place Keeps alive her radiant face. Hush ! beneath the willow bough Where the veery's singing now, Ghostly soft her rocker creaks. Succurre Miseris ! and she speaks Gently, sweetly to my youth With her tender lips of truth : "Faith in love — no more, no less, Means my Everlastingness!" 48 April — Marching CRADLE SONG Cradle song and kettle croon And whisper of the lilacs! Silver plies my needle On your wee white hem. Dainty as the petals In a peach-bloom garden, Sweet enough for Mary's Son Born in Bethlehem! Here a stitch ! and there a stitch ! Threading dreams of wonder, Weaving in a tiny tuck Homage for a king, Doubting if in all the world Life possesses magic Half so dear and beautiful As Babyhood in Spring ! Babyhood in Spring ! and all the earth A cloak of samite ! God who etches April hills Delicate with lace, Fashion Thou my Baby's life Shining as his raiment, Fastening the warp and woof Firm with Truth and Grace! 49 April — Marching SPRING IN THE FACTORY Spring has come with all her beauty! And it's I would know the meaning In the springtime of a cottage With a paneled sitting-room, And a smiling sweet-faced mother Standing by the lintel's greening, Where there's not the burr of motors Or the thrumming of the loom. Spring has come with all her fragrance! And it's now I whiff the blowing Of the violet-laden breezes And the meadow mignonette, And the peach-bloom and the clover And the cherry-petals snowing, Till I quite forget the fibre, And the stench of human sweat. Spring has come with all her music ! Bobolink and thrush and veery, Fluted whistle of the plowboy And the croon of babes at play — Sweetness drowning out the treadles And the sneers of foremen leery. Spring has come ! goodbye to factory ! Now my soul takes holiday. 50 A pril — Marching BOARD FOR TWO Oh I will set my board for two, And clean my house today, For I am breaking bread with one Who has been long away — With one who comes a thousand miles, Gift-laden to my feast, Trailing a wake of rosemary From an Arabian East. Winged white dreams of yesterday, Memories showering like leaves, Spring's first robins caroling Their welcome from the eaves, The kettle's croon, the marsh's tang, And toy ships freighted out to sea — These, the gifts my guest will bring Across Love's aisles to me. So I will set my board for two, And clean my house today, For I am breaking bread with one Who has been long away — With one who comes by caravan Of golden argosy Across the bourne of desert years: The Child I Used to Be. 51 April — Marching BOYHOOD'S TOWN TO J. T. W. Just an argosy of memories ! Apple blossoms pink and white Falling through the dusk of April In the drowsy stir of night ! And a gleam of ships at harbor, Silver sails against the west ! And the turquoise Parker River Ribboning the Old Town crest. Sixty summers since you gypsied With your whittled willow lute Down the apple-blossomed highway In the month of bloom or fruit, Scrambling up the hill of vision Over bramble bush festoons, To re-count the haystacks dotted On the shining sandy dunes. Oh the Joppa oyster shanties ! And the quaint old lighthouse set On the reefs beyond Plum Island, Winking "wicked" at you yet! And the turnpike road to Rowley, And the slender steeple spires Of the churches silhouetted In the summer sunset fires. 52 April — Marching Sixty years are fleet in passing. Sixty more — and you may be The most talked of poet-laureate Winging through Eternity. Singing not so much of heaven, Jasper street and harp and crown, As of merry mortal memories Of your boyhood town : — Butterflies and chirping crickets! Pollen-laden bumblebees! Birds that filled old nests with singing In the shade of leafy trees ! Ships of vision weighing anchor ! Barges at the ocean's brim, And the pipes of April fluting To a freckled boy named "Jim"! 53 April — Marching THE RETURN My heart has heard a knocking On its iron-bolted door. My soul has heard the whisper Of a voice from other years : "Ah open ! open ! open wide ! And take me in once more Who come from golden yesterdays To reconcile your tears !" A sweet, familiar haunting tone ! A hand of magic touch ! "Ah open ! open ! open wide ! Since once you loved me so. I stand a pleading mendicant. Ah take me in as such, Before the embers deaden And the wick burns low." My heart has heard a knocking. And I've let the exile in. My soul has heard a whisper. And I've listened to its plea. And now my little house of dreams Is swept of grief and sin, For my lost childhood's self has come To live again with me. 54 April — Marching TO MY GRAND-DADS I wonder if they've ever met In some Elysiumed haven — My grand-dads, Yankee-born and Welsh, From Derry and Dunraven; And meeting, maybe found my name Within their hearts engraven. Dear simple, true, old-fashioned men ! With hearts no frost could harden, Each trailing in his wake a song As tender as God's pardon, One from his little coffee shop — One from his Celtic garden! LONELINESS Among a million people I walked — alone, Hemmed in by tower and steeple, And walls of stone, Lonelier than on prairie, Or on the sea, For neither God nor fairy Could talk with me. 55 April — Marching OLD SONGS Where are they gone ? and will they come Comforting, tremulous back to me? Soft as the lush of rain in some Sweet April Arcady ? Like purple violets on a hill, Will they come back at hint of spring? Oh ! tell me, tell me if you will, And ease my hungering ! AUTUMN Yellow light upon the leaves ! Hoar frost on the garden lane ! Autumn wind among the eaves Whistling loud above the rain ! Love, oh Love, why did you go? It was never thus before That the autumn chilled me so When the wind swept round my door ! 56 April — Marching INCONSISTENCY Death can not leave me lonely Or hold strange fears for me, For I have found in April Love's immortality. But should one faith forsake me, Or gilded idol fall, Then were my whole world ashes And life — a thrall ! A PRAYER IN APRIL Lord, if I find grace today In Thy sight, divide, I pray, Half my share — no more, no less — Of the Spring's white loveliness With the halt, the deaf, the blind, And the sorrowing of mind. Joy of wind and flame of tree, Racing clouds in canopy, Cresting wave and whirring wing, Pulse of every singing thing That may fill their senses deep With Thy presence e're they sleep. Amen. 57 April — Marching INVOCATION TO THE NEW YEAR I have set my words To the tune of birds To echo o'er crag and lea. I have sung my birth To the sons of earth. Ride on ! ride on with me ! ! Ye have trampled me down with your leaden feet, But I rise from the ashened pile. Ye have scoffed my name in the market street Where mingle the rank and file. My gifts ye have thrown to the demoned swine. My face ye have hid from view. But the gifts were free and the gifts were thine, And I'm bringing them back to you. I'm bringing them back in the mad, glad spring Of the lilacing April hours. I'm bringing them back on the swallows' wing, And in rain-bleached autumn flowers. And whether ye erred in days long sped, Wherever the trail shall wind, This year, the dead shall bury their dead. We'll cast no glance behind ! 