'^1 
 
CopigMI?-l9gO 
 
 COFXRIGKT DEPOSm 
 
A CANTICLE OF PAN 
 
 And Other Poems 
 

 
 
 
 BOOKS BY WITTER BYNNER 
 
 YOUNG HARVARD 
 
 TIGER 
 
 THE LITTLE KING 
 
 THE NEW WORLD 
 
 IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS 
 
 (an English version) 
 
 SPECTRA 
 
 (with Arthur Davison Ficke) 
 
 GRENSTONE POEMS 
 THE BELOVED STRANGER 
 A CANTICLE OF PRAISE 
 
 In Preparation 
 
 A CHINESE ANTHOLOGY 
 
 (with S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu) 
 
 
 
 
 
A CANTICLE OF PAN 
 
 And Other Poems 
 
 By 
 WITTER BTNNER 
 
 New York 
 ALFRED • A • KNOPF 
 
 1920 
 
COPYEIGHT, 1920, BY 
 ALFEED A. KNOPF, Inc. 
 
 
 'iK',fi 
 
 ^ 
 
 m 20 1920 
 
 PBrNTED IN THE TTNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 
 ©''iA570055 
 
To 
 THE HOUSEHOLD ON THE HILL 
 
 Edna Garnett Porter Garnett Elvira Foote 
 
Acknowledgment 
 
 At Berkeley, California, on the eleventh of 
 November, 191 8, I was asked for a poem with 
 which the ending of the war might be celebrated 
 in the Greek Theatre. From that request, and 
 from the opportunity offered by an outdoor stage 
 and by the assurance of a vast audience moved 
 and ardent with the occasion, sprang the form 
 which I have called a " canticle." 
 
 On December fourth The Canticle of Praise 
 had its first presentation, before eight thousand 
 people. Sam Hume and I took the parts of the 
 two cantors ; and between us stood four students, 
 two of them soldiers, two of them sailors, with 
 drums and cymbals, with fife and trumpet and 
 bugle. In the hymns, led by Arthur Farwell, we 
 had not feared unresponsiveness, for we knew 
 of Percy Mackaye's Successes with spontaneous 
 choral music. We were hopeful also that a huge 
 audience might be as ready to participate in lines 
 of the verse as smaller audiences have been with 
 responses to the poetic exhortation of Vachel 
 Lindsay. And our suspense wholly ended when 
 the first echo came back to us — "Liege! " 
 — vit — 
 
To Porter Garnett I am. much indebted for his 
 watchful and able criticism of The Canticle of 
 Praise as a poem for large audiences and to Sam 
 Hume for encouraging and producing it and giv- 
 ing it the power of his voice and presence. 
 
 The Canticle of Pan was delivered in June, 
 19 19, as the Phi Beta Kappa poem at the Univer- 
 sity of California. And, finally. The Canticle of 
 Bacchus was performed under the star-tipped nave 
 of a grove of redwoods. 
 
 S. C. Kiang, Kang-Hu, poet and scholar, has 
 approved the essential accuracy of my English 
 versions of several anonymous " Old Chinese 
 Songs " from the Confucian Book of Poetry, dat- 
 ing, some of them, from a thousand years before 
 Christ; and I owe to his friendliness at Berkeley 
 my discovery of the native beauty of these and 
 other Chinese masterpieces. 
 
 John Henry Nash of San Francisco has printed 
 a very beautiful private edition of The Canticle 
 of Praise; and an incorporated translation of 
 Emile Cammaerts' poem V Amour de la Patrie, 
 had appeared in The Metropolitan Magazine; 
 but this is the first public printing of the Canticle 
 entire. Part of The Canticle of Pan has been 
 printed in McCalVs Magazine, the editor of which 
 kindly permits reproduction of the drawing by 
 Charles S. Chapman. The Canticle of Bacchus 
 — viii — 
 
was published recently In The Harvard Advocate. 
 Others of the poems have appeared in The 
 Nation, The New Republic, Poetry, Reedy's 
 Mirror, The Forum, The Bellman, McClure's 
 Magazine, The Bookman, Contemporary Verse, 
 The Smart Set, The Boston Transcript, The New 
 York Tribune, The New York Times, The Met- 
 ropolitan Magazine, The Occident, The Little Re- 
 view, The Midland, Harper's Weekly, The Dial, 
 Asia, The Touchstone, Youth, The Modern 
 School, McCalVs Magazine, The Trend, The 
 Quill, The Ploughshare and The London Nation. 
 
 Witter Bynner. 
 
 New York, February 20, 1920. 
 