58 April — Marching For I've set my words To the tune of birds To echo o'er crag and lea. And I've sung my birth To the sons of earth. Ride on ! ride on with me ! ! Out from the war-doomed chaos where blow Bugles that mobilize foe on foe, Down from the sodden fields where run Rivers too red to catch the sun As it pierces a war-cloud there and here, Ray upon ray — bier upon bier, Oh like a chain-bound slave set free, Turn from the past and ride with me ! Ride! Ride!! Ride!! Till the east and the west are one. Ride! Ride!! Ride!! Till the infinite fight is done. Turn your face from the ebbing tide. Past is past and today's your guide. Look to your saddle nor turn aside ! Spurs to your charger ! Ride ! ! ! 59 April — Marching THE NEW-BORN Out of the dusk of centuries I come, To make you glad. A little naked mendicant of love, Bringing from golden pools of mystery Laughter and song. My body is a lily drenched with sun. My heart a crystal goblet Brimming with rich nectar For your lips to sip. My soul a note in tune with all the spheres. Guard me with tender wisdom while you may, For I am greater than the sea and stars, The seasons and the flowers of the field, And all the myriad miracles of man. Swift! at my birth were blended life and death. Creation's song flashed at my coming. Now in my hands I hold The balance-scale of emptiness and joy. Generation upon generation of poets And generation upon generation of painters Have visioned me with simple reverence Out of the glad recesses of their souls. 60 April — Marching Fairies and elves have they created for my pleasure And dream-worlds founded for my joy, Till I can follow in my fancy's flight A shooting star, a silver drop of rain, Or virgin flake of graceful flurrying snow. Take the rich gift I offer — All beauty and all holiness combined : The trinity of love and faith and hope. I am God's message sent to mother hearts To open them — and let His glory in. 6l April — Marching MY HEART IS LIKE A HUNGRY BIRD My heart is like a hungry bird That has no heart to sing, Since all the year you've sent no word, No thought or anything. No happy voice across my aisles To cheer my hungering — Only the snow-drifts, miles on miles, That never knew the spring. GYPSY LAD Gypsy Lad, whom I have never met, Can you not hear me calling plaintively Above the April rain and larks' duet, And lilac-laden winds of Arcady? The trail is rough but oh divinely fair That leads me dreaming through the lanes of youth ; 1 am so sure you will be waiting there When I have crossed the border-land to Truth. I am so sure now as I sing alone, That in some far-off blossoming of May You'll hear my song — You whom I've never met, And fill my hunger in your glad wild way. 62 April — Marching CHASTISEMENT I did not know, Dear Heart. I did not know That Love, mere Love Could pain one so. Nor that in doubly Darkened ways I should go exiled All my days! I close my eyes — And memories bring The pressure of your lips That cling! June memories Of stars and night, And crushing arms That hold me tight! Now I must wait The long years through In agony Of wanting you. I who had thought Mere Love a game, Until war woke me To my shame! 63 April — Marching IN GREENWICH VILLAGE 1918 Sometimes at sunset, coming through the square, In the cold splendor of a winter's day, I find myself half-wondering in play If I shall find you at our window there, Waiting my coming — doubting still the truth War woke me to last April when you went — And Greenwich Village sped your regiment. The law of battle is unkind to youth ! Now when before the empty hearth I sit And close my eyes, the deadened ashes, Dear, Flare like red poppies, magically lit By the warm kiss of sunny atmosphere. Cool fingers o'er my fevered eyelids flit — And with the breath of poppies, you are near ! 64 April — Marching TO A WAR TIME STRIKER (From a Crippled Soldier on Furlough) You can call me rampant moralist and war-mad preaching freak, A brainless financier and a butter-in of law, But I'd rather be myself, at that, than show the yellow streak Of him who calls a strike on work that's pushing on the war. For I'm used to fighting soldiers, not the kind who feed their purse, And grouch at weary carcasses and battle by the clock. I come from flaming Flanders where the unforgiven curse Is the piker whose desertion proves his country's stumbling-block. So ship me back to the trenches Behind me the sand-bag's rim, Where there's blood and mud in stenching flood Under the rocket's glare, And men who are men are fighting, Loyal and staunch and grim, Scorning to quit till they've done their bit In championing Right "out there." 65 April — Marching II There's a plaguy sight of difference according to battle code Between the plain deserter-guy who "funks" it for the Huns And him at home who crumples up beneath war's extra load, Calling a strike that ties up work on ships or clothes or guns, Putting a traitor's service-price on duty to his flag, Commercializing faith to God and free humanity, And daring in his idle sloth with pompousness to brag A kinship with his valiant brothers fighting oversea. So ship me back to the trenches 'Neath the red rain's avalanche, Where the cry "More pay and an eight-hour day" Will faint in the bugle's call, And men who are men are dying, Glad of the privileged chance To prove the worth of their soldier birth In a Common Cause for All ! 66 April — Marching ill It is pleasanter here in the factories and the ship- yards and the mills Than it is out there in the dug-outs where the rats and the lice abound, — For there isn't the carnaged chaos and the horror- shaken thrills Of the death-fumed gas or the bloody wire or the mangled corpse-strewn ground. Yet I'd rather be there in the melee, a cog in the great machine, I'd rather brave death a thousand times in the brunt of the foe's advance, Than play the role of the striker here at a time when my act might mean Defeat for the lads who are holding our line in the furnaced hell of France. So ship me back to the trenches, Where the lure of a higher law Than greed and pelf and Ego self Is ruling the dreams of youth. Where life is seen at its crudest, Bleeding and bruised and raw, But strong and wise through the sacrifice Of men who have died for Truth ! 67 April — Marching FOR KING AND COUNTRY Boom ! Boom ! Through fields dyed red, Past the sound of women's weeping, On! until the last has bled From the foul-jawed cannon's reaping, Father, brother, husband, son, In the murky trenches lying, Cold and stark, when day is done, For King and Country dying. Boom ! Boom ! The dank mists rise On the youngest-born recruiting. Joy a'glow from lips and eyes Through their gay disputing. How the fife and trumpet thrill ! What care they for crimson sating? Glad and resolute they drill For King and Country waiting. Boom ! Boom ! Oh shame to spend Blood that pulses from a nation ! Boom ! oh wanton crime to rend From a hungry child its ration ! Babes and children underfed, Not a crust of bread for halving! 68 April — Marching Sucklings to the still-born dead, For King and Country starving. Boom! The distant hills loom black. Now there's worse than death foreboding. War brides tremble on the rack Of a lustful despot's goading. Holy Mother ! purge their shame ! They must bear for cannon's feeding Soldier sons without a name, For King and Country breeding. King and Country! — Country, King! When this pentecost of sorrow Gleaned from temporal gluttoning Shall have slaked itself tomorrow, There will still be left, unspent, Strong in habit, undismaying, Old, old women, worn and bent, For King and Country praying! THE WHIRLWIND The field is stubble tonight, Parched and withered in harvest. Seared from the blast of the fiery cannon. Ghostly soft, it billows rough in the moonlight. 69 April — Marching The ground is decked with the limp forms Of a thousand corpses. They mock at the moon's paleness And warm the earth with their blood. But the breath of their bodies is gone, Snuffed out by the whirlwind. When dawn comes, the sun will hunger For the light of their laughing eyes And the shout of their singing voices. And the red poppies that kiss their silent faces Will miss, when the bugle calls, The crunch of their heavy marching Through the wheat. AN UNKNOWN GRAVE Unmourned, unclaimed, unrecognized by all, Within his grave He lies, with no dear comrade near to call His young heart brave. And yet above his unmarked resting place A skylark wings In upward flight, and from ethereal space His requiem sings: "Who dies in France for freedom, freedom gains Unchained, unfurled. His monument war's flaming poppied lanes. His grave the world !" 70 April — Marching THE VOLUNTEER "It isn't your war," I told the lad, When that flame-wraithed August came. "It isn't your fault if the Kaiser's mad, And his gray hordes filched with shame. Stay home and harvest the golden wheat, And answer the hunter's call, For the wilds of the west are safe and sweet, And why should you leave it all?" Now all I have left are his fishing rods, His gun and his hunting net, And his Billiken god who sits and nods At a bust of Lafayette, And his eloquent letters in boyish hand, Acclaiming with happy boast His regiment's part in the glorious stand Of Kitchener's fighting host. And I who said that it wasn't his war — It's proud I am of him now For the call he heard and the light he saw, And the pledge he made — and his vow. And though he's asleep in the hills of France, At peace from the flame and roar, I know when the last drum sounds "advance" He will lead his men once more ! 7i April — Marching THE SINGING SERGEANT We saw them carry his stretcher in Under a hail of fire. His blood was smearing the ground they trod Red as the poppies' bloom. But there wasn't a chance in the hell-mad din, A moment, to inquire — Charging with bayonet-point and sword — Of the singing sergeant's doom. So we "carried on" like avenging hounds And "strafed ! * the Boches under. It was like the singing sergeant's voice Kept trumpeting the way Through cursing sounds of human mounds, And Gothas spitting thunder. It made the saints of heaven rejoice — The way we made them pay. And this we learned in our wild advance, Where the red rain was falling, Wondering how was our sergeant chum, And whether his race was through : They could bury him deep in the fields of France, But his soul would bide our calling, Leading us on till Kingdom Come, And the last drum beat tattoo. For it isn't the body that turns the tide, But the soldier spirit in it. 72 April — Marching So — when we found him behind the line, Like a sepulchred bandaged ghost, It wasn't the death in his face we spied, Palloring more each minute, But something of life we couldn't define, Like the flame of a spirit-host. It was like he was teaching the stars their place, Flinging the dark defiance. For sudden, " 'oo's dead?" he challenged us then. "Come! pipe us a chune you've learned, To prove the pep of the Celtic race, and The h'army's just reliance In singin' men's bein' fightin' men, And death but a furlough earned." Then up we drew to the sergeant's cot, And soft our voices blended : "The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain " It was a hymn we'd sung a lot, When France was first defended. "His blood-red banner streams afar. Who follows in His train?" " 'oo follows?" — quick! with courage girds — The pipes of April fluting. The singing sergeant, clear and slow, Wound up the martial strain, And plucky came his last words, With bandaged hand saluting, "'00 patient bears 'is cross below 'e follows in 'is train!" 73 April — Marching IN THE NIGHT Often when the autumn rain Beat against the window-pane, And the cold gust driving fast Shook the shutters with its blast, I would snuggle to your breast Like a frightened bird, oppressed, Till the pressure of your arms Crushed out all my dread alarms. Then your finger-tips would trace Gently, lightly o'er my face, And your breath like April air Stir the tangles of my hair. Heart to heart throbbed. Not a word Broke our quietude — nor stirred But my fear, all unexpressed, War would claim you with the rest. Haven free from rock or reef, Silence lulling past belief, Let me come once more, once more, When the wind howls round the door. Let my frozen spirit claim Warmth from heaven's altar-flame, Where your love will vigil keep, Till I sleep — till I sleep! 74 April — Marching WAR CHRISTMAS— 1915 Dyed in the hue of more than holly's red, War Christmas breaks upon a world reviled With mammon lust and hate unreconciled Over the ranks of Europe's slaughtered dead. Music is silenced. Peace and joy are sped. And where the Magi seek the Holy Child, They find an empty manger sore defiled, And Christ bowed o'er it with a thorn-crowned head. Far from the east sound armies' marching hosts, The blare of bugles and the cannons' roar, The hollow rap of hunger on the door, And wailing dirges of a billion ghosts. Christmas is dead ! Nor love nor pity stills The anguished cries from Europe's calvaried hills. 75 A pril — Marching LA PANNE Outside La Panne stretched dreary mile on mile, Villas agleam with red and yellow tile, Set on the sands at random, carelessly, While ever nearer, nearer boomed the sea, Washing with ebb and flow its flood of salt Upon the dunes with every tidal halt. La Panne, the royal village, in its plight A ruin, yet a memorable sight ! Oh time will come when all the world will sing Of Belgians at this seacoast hungering A winter through, their army two-thirds spent, Their soldier-king heading his regiment, Himself sore wounded — and their gracious queen Forced when the suffering grew too keen, To pawn her jewels for her soldiers' bread. And time will come when Belgium's flaming red Of baptism will give her power to raise The crumbled altars of her former days, And teach the world a nation's greatness rests Not in her armament of temporal quests, But in her power to keep her soul so free That it can claim with Christ's identity. 76 April — Marching THE RED CROSS I saw them pass among the littered dead, Poet and peasant, marchioness and priest, A cosmic army, cowering the beast Of battle with their Christ-like tread. Their sign — the brassard with its cross of red. The vision of them, when the guns had ceased, Was like a sudden sunrise in the east, Mocking the memory of a storm just sped. Like peace astride the wonder of a day, Riding with spur from out night's leaden dross, They came to save what guns had failed to slay. One flag! one creed! one goal! to bear their cross Of Christian mercy through the jaws of hell. PRAYER FOR CHRISTMAS— 1914 Just for today, O Lord of Hosts, we ask That peace of Christian mercy rule Thy seas, That guns be silenced from their carnaged task, And foe meet foe in canceled enmities. Just for today, God of our Fathers' might, Lead to Thine altars crumbled and defiled Thy soldier-heroes by the Bethlehem light, That in their armistice they find Thy child. With more than holly are Thy fields dyed red. With more than hunger stand Thy folds at bay. Yet by Thy cross, we will not count our dead If Thou wilt rule the God of All today. Amen. 77 April — Marching GOD'S GHOST God's ghost moves through a shattered host. The captains raise their song: "Now God is Might and champions Right Against Oppression's wrong." God's ghost moves through a shattered host — A cosmic force abroad. In vain, kings mould for power and gold A racial demi-god. From coast to coast through curse and boast Where Slav and Teuton reel, Drunk from the flood of human blood, And crush God under heel, The ghost moves through each shattered host, Too sad to smite or shield — While streams flow red — and Christ lies dead On every sodden field! 