 -tx- 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Acknowledgment vii 
 
 Prologue i 
 
 Youth Sings to the Sea 3 
 
 A Canticle of Pan 7 
 
 The Wild Star 17 
 
 The Cardinal's Garden 18 
 
 The Two Sentinels 23 
 
 A Canticle of Bacchus 24 
 
 Vintage 34 
 
 Point Bonita 35 
 
 Look in the Water 40 
 
 Romance 42 
 
 Property 44 
 
 Vagrant 46 
 
 Gipsying 47 
 
 Fire-Music 48 
 
 Sweet Chariot 49 
 
 Chieftains 50 
 
 From Sea 52 
 
 Master of Moons, 53 
 
 In Havana 54 
 
 Haskell 55 
 
 Pittsburgh 57 
 
 — xl— 
 
The Patricians 58 
 
 The Two Thieves 6b 
 
 The Tree 61 
 
 A Dead One 62 
 
 A Fortune-Teller 65 
 
 The Man with the Testament 67 
 
 The End of the Road 70 
 
 A Song in the Grass 73 
 
 A Red-Wing 74 
 
 Meadow-Shoes 75 
 
 Grass-Tops 76 
 
 The Sandpiper 77 
 
 The Enchanted Toad 78 
 
 The Enchanted Swans 79 
 
 The Swimmer 80 
 
 Carvings of Cathay 81 
 
 Through a Gateway in Japan 83 
 
 Japanese Notes 84 
 
 In the House of Lafcadio Hearn 
 
 In the Yoshiwara 
 
 In a Temple 
 
 In A Theatre 
 
 In a Poem 
 
 In A Painting 
 In Kamakura 86 
 
 The Neighbors Help Him Build His House 87 
 Chinese Notes 89 
 
 In Manchuria 
 
 In Peking 
 
 The Ming Tombs 
 
 In Shantung 
 
 — xii — 
 
Chinese Drawings 91 
 
 A Father 
 
 A Tea-Girl 
 
 A Wanderer 
 
 A Lover 
 
 A Vendor of Rose-Bushes 
 
 A Painter 
 
 A Lady 
 
 A Scholar 
 
 A Philosopher 
 
 A Horseman 
 The Chinese Horseman 94 
 Tiles 96 
 
 The Pure-Hearted Girl (From the Chinese) 97 
 Colloquy (From the Chinese) 99 
 Home (From the Chinese) 100 
 The Two Rivers (From the Chinese) 102 
 The Silk-Dealer (From the Chinese) 104 
 The Forsaken Wife (From the Chinese) 106 
 Change (From the Chinese) 107 
 Temple-Inscriptions 108 
 Night (From the Russian) 109 
 Russians (To Stephen Graham) hi 
 
 An Englishman 
 
 A Concertina-Player 
 
 A Prophet 
 
 A Drunkard 
 
 A Miserable Maiden 
 
 An Old Man 
 
 A Boy 
 
 A Girl 
 
 — xiii — 
 
A Revolutionary 
 
 A Communist 
 A MoujiK 
 Pan Sings 119 
 Robert Browning 120 
 A Portrait 122 
 
 You Told Me of Your Mother 123 
 To a Young Passer-By 126 
 The Desert (To David Greenhood) 127 
 You Told Me of an Eagle (To Worth Ryder) 128 
 At a California Homestead (To Jack Lyman) 129 
 On Leaving California (To Elvira Foote) 130 
 Away from California (To Edna Garnett) 132 
 Reminder (To Haniel Long) 133 
 A Dinner-Table (To Scudder Middleton) 134 
 The House of Music (To Fj^orence Blumen- 
 
 thal) 135 
 Voices (To Sara Teasdale) 136 
 Two Poets Reading Together (To Wilfrid 
 
 Wilson Gibson and Walter de la Mare) 137 
 To One Young as a Rose (To Rose O'Neill), 138 
 In a River-Town (To Edwin Arlington Robin- 
 son) 139 
 Till Spring (To Sarah Ernst Abbott) 140 
 In Memory of a Young Painter (To Warren 
 
 Rockwell), 141 
 Richard (To Richard Mansfield 2nd) 142 
 The Boxer (To Jack London) 143 
 Aloha Oe (To Queen Liliuokalani) 144 
 To Shepherds and Wise Men (In Memory of 
 
 Anna Howard Shaw) 145 
 Rain (To Celia Keays) 147 
 — xiv — 
 
Night (To Celia Keays) 148 
 
 An Ode to a Dancer (To Isadora Duncan) 149 
 
 Isadora (To Her Six Dancers) 151 
 
 Tolstoi 152 
 
 Saint-Gaudens 153 
 
 Whitman 154 
 
 Across the Ferry to Fort Lee 156 
 
 Alma Mater 160 
 
 Jane Addams 161 
 
 To Germany 162 
 
 Foam 163 
 
 Sands 164 
 
 News of a Soldier 165 
 
 The Wounds 166 
 
 Niagara-on-the-Lake 167 
 
 Kit Thurber — Unseen These Thirty Years 168 
 
 The Thunder-Bringer 171 
 
 The Light-Bringer 174 
 
 Republic to Republic 176 
 
 The Home-Land (From the French) 177 
 
 A Canticle of Praise 181 
 
 The Day 192 
 
 Jews of the World 193 
 
 Prepare! 194 
 
 Shantung 196 
 
 An American 198 
 
 Russia 199 
 
 To a President 201 
 
 Jehovah 202 
 
 The Resurrection of the Body 203 
 
 The True Pacifist 204 
 
 XV — 
 
The Mask 205 
 The Eclipse 206 
 Gardening 207 
 Epilogue 
 
 To A Volunteer 211 
 
 The Faun that Went to War 212 
 
 The Singing Faun 213 
 
 -XVI- 
 
Prologue 
 
Youth Sings to the Sea 
 
 Take it, O high wave, take it, O deep ! — «• 
 
 A song for the sky to catch and keep, 
 
 A song of the singing of many men 
 
 Who were born and dead and are born again; 
 
 While Youth to the trembling of his lyre 
 
 Sweeps his hand with a stroke of fire 
 
 And calls to the mountain, to the sea, 
 
 To make him the god that he shall be, 
 
 To make the beauty of his side 
 
 An inlet for a moonlit tide, 
 
 To petal his knee-bones with the gold 
 
 Of yellow lilies valleys hold. 
 
 To make his ankles winged things 
 
 Which out of the south the warm wind brings, 
 
 To make moon-columns of his thighs 
 
 And of his brow and breast sun-rise. 
 
 And to make of the sum of all of these 
 
 A human tree of mysteries. 
 