78 April — Marching A YANKEE PRIVATE SPEAKS Oh war is a marvelous leveling game, And I wouldn't have missed this chance Of taking my place when the summons came In the fighting ranks of France, To bivouac under a flame-shot sky With men of a world new-made, Who challenge and battle and jest and die In the march of a great crusade. I wonder what we will ever do When the old life claims us back, Yank and Tommie and French Poilu, Bound to the beaten track. I wonder will pals be the same pals then As they are in the trenches here, And if I'll find Jim, by the test of men, Still brother and chum and peer. Jim, who only twelve months ago Was wasting his days in play, Spending a million a year or so, And quaffing his life away, Wobbling home at morning's stir With the grouch of a chronic fop, And cursing at me, his dad's chauffeur, For letting his trotters flop. 79 April — Marching But that's all past. Oh war's the thing! It's tinker and millionaire, Butcher and baker and underling, Cut on the self-same square, Rigged in the self-same khaki shirt, Fed on the self-same chow, Spewed with the self-same blood and dirt, Pledged to the self-same vow. And Jim and me on the self-same plane, Leveled by war's queer spell, Pals to the death, through joy and pain, Heaven and flaming hell — A world removed from the narrow life Of squabbling sects and creeds, Where men are judged in a farcial strife By chattels instead of deeds. So war's the thing! I claim once more, When you take it with Jim and me, Drafted as "65354" and "65353," With never a hint for remembrancer Here where the rockets flare, That once I was known as his dad's chauffeur, And Jim as a millionaire! 80 April — Marching THE LANCERS OF LOUVAIN There's a slow and rhythmic clattering Of cavalry's shod feet. We can see the Belgian standards drawing near. There's a singing, singing, singing Down a Belgian seacoast street, And a ring of loud hosannas, cheer on cheer. Oh you scarce can hear the music Of their piccolo and fife For our loud, ecstatic jubilation strain, As we look upon their dwindled ranks, Returning from the strife — The dashing doughty Lancers of Louvain ! Mark their caprioling chargers! How their blooded nostrils flare! Mark the troopers ! how they ride with backs erect ! Invulnerable, man and beast, To ravishing despair, Riding, riding, ever riding, Like the God of Hosts' elect. With the valiant light of ages Smouldering in their eagle eyes, And their visages all battle-seared with scars, Dying, they will pay the blood-price For their country's sacrifice — For Louvain laid low in ashes 'neath the stars. 81 April — Marching There's a marching, marching, marching Down a Belgian seacoast street, By the waters as the sun swings low. And the fainter, fainter echo Of their cavalry's shod feet Leaves our writhing spirits crucified in woe. They are riding on to battle, Far away where fields are red. O God, in Thy great mercy, ease our pain, And we'll worship at Thine altars Till their last recruits have bled For the gold unsullied glory of Louvain. 82 April — Marching CHATEAU-THIERRY Tramping down the dusty roads Between the bronzing wheat fields, Khaki-clad and mirth-mad, Laughing all the way, With sixty pound of outfit — Helmet-hats and gas-shields — Marching and manceuvering As though they found it play! Weary ? not a bit of it ! Hope was high ahead of them! Treading past the meadowed plains Of poppy-crimsoned sheen, Shouting: "Bill, we're coming! So set your guns to thrumming, For you'll meet in Chateau-Thierry The United States Marine!" None could guess who saw them pass They were not "seasoned shock-troops," Flinging zest and merry jest With every martial stride. Yankee to the core of them ! Marching past the River loops, Bound for Chateau-Thierry On the south Marne side! 83 April — Marching And there they made their stand Above a row of white-roofed houses, Left amid the ruins now That mark their battle-graves, Holding back the powers, For thirteen hell-flamed hours, Of the sweeping, irresistible Fiend-f uried German waves ! I wonder in the years to come Will history record them With pride, for having turned the tide In rolling back the Huns, There in Chateau-Thierry Where the saviored French now laud them, Guarding the Paris Highway With their barricade of guns! Fearless and redoubtable! Young and gay and heart-free ! Girded with the faith of France, Faces to the light, In their strength uniting — Glorious in their smiting — Viking and Crusader, And Troubadour and Knight I 84 April — Marching RED EASTER This is a spring that has no Easter day. Even the little children must be told That all the beauty of the world is sold, And in the grim gray ranks of War's array Christ's carols turn to knells of loud dismay. For women's tears, nor kingly power nor gold Can resurrect those forms the trenches hold. Ah children, murmur softly at your play, Lest your sweet mirth like poisoned darts be sped Swift to the widowed mother-hearts, reviled Twice over as they clasp their still-born dead. Pray, children, for the world's unreconciled. You are our only lilies undefiled. The others are incarnadined too red. 85 April — Marching LINEN MUSK When London lanes are thrumming With the quickening of spring, And London air is humming With the lilt of larks on wing, I see the hawkers coming And I hear the hawkers sing : "Linen musk! Linen musk!" Sweet as April air! "Linen musk! linen musk!" Clean and fresh and fair! Pungent scent of spices, Dreams of purple dusk! Down the pleached alleys Hawking linen musk! There is no time for dreaming On a carnaged battle-plain — Yet somehow, through the gleaming Of the batteries' red rain I see the home hills teeming With English spring again! And the hawkers cry: "Linen musk!" Sweet as April air. "Linen musk! linen musk!" Clean and fresh and fair! Pungent scent of spices, Dreams of purple dusk ! Through the fields of Flanders Trailing linen musk! 86 April — Marching RESIGNATION Last night the long, long dreaded message came, Cabled from France, while I was in your room, Smoothing your clothes ; fingering in the gloom Dear trophies of your boyhood : book and game, Trumpet and drum and tarnished picture-frame Holding your hero — Kitchener of Khartoum — Gone like yourself, martyr of battle-doom, On the long furlough, past the sunset's flame. And now some corner of a Flemish field Has wrapped you in its poppied sepulchre, Hiding with glowing beauty every scar. All Flanders is your grave. And you the yield I give with pride to the great Harvester, Bright as the sun- gold of your service-star. PALM SUNDAY IN THE TRENCHES Jesus, Jesus, Carpenter's Son, Which way has the battle run ? My head is hurt and I can not see. There's a curious smoke round this sycamore tree, 87 April — Marching Where I climbed as soon as the cannon ceased To watch you pass on your milk-white beast. There is no day of Palms for them. They never heard of Jerusalem. Jesus, Jesus, Master! Friend! Are you coming soon to heal and mend ? The long white road is thickly lined. There never were so many maimed and blind Waiting to watch you pass, like me Proud of your King's identity. Friend and foe on the grim divide — So many times are you crucified. Jesus, Jesus, Nazarite! Touch your thumbs to my dimming sight! Quick ! your arms ! Enfold me now ! I am f ailing from the sycamore bough. Day of Palms! and roadside strewn With sheaf-like bodies beneath the noon! I'm glad — my mother — told me of you, Jesus of Nazareth, Comrade true! 88 April — Marching BEN ARAD A guard of troopers rode at dawn of day Out through the open portals of Life's flame. And gay Ben Arad led them on their way To win their crown of joy through wealth and fame. By dint of savageness that courted strife Smouldering deep within each Arab heart, They won in time the glint they thought was life, Only to find that joy was not a part. At last they journeyed homeward, bent and old, With spirits broken and with hearts demure. But old Ben Arad, so the story's told, Went forth again, alone, to feed the poor. And give and serve, unquestioning the cost, Finding thereby the joy the others lost. ROYALTY Silver and gold have I none. Station nor kin nor fame. All I possess are the Sun, Beauty and Song and Flame. Over my head the Stars, Under my feet the Sod! Yet am I richer than Czars And free as a God ! 89 April — Marching THE CITY Yesterday even I hated your power, And cowered in fright from your lust. I prayed that your pinnacled towers might totter And crumble your buildings to dust. I turned from the din of your garrulous pavements O'er-teeming with traffic and drays, And thought of you only as sullen and sordid, And seething in human affrays. Then somewhere I found myself shrouded in stillness Remote from the hubbub of life, Where flowers and forests and bird-notes and breezes Afforded reprieve from your strife. I walked on a carpet of mosses and lichens. I lifted my eyes to the sky. But my soul was not sated with beauty or silence. I wanted my brethren by. The heart of me yearned for your passionate breathing, O City of dizzying height! For your cruel demanding, unpitying cry That resounds in the deep of the night. strange and alluring, ineffable spirit ! My dominant pride is o'erthrown. 1 had rather be slaved with your publican million Than enter Christ's kingdom — alone. 90 April — Marching PHARISEE All the fashion thoroughfares Are glittered with your show. Break a path — You Publicans! For their gilded file. Ermine-trimmed, immaculate, With artificial glow Crimsoning their cruel lips Curved in mocking smile. Pharisee! O Pharisee! are you not afraid For the unwashed ragged soul under your brocade? Lily hands that never work! Eyes that never cry! Bod'es strong and beautiful As the Greeks of old ! Every day Beelzebub reviews you Passing by. While the puny underlings Die to coin you gold. Pharisee! O Pharisee! at the final knell What can save your silly soul from the blast of hell? Vindicate your selfishness. Within these ample states 91 April — Marching Have you gleaned your yellow hoard Honestly and fair? Have you paid for servitude Decent living rates? Or let your toilers rot and starve For want of Christian care. Pharisee! O Pharisee! guard against the tolls You will be held answerable for in murdered souls. Though your shallow hearts be free From conscious lust and greed. Though you never waste your time In low debauchering, Yet the while you worship God With Euphuistic creed, What about His children On your highways, hungering? Pharisee! O Pharisee! jewels, silk and lace Pass through mangled bleeding hands ere they lend you grace! All your tinsled ornaments And all your filigree, All your idle vaunting Of a vermin-eaten power Cost the world a billion souls In woe and harlotry. O Pharisee! but you shall pay The price — in Judgment-Hour! 92 April — Marching MAGDALENE She'd never known the larks' call Trilling through the dawning, Or plucked the nodding poppy buds Crimsoning the wheat. She'd never learned the simplest prayer, Or heard the mildest warning Of tempest-strong temptations She would some day have to meet. She who dreamed of better things Saw her railers offer Jagged stones for leavened bread, Vinegar for wine. Society, the arrogant, the merciless, The proper, Smothered in her stunted soul All hint of the Divine. To pay in pain her sin's price She bowed beneath the goading Of dreary prison servitude, Branding deep as fire ! She, the luckless hungerer, So careless to foreboding, Alive to every tingling pulse Of passionate desire. 93 April — Marching And now her sister Magdalenes Are calling to her — calling Softlier and kindlier Than all the saints of God, Heedless of the gray dawn, Singing, laughing, brawling, Down the leery lane of lies The Pharisees have trod. CELIA She knew the music of the spheres. She knew the whisper of the trees. And in her sleep at times her soul Voiced saddest threnodies To spring and sylvan song and lute, And love, sown over-late for fruit. It may be I should not have heard Her blessed sleep confessionals. It may be I should not have shared With her the stars' recessionals. Yet through their light I've found in prayer Her sacrificial altars there ! 94 April — Marching SLIVERS Hippodrome Clown Crowned with a name that only he Of all his kind could bear with grace, Unspoiled by cheap publicity That conned his name from place to place, He played the clumsy fool, and hid So well beneath his painted smile A heart that all the Fates had chid, The world looked on and laughed the while. Laughed till his mimic days were done, Till swift and tragically late, It recognized in Thalia's son The elements that made him great. But now — for this is life — his worth That reached the depths of those who see Will loud be sung about the earth In immemorial threnody. A child of freedom-loving ways, A youth who could not offer less Than perfect balance all his days Of truth and human tenderness. A prince of clowns ! whose memory wakes So many dreams of fun again That through our tears the laughter breaks Like summer sunshine through the rain. 95 April — Marching IN MEMORIAM Her spirit lives and moves among us still, Bringing to each who claimed her once as friend The comfort now of knowing her short life Was such a glorious means to a great end. We can not count her length of life by years. Her days are measured by the lasting good Which silently but surely she performed In deeds reflecting noble womanhood. A sudden gust may smite a half-blown rose And strew its petals on the garden bed. The fragrance stays. With every gentle breeze We quaff its perfume though the rose is dead. So we, her friends, whom she has left behind, Still feel her living presence ever near — A scented zephyr from the aisles of time To sweep our gardened memories with cheer. TO CHARLES FROHMAN Your work is done. And yet across the space The sighing sea-waves seem to lisp your name Softly with awe, as conscious of your fame, They feared to stir the vengers of your race. For you were doomed by treacherous disgrace That sent the breach through Lusitanids frame To die, before a single warning came — You who were born to meet death face to face ! 