 An oracle of only truth 
 
 Moving in the leaves of Youth, 
 
 Answering striplings far away 
 
That he can still be young as they 
 Who are god-like when they fling 
 Off from their beauty everything, 
 So to be always young as he . . . 
 Hear it, take it, sing it, sea ! 
 
 —4— 
 
A Canticle of Pan 
 
A Canticle of Pan 
 
 (The two Cantors stand, one at either end of a 
 concave screen of trees) 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Come through a thousand years, and another thou- 
 sand years, 
 
 Come back through all the columns to the temple 
 of the sky 
 
 Where the sun was a god and the moon was a god 
 and stripling charioteers 
 
 Were led by the gods, by the sun and moon, to die. 
 
 Come through a thousand years, and another thou- 
 sand years. 
 
 Come through all the temples from here to Thes- 
 saly. 
 
 To the temple of the ocean, to the tossing of the 
 spears 
 
 Of sunlight and of moonlight by the sea — 
 
 Where a golden youth was singing, holding high 
 his lyre, 
 
 A Greek youth was singing, along his mortal way, 
 
 The challenge to beauty, the stealing of the fire, 
 
 —7— 
 
The paean of an athlete of the clay 
 
 To the wonder of his body unwounded by the 
 
 spears, 
 To the body purely born as spring is in a tree, 
 Born and surely dying as a wave disappears, 
 When the god of gods was beauty, by the sea. 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 Singing of the beautiful, singing of the strong — 
 
 And yet hear the sobbing hidden in the song ! 
 
 For the master of man is death. And beauty can- 
 not save 
 
 But changing, forsaking, turns from the grave . . . 
 
 Only the gods are deathless. And who and what 
 are they? 
 
 Are they wise above desire, are they calm beyond 
 dismay. 
 
 Are they certain in their circle of compassion and 
 high will. 
 
 Starry in the midnight, sunny in the noon ? 
 
 Pan (appearing) 
 
 They are hotter than the sun, they are colder than 
 
 the moon! 
 And I am Pan accusing, like the breezes of a hill. 
 They are jealous, they are angry, they are eaten 
 
 with desire, 
 Amorous of mortals, monstrous in their ease, 
 As terrible as ice and as anguishing as fire , . . 
 
 —8— 
 
On^e I went imploring them on my shaggy knees 
 To i^e more divine than hons, or eagles of the 
 
 air — 
 And what did the gods say, answering my 
 
 pyayer ! — 
 They laughed at my tail, they pulled my little 
 
 horns, 
 They ordered me back to my fellowship of goats, 
 They bade me raise a breed of sacred unicorns 
 To draw them in their chariots and comfortable 
 
 floats. 
 You think of them as tinctured by the azure of the 
 
 sky 
 So that all their vexings and their villainies dis- 
 perse . . . 
 The beasts are bad enough to judge men by — 
 But let me cry aloud : The gods are worse ! . . . 
 So I choose my young horses, my hoofs of the 
 
 hills, 
 My antelopes, my nightingales, my fins of the sea. 
 Among men, among gods, there are sinister wills 
 And no simple comrade for me — 
 O even the sea-nymphs and dryads and fauns 
 Are jealous conspirers and bickering shrews 
 And liars and lechers and sleep through the dawns 
 When I sweeten my pipes with the dews . . . 
 But the mountains are different — O mountainous 
 
 ways 
 
 —9—. 
 
Where the leap of a foot is a singing of praise! 
 And the ocean is different where waves never die 
 And the gust of a gull is a pulse of the sky — 
 Where all things are one thing and shout aloud in 
 
 me, 
 The mountain and the valley, the river and the 
 
 sea! 
 Hark the lion, hark the leopard, hark the elephant 
 
 and hark 
 The dove and the nightingale, the pelican, the 
 
 lark! 
 O my pipes pipe of everything, they hold an end- 
 less song — 
 Yet they never pipe far enough for all they pipe 
 
 so strong, 
 Never pipe contentment for all they pipe so long. 
 There are tears in their piping and no surcease of 
 
 the tears, 
 There are fears in their piping and no quieting of 
 
 fears. 
 There is laughter in my piping — but behind the 
 
 laugh an ache 
 For something I am calling and never can awake. 
 And I think I know what men mean who tell of 
 
 hearts that break. 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Why is he pausing now, straining with his eye 
 Across the multitudinous sky? 
 — 10 — 
 
Pan 
 
 One of my stars is moving out of line 
 
 And is larger than the others and has a longer 
 
 shine, 
 And under it three men travel with its ray . . . 
 Could yesterday be night? Can tonight be day? 
 
 (The People sing a Carol; the First Wise Man 
 enters) 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Pan, listen! — hear what they say! 
 
 The First Wise Man (passing across) 
 I heard a shepherd blow his horn — 
 In Bethlehem a child is born. 
 
 Pan 
 
 And what should be so strange in that, 
 A httle new Jehosophat ! 
 
 (The People sing a Carol; the Second Wise Man 
 enters) 
 
 The Second Wise Man (following the other) 
 I heard a herald blow his horn — 
 In Bethlehem a king is born. 
 
 Pan 
 
 A king is born in Bethlehem? 
 For what? The Jewish diadem? 
 Gulls are laughing in the foam, 
 For Jewish kings are born in Rome ! 
 — II — 
 
The Second Cantor 
 
 Conqueror of conquerings, 
 
 Counsellor of other kings, 
 
 Comes a king from Nazareth, 
 
 To conquer Rome — to conquer death I 
 
 Pan 
 
 Death is the conqueror which man 
 
 Cannot conquer, never can. 
 
 However hard Jehovah try 
 
 To help a man, a man must die . . . 
 
 The man he fashioned out of sod 
 
 As witness to a jealous god. 
 