96 April — Marching Yet, now, for all death's issues, you are ours ! The stage, more plastic, lies within your reach, Purged by your truth, and tempered by your powers The players pass before the waiting throng Sustained as if your lips had still the speech To tune their effort into endless song. LINCOLN He came when statesmen had forgot How common was the human lot, And just, equality — and hot Grim war and hate; Or what made law divine and what Made nations great! Like one who, purged of sham and fears, Still fronts the sun, though anguished years Are darkening in a vale of tears His span of life, For all that Freedom pioneers He stemmed the strife. So strong ! so meek ! through all the lanes Of garnered life his memory reigns Sweet as a psalm. And naught remains But what empowers Truth's deep unutterable gains Which he made ours. 97 April — Marching DOG-PAL You can't have gone so very far. It seems you must be hidin'. Maybe you've chased a shootin' star Or bayed the moon's deridin'. You crazy little wild hound-pup ! All night I've been hallooin' And whistlin' for you ! There's your cup, And oatmeal gruel stewin', — Your collar hangin' from the shelf All scratched from furious itchin', So sated with your doggish self, It's smellin' up the kitchen! And over by the pantry door — Your shredded crimson pillow, White pokin' through the holes you tore The day I used the willow. It can't be you have gone for good! It seems you must be playin' Some naughty trick of puppyhood On me for my dismayin'. A half-chewed shoe, a stolen chop, A new-uprooted garden, A murdered cat or scratched-up crop Are acts I well might pardon. 98 April — Marching But never comin' home again Through game- and fishin' season, Trailin' the hills in sun or rain, Is nothin' short of treason! It's sheer ungratefulness! It's sin That sets my heart to achin' With missin' of you barkin' in, Your long, straight tail-piece shakin'. With missin' of you rushin' on, Ears forward bent, eyes gleamin' — Just you and me, at gypsy dawn, With the red sunrise streamin' ! Sure you can't have gone so far! It seems you must be hidin' ! Maybe you've chased a shootin' star Or bayed the moon's deridin'. But O Dog-Pal, where'er you are, My love, my love's abidin'! 99 April — Marching A BIRDCAGE COMEDY I heard you singing in your tarnished cage For the song's sake, not the pittance wage That mortals sing for. You had naught to gain Cooped in your narrow prison. Yet you trilled Sweet as a skylark till your rapture rilled The tawdry store behind the window-pane. Listening, I wondered if your lyric soul Dreamed, if indeed birds can, of sunny hours And joyous winging among tropic flowers Where carking capture never pierced its dole. Perhaps beyond the bondage of your wires You joined your warble to the lilting choirs Of happier birds, perched on some tangled branch Of forest-jungle, confident and free, Waking the treetops with mad minstrelsy. At least, as glad as theirs your avalanche Of merry carols fell. Who watched you hop From perch to perch in caged imprisonment Seemed feign to look upon your strange content As but a comic trifle of the shop. IOO April — Marching MOTHER O' MINE Yours is the face that always smiled With virgin sweetness through its tears, And silvered like a halo light The wake of all my childhood's years, Mother o' mine. Yours is the heart where warmth so burned With passion's holy love of truth, That once to feel its beating served To temper all my wayward youth, Mother o' mine. Yours is the soul — ah purging grace! That sweetens still my days with good, Till even in my dreams I link God with your sacred motherhood, Mother o' mine! TRIBUTE TO THE SPIRIT OF MOTHER- HOOD O Mother, through your spirit's dear returning You keep us now as pure as in that spring When from your sacred lips we took the learning That changed our seed-time to first blossoming. IOI April — Marching O Mother, in your spirit's purging fire Our souls as tempered are as in that June When toward the distant goals of our desire You sent us forth to keep the world in tune. Oh, through the wealth of your full harvest's reaping Our joy so deepens that when day unfurls Her crimson dawn, and wakes the east from sleeping, Our eyes can smile and change their tears to pearls. Mother, we feel you watch your children weaving Out of your strands of life a mesh of gold, Weaving the memories, that past all believing, Brighten the meaning of your days untold. The world grows calm. Through your soul's dear returning The woodnotes throb more softly in the night. The red rose burgeons with a deeper burning And birdlings gentlier fold their distant flight. Eternal Mother! ever, ever gazing On us, your children, from your quiet rest, Your radiant smile has set the pathway blazing That leads the Pilgrim toward the purple west. I02 April — Marching "TRAUMEREI" A cello's carol calls me in the dark. I'm back at Gallironti's where we dined, Keen for a gypsy-free Bohemian lark, Where all the tables should be richly wined. I see around me faces deeply lined — Crude painted faces; lazy opiate eyes, And hear their empty mocking mirth that lies! Above the clinking glasses and the din Of screeching ragtime, haunting, floats the tune Of tender "Traumerei" — played by a thin, Half-crazy, famished minstrel of the moon. A hint of heaven! forgotten all too soon. Your eyes seek mine, and through a silvering mist Opens your soul and call my own to tryst. And now those same notes reach me in the dark! I'm back at Gallironti's where we dined, Keen for a gypsy-free Bohemian lark, Where all the tables should be richly wined. Yet not of these does "Traumerei" remind. Dear Love, I only see your seeking eyes That hold my own in fields of Paradise ! April — Marching SOFT IN THE APRIL DUSK Soft in the April dusk, Fragrant and fair, Lilies and lilac-musk Scenting the air, Comes the dear face of her, Crowning lost dreams. Ah ! but the grace of her Quickens, it seems, Swifter than April hours. Sun-kissed with light, Surer than silver showers Misting the night, All the dear garden flowers — Once, our delight ! Glad-souled the eyes of her Challenge my fears. Rich-toned the voice of her Comforts and cheers. Rose-soft the lips of her Kiss back my tears. Thus through my visioning, Tender and sweet, Comes she: — a bird on wing — Sudden and fleet, Making my winnowing years more complete. 104 April — Marching HERO WORSHIP I question neither "where" nor "why": I only know He's gone, Swift as a rainbow from the sky Where God's glory shone. And now I'll take the trail He lit Where silver sunsets gleamed, Wiser for having loved a bit, Gladder for having dreamed. What if I never glanced His sight, Or heard His footfall's stir? Must one be born a Canaanite To be a worshipper? 