 And the woman too from the man's side, 
 
 Lived a little while — and died. 
 
 And the older gods were laughing strong 
 
 To see Jehovah come along 
 
 Still magnificent but pale 
 
 From failing, as a god must fail, 
 
 To inspire his man with breath 
 
 Deep enough to conquer death. 
 
 (The People sing a Carol; the Third Wise Man 
 enters) 
 
 The Third Wise Man (following the others) 
 I heard an angel blow his horn — 
 In Bethlehem a god is born. 
 — 12 — 
 
Pan 
 
 That word goes through me as though rain 
 
 Arrowed my body with wild pain . . . 
 
 O once there was a prophecy 
 
 That one should come . . . if it be he — 
 
 Good-bye, my hills and valleys, good-bye, rippling 
 
 shore. 
 Good-bye, winged leaves ! Though I never loved 
 
 you more, 
 More than I love you now, woods in bloom. 
 Yet good-bye, earth, they are calling my doom. 
 Good-bye, holly, mistletoe, 
 Good-bye, laurel, I must go. 
 They are casting me down from my dance of the 
 
 spring 
 With a chant that Pan can never sing. 
 Sunset, moonrise, starry sky. 
 Ocean, lightning, rain, — good-bye I 
 (He runs away) 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 An ancient oracle foretold the death 
 That Pan must die : how his unearthly breath 
 And earthly should be gathered in one groan 
 And he and all the gods be overthrown 
 By a new god born in a little town, 
 A truer god than they, wearing a crown 
 Of light they never wore, and how a star 
 —13— 
 
Should make a pilgrimage, and how from far 
 Three wise and mighty men, coming to bring 
 Obeisance, should acclaim a child their king. 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Now you shall hear an anguish smite 
 The silence of this holy night. 
 Hark, and you shall hear a cry 
 Shake the hills — for Pan must die. 
 
 Pan (entering exalted) 
 
 No, no ! I am alive ! I need not die ! 
 
 I went to look at him, I pressed my eye 
 
 Close to a narrow crack beside his bed 
 
 And saw the starlight shining round his head, 
 
 And saw his little moving leg and his little moving 
 
 arm 
 And I forgot the oracle and no more harm 
 Was in the world for me at all, forever from that 
 
 minute, 
 Because I found a manger and a little baby in 
 
 it . . . 
 Everyone was sleeping. He was sleeping too. 
 But I lifted my pipes and softly I blew, 
 And a dove was on my shoulder and the lambs, I 
 
 felt them stand 
 Very close beside me. And then in his hand 
 I laid my sprig of mistletoe and my holly at his 
 
 feet, 
 
 —14— 
 
And I leaned and touched his lips, and O the touch 
 
 was sweet ! 
 I laughed. He laughed. No one else awoke 
 And only I, only Pan, heard him when he spoke. 
 He spoke not with his lips, nor wholly with his 
 
 eyes, 
 Nor to me, but within me — - and O but we were 
 
 wise. 
 Wiser than his mother dreamed or his father 
 
 knew, 
 And O but we were happy, Christ and I, we two ! 
 For he whispered to me : 
 
 " Some day, Pan, they shall understand, 
 Though they try to do without you now, that over 
 
 sea and land 
 You are piping, piping — wiser than a word, 
 Deeper than death, sweeter than a bird — 
 The music beauty almost heard 
 When long ago you tried to play 
 Joy to the gods and they laughed you away. 
 I laugh too — but I watch where you go 
 And, when I am older, I shall follow you, I know. 
 And dance on the paths with you and sing on the 
 
 hills 
 With thrushes and with nightingales, with larks 
 
 and whip-poor-wills . 
 For you have sung together earth and air and sea. 
 And the binding of the hearts of men shall be the 
 
 song for me. 
 
 —15— 
 
And the one is the other and the other is the one. 
 So pipe — ' with the music of your fervor and your 
 
 fun — 
 My laughter and my wonder, as you have always 
 
 done . . . 
 Then, note by note, those perfect notes that you 
 
 were dreaming of. 
 Till there is only peace, till there is only love" 
 
 ~i6- 
 
The Wild Star 
 
 There is a star whose bite is certain death 
 While the moon but makes you mad — 
 So run from stars till you are out of breath 
 On a spring night, my lad, 
 Or slip among the shadows of a pine 
 And hide face down from the sky 
 And never stir and never make a sign, 
 Till the wild star goes by. 
 
 —77. 
 
The CardinaPs Garden 
 
 Villa Alhani 
 
 Here In this place which I myself did plan 
 
 With poplars, oaks and fountains — and with 
 
 sculpture, 
 The rounded body of the soul of beauty — 
 Here In this garden, by my own command 
 I sit alone, under the freshening twilight. 
 
 Not to my eyes shall be made visible 
 Ever again morning or noon or twilight. 
 Not to my eyes which are my servants now 
 No longer, save as servants In the grave. 
 But to my forehead and my finger-tips 
 The days give touch of bud and opening 
 And of their bloom and of their hovering fall. 
 
 The morrow shall be born with sighs and rain. 
 But this Is peace, this twilight, this is pause 
 Between the sunny and the rainy day. 
 Pause for the elements and pause for me, 
 —i8— 
 
As though it were a silver brook that ran 
 Between the blinded day and blinded night, 
 Between the dust of life and the dust of death. 
 