105 April — Marching ORTHODOXY They told me I should seek the grail At the white surpliced chancel-rail, Kneeling in prayer, with thought intent Upon the blessed sacrament. So orthodox were they — and I, A child whose freedom touched the sky! Swift to the desert then I turned And sought God where the white sands burned. I found Him comrade-like and wise. I found the Grail-Cup in His eyes, And drank deep of its wine. "All roads lead to Palestine" God said. "But neither You nor They Can make the journey in a day." 106 April — Marching IDENTITY I can not wear a humble mien Or walk a humble mile, Who know the ways of things unseen And court the red dawn's smile. My soul is sister to the sky. My heart — to earth and sea. A thousand years may tiptoe by And leave no mark on me, Who hold a lease on loveliness, A kinship with the stars, And cloak my dreams in royal dress When Sleep lets down the bars. 107 April — Marching YOUTH'S REQUIEM What a comrade Youth has been All the blossomy way. Now I call my frail dreams in From their maiden play. Dreams of life that woven are On a flaming loom, Threaded to a silver star, Warp and woof a'bloom. Youth so joyous! Youth so fleet! Age shall never know How I'll hold your passion, Sweet, Down the years that blow. PHILOSOPHY In spite of sin, in spite of scars, In spite of all my past may hold, I'll thread my future to the stars And weave a cloak of gold. For Love and Law have fashioned this — That out of sorrow Peace shall spring, And souls that burst their chrysalis Shall fly on gorgeous wing. 108 April — Marching GLADNESS Gladness is — what? Singing of spring with birds on the wing ? Perish the thought! The day may be dark With the sun at its noon. And birds may sing only regret In their tune. What of the sunshine? What of the flower? What of time ? What of space In the blank of one hour ? Unless in this chaos Of living and learning Comes Love with his magic And measureless yearning! Fills the lark with his trill ! Tints the rose with his blush ! Brings to life what lay still Just before in Death's hush! Ah — Gladness is that! 109 April — Marching CHALLENGE Challenge I fling to the morning. Challenge I fling to the noon. Challenge I fling to the night wind When the day wanes soon. Life, I will fight to the finish. Broken, I'll still defy. And drain my cup to the bitter dregs With a laugh when it's time to die. But lest you brand me a coward Because if I dared to pause For a thought of the joy that might have been Or a dream of the faith that was, I might lose my grip like a puppet And drivel in sore disgrace, Life, I hurl down the gauntlet And battle you face to face! Though there's little to gain by living, And nothing to lose by death, The world shall not dub me "quitter" As long as my soul draws breath. For the moment my senses stagger I'll summon with bugle-blare The ghosts of the world's great women To quicken me — fire and prayer! no April — Marching Brunhild and Maria Theresa, Alcestis, Pompilia, Ruth, Jeanne d'Arc, Boadicea and Vashti, St. Agnes — Patron of Truth ! And they, if my spirit waver, Will metal my courage, Life, For the test of the thickest tumult That ever was born of strife. So up ! and to arms ! and meet me ! Nor think you can claim your due Because you have flayed and scarred me, And broken my heart in two. Undaunted, I fling you my challenge To ring to the ends of earth. Life, I was born to conquer! And Death shall but prove my Birth! Hi April — Marching A THANKSGIVING PRAYER From rosy dawn till dusk when purple twilight Brought to each Pilgrim heart a deep sweet peace, Wafted the murmuring strain of prayer and praises Whose vibrant harmony can never cease. Men with strong hearts! women with souls of virtue ! Only a small, small band, but true and tried ! Mindful to thank their Maker for the triumph That made men's souls through Freedom sanctified. God of our Fathers, from the mad confusion And din and roar of life let men's minds stray To bless this Pilgrim heritage of freedom That makes each soul a citadel today. Grant that our prayer may waft its strain of praises High, high to heaven, till every vibrant chord, Grown faint at last, down from the heights may echo A nation's "alleluia" unto God. 112 April — Marching PRAYER FOR COURAGE When loneliness shall fill my cup, God, keep me unafraid To hold my proud head — smiling — up, And march as on parade! SEA WAVES In June I heard the sea waves call Across an ebbing tide, More desolate than wind or storm, And more unsatisfied. Yet oh I loved their hungry song, For to the heart of me They sang of golden summer dreams Long drifted out to sea. SONG OF A COUNTRY LANE My heart feels only pity And my soul feels pain For folk in the city When it's spring again, Where it's brick for a feather, And wall for a tree, And stone for a heather And moth for a bee. "3 April — Marching A city shares no glory With field and brook, Or fathoms the old story Of the Holy Book From wide white spaces Or blue gold hills, Or young lambs' faces Or April squills. And that is why I pity, When spring shuts down, The folk in the city And folk in the town Who never searched a rafter For a phoebe's nest, Or laughed spring's laughter, Or shared spring's zest. For a city men can fashion With their hands and brain Of steel, stone and passion And sweat and pain — But meadow, field and prairie And hill and lea God made with aid of fairy For such as me. 114 April — Marching THE SONG SPARROW The song sparrow's come to my orchard again. Dear little Quaker-Coat, simple and cheery! And caroled his prelude to spring in the rain, Banishing doubt from my heart winter-weary. The March dirges howl round his icicled perch. Sleet crackles down in a shivering sally. But only of larches he sings, and of birch Burgeoning green with the bloom in the valley. Of murmuring whisper astir in the leaves, Dew in the dawn on the hills pearly-heathered, And sedges and hollyhocks bent to the breeze, Swaying to troubadours gaudier feathered. Dear little Song Sparrow, humble and true! Championing happiness, vanquishing sorrow, Could I but pattern my faith after you, Glad would I welcome the gift of tomorrow ! Sweet/ sweet! sweet!! Life is very fair. Sweet! sweet! sweet!! Love is everywhere ! "5 April — Marching JONQUILS A jug of jonquils sweet On a tenement sill in spring Far down on Hester street. A jug of jonquils sweet! But oh what a tender treat ! How their yellow trumpets sing To those who pause on their beat Glad-eyed and wondering ! BLUEBIRD Bluebird, bluebird, in the spring, Set my heart to caroling As I watch your beauty gleam Over meadow-land and stream. Teach me how to quell despair, O thou Turquoise of the Air, How to keep my dust-fringed eyes Clear, to see the starry skies. Never other bird for me Sings with such sweet ecstasy. Never other bird but you Turns my grayness swift to blue. All the winter long I yearn For your flashing glad return, To ease my soul of hungering, Bluebird, bluebird, in the spring. 116 April — Marching TO A BIRD IN FLANDERS When Flemish fields were white with spring, I heard a birdnote sound A clarion to the slumbering Beneath God's battleground. It winnowed through the April leaves. It tuned the countryside. It trembled through the bluebell sheaves Like music on a tide. It sang of Flemish pastorals From dear dead days of old — Of lowing cattle in their stalls And sheep within their fold, Of shepherds on the high hilltops And plowboys in the lea, And sunshine quickening the crops From valley to the sea. And not one note of martial stress Or caroled hint of wrong! Only a glad forgetfulness Of everything but song! Across that Flemish field it poured, And as I caught its strain, I felt my spirit sheathe its sword And faith come back again! 117 April — Marching THE TAVERN I built a tavern in my heart Of memory-woof and rafter, Where I could smoke a pipe of dreams, And drink a cup of laughter. And all along the broad highway, And low among the heather, I called my absent comrades back To break bread together. I built a tavern in my heart, And this — my only reason : To keep love's hearth-fire burning bright From season unto season. 118 April — Marching WANDERER'S SONG I still might be a stay-at-home With eyes that look behind, A grumpy, dumpy stay-at-home With worn-out rusty dreams If I had had like some lads A mother deaf and blind To lure of gypsy roamings where The Highway gleams. I still might be a stay-at-home If when the choosing came, ( I mark me yet the hearth-fire, How snug it was and bright!) My mother had not read my heart Youth-rent with dream and flame, And sent me battle-girded forth To feast and fight ! I still might be a stay-at-home But oh how better far To roam the gorgeous gypsy world With singing soul on wing, Hearing in stir of vine and bough, Breaker and wind and star, My mother's benison that crowns My journeying! 119 April — Marching THE FORK OF THE ROAD It's little we know what Fate decrees When two straight roads diverge, And each is a fair Hesperides That calls with a gypsy urge. We may come to the fork of a road in spring, Crowned by a cobalt sky, And choose the "right" for our journeying With never a question "why" — But it's little we know when the acorns fall Under the red oaks' flame, That if we had followed the "left" road's call, Life would have been the same. 1 20 April — Matching WOODS IN MARCH At Ponkapoag a budding birch Flashed scarlet through the snow. At Houghton's Pond, on icy perch Two robins twittered low. And out upon the Blue Hill Road, In spite of wind and sleet, A little hint of April glowed From unexplored retreat! At Ponkapoag my heart took flame. At Houghton's Pond it woke. But when to Blue Hill Road I came It leaped to song — and broke Into a myriad notes that swirled Like fairy folk on wing, To tell the sleeping winter world That I had found the spring! 121 April — Marking A CYCLE OF SEASONS January — The year's birth or the soul's, Whiche'er it be, New pathways trail their glory To the sea. New days dawn brighter And new hopes hold store Of love and laughter And an open door! February — February, though we blame You for being too severe Sometimes with us, just the same, You have given us Leap-Year, Good Saint Valentine's and fun, Lincoln, too, and Washington. March- No cloud so dark, but what behind Its lining silver hovers. No March so wild in storm or wind, But somewhere one discovers A clump of pussywillows shrined And Spring's first crocus lovers. 122 April — Marching April- Lute notes of April ! Lark and daffodil! Shadow and silence Over violet hill ! Leafing of branches, Flowering of vine ! April is God's month. That's why Love's divine. May- May, you appear like a bride of delight, Clothed in your loveliness, shimmering, bright. Hair the sun's glory, and eyes the sky's blue, Slippers the tinseled pale silver of dew, Veil the cloud patches, and dress the soft glow Of apple- and cherry- and pear- and peach- blow. I wonder how Nature can give you away, Beautiful, blossoming, wonderful May! June — I'd like to fill a rose-jar With red June roses, And ship them on a silver spar Upon a dream away, To bear the summer's passion In magic fairy fashion To where the lonely-hearted are From Cairo to Cathay. "3 April — Marching July — Elderberry ! huckleberry ! blueberry vine ! Wild currants on a bush, red as wine! Honied hills of clover! waving fields of rye! Who wouldn't be a rover — in July! August — A blackbird trills from a boxwood spray. A locust drones in the green. And a merry little cricket, Hidden in the hay, Strums on his tambourine. They say that in August the "dog days" come, But there's never a plague of dogs. Oh it's heigh-diddle-diddle To the insects' fiddle For the bees and the beetles and the frogs ! September- A pocketful of memories! A bagful of song! A russet road's a glad road To trail along, With the hum of the grain sheaves Bent to the breeze, And the crisp sharp crackle Of feet in the leaves. The snack of the fire In days frost-cool, And the shout of the children 124 April — Matching Going back to school — A russet road's a glad road But only he Can listen to its symphony Who travels — free! October — Harvest Moon, what do you spy? Grain fields gleaned, and bins stack high. Harvest Moon, what do you know ? The sower's joy in things that grow. Harvest Moon, what do you ween Is the richest harvest you have seen? Golden deeds sown wise in youth, Grown in age to the fruitage truth. November — November ! and a white ground With tracks in the braken! Musk ox and beaver ! Caribou and hare! Love's song of living, The glory of Thanksgiving, And the strapping and the trapping Of the game in its lair! The frost in the crepuscule From white stars shaken! November! — and a white ground With snow in the air! 125 April — Marching December — Swift the year's winging! Holly and fir, And star in the east for the worshipper! Garner its measure: Gladness and sorrow, Travail and treasure, Now ere tomorrow ! Swift the year's winging! Joy be its leaven ! Take the road — singing. God's in His heaven ! PRAIRIES Prairies, that our love may last, Let me wander forth awhile, To the city's multitude Of towered Babels, mile on mile. Back to palaces of steel Where all day long men ply their trade, Back to canyoned avenues Where pomp and poverty parade. Prairies, that our love may last, Let me wander forth awhile To feast or hunger with the crowds, Ere I forget to smile. 126 April — McWchmg QUATRAIN He lives most wisely who can truly say, When toil is ended, and the day is done, That one kind thought or deed throughout the day Has moved his dark world nearer to the sun. BRIDGES He stood and watched from the bridge of love, Pleading, sad, As I crossed over the bridge of fame, Hopeful, glad. And I thought: "I will drink to its very lees This cup of life that my selfhood sees, Ere I lose my power to win and please. Mere love can wait till tomorrow!" # * * I drank the chaff that men call "success." Prouder then I turned my steps from the land of Self Home again. And I thought: "I'll be glad now of Love's dear care. I'll rejoice at the sight of him, waiting there." But oh! when I looked, the bridge was bare — And love had died of his sorrow. 127 April — Marching THIRD AVENUE Third Avenue is overrun With human trafficking and drays, And where the sun slants overhead The trestles intercept its rays.. Yet from the sidewalks grim and gray The Hebrew children laugh and sing, Dotting the dreary stretch of miles Like lilies in the fields of spring. And sometimes here and sometimes there, Pursuing phantoms in the street, They scatter, as 'twere morning mist, The misery of them they meet. THE CALL OF THE ROAD Give me one fleeting glimpse of country road With spiral swerve And moonlit silhouette of fir and pine On crusted curve! Give me the sheen of snow-clad hill, The tinkling sleighbells' silver trill, And I'll forget the shriek and shrill Of crowded city's roar. 128 April — Marching Give me one fleeting glimpse of country road With morning dew Beading the tansy and the mignonette With pearly hue. Give me the chirping cricket-call, The goldenrod along the wall, And I'll return — whate'er befall — To paradise once more! WAX WINGS Out where the sky and the snow-capped hills Meet in a line of blue, There startled a vision of silver sheen That shrouded the peaks and all between In a mist of pale gray hue. I watched and nearer, nearer came, Like phantom-flashing ghosts, The wax-wings in a murmuring wave, So musical and unafraid I blessed their whirring hosts. 129 1111 r ii - 4 S