 Why shall I sit here ? Why are colonnades 
 And Httle paths and pagan statuaries 
 More subtly dear to my unseeing eyes 
 Than all the beaded letters of the books 
 Or the coloring of any bended saint ? 
 Why do I hear the stealing feet of peace 
 Among these marbles more than anywhere, 
 Than even in that cell where I have been 
 True Christian and exemplar of the creed 
 To my own heart? There, not a cardinal 
 In a red pageantry of holiness 
 Before all comers, but a penitent 
 In humble nakedness before my God, 
 I found the potency of Jesus Christ. 
 And yet not there could peace be comforting 
 Like this. Sometimes I think that hell hath set 
 An outer court for me within my garden, 
 That it may mock me better in its own . . . 
 But, whether hell or old mortality, 
 This garden which I builded for my body 
 Is the one corner now wherein my soul 
 Finds rest and benediction in the twilight . . . 
 There in my cell, dreamt on the walls, arise 
 Those memories of craft and violence, 
 —ig— 
 
Of lust for carven images of beauty: 
 How in the night I sent my men to take 
 That obelisk which I had offered twice 
 Its value for and been refused — to bring 
 That obelisk and set it in my garden . . . 
 
 The Prince of Palestrina never dared, 
 Such has my might been, to recover it. 
 Still I can see him gaping at the trick 
 And wishing he might strangle me, the trick- 
 ster . . . 
 And though these useless eyes would make me 
 
 now 
 No quick report if that same obelisk 
 Should be abstracted on a newer night. 
 Yet how these fingers and this heart would know 1 
 
 Why do my tears fall, that I sit here blind 
 To oaks and poplars, fountains and my sculp- 
 tures. 
 Before my cypresses and Sabine Hills? 
 Have I not seen them all a thousand times? 
 Are they not vanity? Can eyes outsee 
 The soul? Life, to an honest cardinal. 
 Old and enfeebled, should but celebrate 
 The sacrifice of Jesus Christ who died. 
 Time should grow short for prayer and prepara- 
 tion. 
 
 — 20 — 
 
Why Is it, then, that life has seemed to pace 
 More than enough its corridor of vigil, 
 But not to know the endless path of beauty 
 Beyond the entrance and the mere beginning! 
 
 Pray for us sinners now and at the hour 
 
 Of death ! . . . And, even while thou prayest, I, 
 
 Who should incessantly be praying also, 
 
 I who am cardinal and might be pope, 
 
 Sit with my blind eyes full of pagan glory! ^ — 
 
 Sappho, Apollo and Antinous, 
 
 And Orpheus parting from Eurydice ! 
 
 First falls the breath before the drop of rain . . . 
 Before the rain shall follow, I have strength. 
 Praise God, still to support myself among 
 These marble temples, columns and museums, 
 These deities of beauty and of time. 
 Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee ! 
 The obelisk is here. It has not been 
 Retaken. Pray for us now and at the hour 
 Of death. And I shall enter at my door 
 And seek the chimney-piece and stand before" 
 My young Antinous from Tivoli 
 With lotus in his hair and hands, who once 
 Belonged to Hadrian. And I shall touch 
 Again the garment of Eurydice, 
 Wondering — when that final mortal touch 
 — 21 — 
 
Summons Eurydice, summons my soul, 
 And when she turns and enters and Is dark 
 If Christ shall follow her and sing to her. 
 
 -2Z- 
 
The Two Sentinels 
 
 (Under the ruins of Pompeii a barman has been 
 found at his post) 
 
 " Soldier, I hear that you, as well as I, 
 
 Were steadfast on a fateful day: 
 While blind and ashen faces hurried by, 
 ,You watched the flaming rivers of the sky 
 
 Enter Pompeii. 
 
 I wonder at you, Soldier. Tell me why 
 You stayed immovable and chose to die." 
 
 " I trembled, Barman, and I left my post. 
 
 'But Rome herself came suddenly to stand 
 Beside me in the panic of that host 
 
 And held me with her sure imperial hand." 
 
 " Rome, Soldier, Rome? Could even Rome defy 
 Flame's roaring mouth and quicken you to die? — 
 Well, you had Rome to look to. Likewise I 
 
 — To speed my city on her way — 
 Opened a wine, a wine that winked its eye, 
 And under that intolerable sky 
 
 Drank to Pompeii." 
 
 —23— 
 
A Canticle of Bacchus 
 
 (The First and Second Cantors stand at either 
 side of the stage. Bacchus enters, conceal- 
 ing with a vine-draped arm all of his face 
 below the eyes) 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Why hide your face with vines, lad? 
 
 Why stand mysterious ? 
 
 Show your face and tell us why 
 
 And what you want of us. 
 
 I wonder if I know you, lad. 
 
 I've seen your eyes before. 
 
 There's a glow in them as genial 
 
 As an opening door 
 
 With a yellow light behind it 
 
 And a handshake and a song 
 
 And a welcome to a fellowship 
 
 Where happy folk belong. 
 
 I wonder why your presence, 
 
 Half-hidden, seems to be 
 
 The reaching of the redwoods, 
 
The slipping of the sea 
 
 And the swaying of the heart of wine 
 
 Within the heart of me. 
 
 Lad, are you the merry god 
 
 Of vine-leaves? 
 
 Bacchus (showing his face) 
 
 I am he. 
 Though not so merry nowadays 
 As I dared to be 
 In the days of Alexander, 
 I am Bacchus, I am he 
 Whom young men choose, old wives chastise 
 And solemn men abhor, 
 Because the truth is in my eyes, 
 Because my mother bore 
 A light and easy soothsayer. 
 Natural and wild. 
 Fierce and happy as the sun. 
 When Bacchus was her child. 
 I stole the grapes from her other hand. 
 She pretended not to look, 
 And the heat of my fingers turned them to wine 
 And that was the milk I took, 
 Till I grew and flourished and became 
 The most beloved boy 
 Who ever danced among the leaves 
 Of elemental joy. 
 
 —25— 
 
And everybody laughed my name 
 
 And pulse was never quicker 
 
 Than when the unforbidden hills 
 
 Blessed the world with liquor 
 
 And everybody drank it 
 
 And everybody knew 
 
 Festival-hymns and holiday-tunes . . . 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Here are singers too ! — 
 
 " For he's a jolly good fellow — " 
 
 Sing to him — all of you ! 
 
 The Company (singing and concluding) 
 " For he's a jolly good fellow, 
 Which nobody can deny." 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 And how can a jolly good fellow 
 
 Bear to say good-bye? 
 
 O let me pledge you in a drink 
 
 Before I hide my face ! 
 
 The Second Cantor (refusing the proffered cup) 
 No, thank you. You have earned too well 
 Your measure of disgrace. 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 And who are you who will not drink? 
 —26— 
 
Silenus (entering eagerly) 
 By the gods, I'll take his cup ! 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 He's a tale-teUing teetotaller. 
 
 Silenus 
 
 A meddler and a pup ! 
 
 The Second Cantor (to Bacchus, indicating Sile- 
 nus) 
 Look well at him, if you wonder why 
 I spurn what you propose — 
 At the purple viney pattern 
 Of the veining of his nose I 
 He followed you and the dryads, 
 He dreamed a dream in his youth, 
 And his house has tumbled about him 
 In ashes — that's the truth ! 
 
 Silenus 
 
 What do I want of houses 
 
 While a cave holds off a storm? 
 
 And what do I want of a hearthstone 
 
 While there's wine to keep me warm? 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 You had a wife who pleaded, 
 
 With children at her knees ! 
 
 Silenus 
 
 My wife was like Xantippe, 
 —27— 
 
Who scolded Socrates 
 
 When he went the way of drinking men 
 
 With Alclblades — 
 
 When he went the way of thinking men 
 
 And dodged the homely pot, 
 
 As I have dodged the missiles 
 
 Of the whole confounded lot. 
 
 Sir, can you quote me wisdom 
 
 From men who never tipple 
 
 That has made a stir in the world like his? 
 
 No, sir — not a ripple ! — 
 
 So here's to poets, philosophers, 
 
 By all the seven seas, 
 
 Greek, Roman, Galhc, British, Dutch 
 
 And Persian and Chinese ! 
 
 Though it double me rheumatic — 
 
 Here's to Socrates ! 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 You it is, with disregard 
 Of measure and time and place. 
 Who have brought on both of us this day 
 Of exile and disgrace. 
 Yet, Silenus, you're forgiven. 
 For I'd rather live in a hut 
 Away from all my friends but you 
 Than have had you learn to shut 
 A virtuous mouth like a trap for birds 
 —28— 
 
And a fist like a purse for squeeze — 
 You've an open mouth and hand and heart, 
 And they have none of these. 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Are you meaning me ? 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 Yes, even you. 
 
 Too careful to be bold. 
 
 Before you take a step, you look, 
 
 Before you're young, you're old. 
 
 Before you think in your own terms, 
 
 You think in other people's 
 
 And stilt your life as orderly 
 
 As pulpits and as steeples. 
 
 What can the ocean mean to you, 
 
 Draining the shore. 
 
 And the wind that drinks the redwoods 
 
 And waves its arms for more. 
 
 And the dogs that romp in the flowers. 
 
 And the cats that sing in the alleys. 
 
 And the skylarks in the zenith, 
 
 And the waterfalls in the valleys? 
 
 In this happy, crooked, drunken world 
 
 How you can bid us go 
 
 As dry as dust and as straight as a corpse 
 
 To a graveyard, I don't know. 
 
 —29— 
 
The Second Cantor 
 
 Do the dogs and the cats and the skylarks 
 
 Need booze to make them gay? 
 
 Silenus 
 
 What about cats and catnip? 
 
 Bacchus 
 
 Men need more than they! . . . 
 
 the fruit of the tree of knowledge 
 Was a liquor on the tree — 
 
 And when they chose the apple, 
 Adam and Eve chose me ! 
 And the children of Jehovah, 
 As well as the children of Zeus, 
 Were the better for their knowledge 
 When the godhead turned them loose. 
 For there's nothing so sure as freedom 
 To make the heart rejoice. 
 The happiness of manhood. 
 The guerdon of life — is choice ! 
 And a road that is rough is smoother, 
 So be it the road you choose, 
 Than a smooth road chosen for you 
 Where what you win you lose . . . 
 
 1 am a godly companion, 
 A touchstone and a test. 
 
 And who chooses with the other gods 
 —30— 
 
Bacchus — chooses best. 
 
 For what is life itself but wine, 
 
 And what am I but life ? 
 
 And they who cut our kinship 
 
 Use a deadly knife. 
 
 And even he who, reckless, 
 
 Comes too close to a god 
 
 Is wiser than he who numbers his bones 
 
 To fertilize the sod . . . 
 
 Hear the truth from Bacchus — 
 
 My blood is spring in the veins. 
 
 And he who would deny the spring 
 
 Shall perish for his pains ... 
 
 Silenus 
 
 There's a place in the woods where wild apples 
 
 grow 
 And the feet of young Bacchus shall tread them. 
 And if venturers find us, they'll ask us when they 
 
 go 
 What nectar it is we have fed them. 
 We shall hew a rock-hollow and seal it with clay 
 And mark it with Bacchus's fillet — 
 Wild honey and attar of roses and hay 
 Shall sweeten our wine and distill it. 
 
 Bacchus (moving slowly away with Silenus) 
 There where the sun sets, winey in the mountains, 
 There where the moon uplifts her frosty cup. 
 
Bacchus shall come and free the merry fountains 
 
 And drink the winter down and the springtide up. 
 
 And a welcome shall well there for fortunate com- 
 panions, 
 
 From Silenus or from Bacchus, whichever you pre- 
 fer. 
 
 We shall crown you and lead you through the wild- 
 grape canyons 
 
 And comfort you with apples and laugh at the cur 
 
 Who would harry at your heels and snarl the 
 woods about you, 
 
 We shall hear him faintly barking beyond the 
 happy peaks. 
 
 Exile is sweet when fools are left without you 
 
 And the wild wine of wisdom is the color in your 
 cheeks. 
 
 You may learn there of nature, as Bacchus has 
 learned. 
 
 How hemlock is deadlier than grapes are to quaff, 
 
 Or if you never find us, or have left us and re- 
 turned. 
 
 You still shall hear us echoing the sound of your 
 laugh ... 
 
 So remember us and praise us, though the time be 
 
 long. 
 And sing a song of other days when Bacchus came 
 
 and went. 
 
 —32— 
 
And so the heart of Bacchus shall be happy in your 
 song 
 
 And the foot of Bacchus steal within your tent. 
 
 For you who once have known me never can for- 
 get me. 
 
 Your other friends are mortal, Bacchus is divine. 
 
 Now for a little while evil days beset me . . . 
 
 But sing me into exile " for auld lang syne " ! 
 
 The Company (singing, as Bacchus and Silenus 
 
 leave them) 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
 " And never brought to mind, 
 " Should auld acquaintance be forgot 
 " And the days of auld lang syne? " 
 
 (Even the Second Cantor joining, with a cup) 
 
 " For auld lang syne, my boys, 
 
 " For auld lang syne, 
 
 " We'll take a cup and drink it up, 
 
 "To the days of auld lang syne." 
 
 —33— 
 
Vintage 
 
 The vintage-feast in Vevey came 
 
 Ten years ago today, 
 Led by a lad clear as a flame, 
 Bacchus in garb, Bacchus in name, 
 A boy whose body was his fame 
 When the vintage-feast in Vevey came 
 
 Ten years ago today. 
 
 Marble of limb but with melting eye, 
 
 Human and warm and young. 
 He passed the village maidens by 
 Who could not help themselves but spy, 
 Some openly, some secretly, 
 His laughing lip, his half-clad thigh 
 Moving free and young . . . 
 
 In Vevey comes the vintage-feast 
 
 And Bacchus comes today 
 A newer youth with the orient east 
 At his temples, an auroral priest — 
 Dogged by a riotous lurching beast, 
 The Bacchus of that other feast 
 
 Ten years ago today. 
 
Point Bonita 
 
 The little launch was called The Monk 
 
 That carried him to sea 
 With seven cronies, not one drunk 
 
 But sober as could be: 
 
 Blight, Wilson, Scott, two Petersons, 
 
 Stevens, McPherson, seven. 
 And they were hearty sons-of-guns 
 
 With strange ideas of heaven. 
 
 " The best saloon on the water-front 
 Was Johnson's, called ' The Hold.' 
 
 Pete Johnson was the reason on't." 
 And then the cronies told 
 
 How they all had sat at Johnson's place, 
 
 Less than a month before. 
 And seen a look in Peter's face 
 
 When he cleared his throat and swore 
 
 That he wouldn't last another moon, 
 For he felt It in his bones — 
 —35— 
 
" Boys," he had said, " I'll be going out soon. 
 And these'U be cold as stones, 
 
 " This left hand looking now so stout, 
 
 Lifting the glass for a clink. 
 And this right hand which I hand about 
 
 As I ask you boys to drink, 
 
 " To drink me a pledge and a solemn vow 
 
 By all the gods there are 
 That you'll bottle my ashes and stand in the 
 bow 
 
 And scatter me over the bar. 
 
 " I've leaned on a bar at sea and ashore 
 
 So long that I've got the trick; 
 To be anywhere else for evermore — 
 
 The idea makes me sick." 
 
 On Peter's brow was a line of sweat. 
 
 " Fishes are quick and free; 
 But worms with their crawlin', pokin' fret — 
 
 O keep 'em off o' me ! 
 
 " Give me no solid, cloggin' grave. 
 
 But the width and the drift o' the seas! — 
 
 Bury me out where wind and wave 
 And ashes go as they please ! 
 S6— 
 
" Oblige me ? " he asked them. And like one 
 man, 
 Quicker than a wink, 
 They said, " Aye, Peter, — a damn good 
 plan!"— 
 And pledged it with a drink . . . 
 
 It stormed from the Saturday Peter died 
 
 Till the cronies came together 
 And looked at the jug with Pete inside, 
 
 Then looked outside at the weather. 
 
 And when they had watched the gale three 
 days. 
 
 They nodded, though it blew, 
 " We can't sit round till the jug decays — 
 
 Let's see old Peter through! " 
 
 They took the jug aboard The Monk, 
 
 They put their oilskins on. 
 They faced the sousing sea — not drunk, 
 
 Sober every one. 
 
 A wave came over them half way out 
 And slapped them down in the sea 
 
 And all but two of them went to the bout 
 Bailing, hip and knee, — 
 —37— 
 
Two at the helm and five of them 
 
 Bailing, one with a mug . . . 
 When The Monk went crazy and shook her 
 stem, 
 
 They'd catch a quick look at the jug, 
 
 Where old Pete Johnson urged them on 
 
 And gave them extra breath, 
 Just as if he hadn't gone. 
 
 As if it wasn't death. 
 
 And at last, when the mourners pulled 
 around. 
 
 With The Monk for a pitching hearse, 
 And — close off Point Bonita — found 
 
 The chapter and the verse, 
 
 Stevens, McPherson, Wilson, Blight, 
 
 Scott and the Petersons, 
 Bared their heads and stood as they might 
 
 While the sea went by like guns. 
 
 And Peter Johnson flew over the bow 
 And was scattered away in the foam. 
 
 And they wished him as well as they knew 
 how 
 Before they put for home ... 
 
 -S8- 
 
Now the wind was lighter going back, 
 
 But the course was heavier far, 
 For the mate of the trip, out on their track, 
 
 Was leaning again on a bar . . . 
 
 And as soon as they might, in Peter's place, 
 They leaned on a bar as well — 
 
 And looked each other in the face; 
 And when they drank his knell, 
 
 Blight, Stevens, the Petersons, Wilson, Scott, 
 McPherson, crew of The Monk, 
 
 Each sober crony of the lot 
 
 With just one drink — was drunk. 
 
 -39— 
 
Look in the Water 
 
 Look in the water and tell me quick 
 
 Who is the girl I see 
 Where the grasses are wavy and bright and thick 
 And the shells and the pebbles play their trick 
 
 Of winking winks at me ! 
 
 Doesn't the water make her sick? 
 
 How long her hair has grown ! 
 She turns like a little green worm on a stick. 
 Is it really a girl? O tell me quick! 
 
 She moves her head on a stone ... 
 
 Or is it a fish with the wonderful face 
 
 All fishes wish they had? 
 For her feet are done up in spangles of lace 
 As tightly tied as the narrow place 
 
 Is tied on the tail of a shad. 
 
 A wave goes rippling over her eye 
 And she calls, " O Little Friend, 
 I have watched the waves of the sea go by 
 —40— 
 
And ships go down and sailors die, 
 New sailors without end^ 
 
 " / have watched them all, hut by and by 
 
 Somewhere they all go down 
 And sail no more; while here am I 
 Breathing forever the sea and sky 
 
 And wishing that I could drown, 
 
 " Wishing that I could take your place 
 
 And grow up big and tall. 
 Then die and change — ^' Look, there's a race 
 Of minnows, a flash goes over her face — 
 
 And nothing is there at all. 
 
 ^41- 
 
Romance 
 
 What and where am I and who? 
 I can never tell. Can you ? 
 Can a sunset after rain 
 Or a moonlit wave explain, 
 Can a willow tell you why 
 Or a star? No more can I. 
 
 Follow me in any face 
 To some far and lovely place. 
 If you find me, be content. 
 Never ask me where I went 
 Seven moons ago nor when 
 I intend to come again. 
 
 Am I foolish? Am I wise? 
 Never ask me to advise. 
 Ask a hawk about his wings, 
 Ask a robin why he sings, 
 Ask a tree to be a city, 
 Ask of me to pause and pity. 
 
 —42— 
 
Who is shiftier than I? 
 I can go without good-bye. 
 I can come without your leave, 
 Come to comfort when you grieve. 
 Ask of me to stay or go, 
 Will I once obey you ? No ! 
 
 I am nowhere, somewhere near. 
 I am no one, someone dear, 
 I am cruel, I am kind, 
 I am all there is to find ... 
 What am I and where and who? 
 I am heaven. I am you. 
 
 -43- 
 
Property 
 
 I have an endless garden . . . and I don't know 
 where it is, 
 
 For I found and lost the title in a castle in Ca- 
 diz. 
 
 There are many little garden-gates, creaking like 
 gulls. 
 
 And a sea full of ships there, with gold on their 
 hulls . . . 
 
 But why so many ships and why so many gates, 
 
 Only my lost title-deed in Cadiz relates. 
 
 I have the tallest tower there that ever touched 
 the blue. 
 
 But since I don't know where it is, I don't know 
 what to do . . . 
 
 For I went there in a dream once, a wild way- 
 faring. 
 
 Glad and magnificent beyond all caring . . . 
 
 I wish I had the reason now that then I had 
 
 For being so magnificent and being so glad. 
 
 But who knows the measure of the distance to 
 fare? — 
 
 I hurried back to Cadiz. The castle wasn't there. 
 —44— 
 
They told me that a mist had come and arrows of 
 rain 
 
 And then a gust of darkness — and every window- 
 pane 
 
 And doorway of the castle had vanished in Ca- 
 diz . . . 
 
 And what can you do with property, when you 
 don't know where it is? 
 
 —45— 
 
Vagrant 
 
 I come and go 
 
 And never stay, 
 
 I pick and choose 
 
 A night, a day, 
 
 I find, I lose, 
 
 I laugh along, 
 
 I will not know 
 
 Right things from wrong. 
 
 I pity those 
 Who pity me, 
 I ask no boon 
 But being free — 
 And so the moon. 
 My polished stone, 
 Shines and shows 
 I lie alone. 
 
 -46- 
 
Gipsying 
 
 A gipsy-hand beckoned, 
 My pulses went hot 
 And I said, " O be happy, 
 Be reckless! Why not?" 
 So I ran like the devil, 
 I laughed like the deuce, 
 I was happy awhile . . . 
 But at last — what's the use? 
 
 The gipsying ended, 
 The joy of it went, 
 And nothing was left 
 But a three-cornered rent 
 In the knee of my trouser 
 Where, solemn, forlorn 
 And repenting to heaven, 
 I knelt on a thorn. 
 
 —47— 
 
Fire-Music 
 
 Sparrow in the burning birch, 
 Ghost who once at set of sun 
 Whistled in your home and church 
 Though you see it now undone, 
 
 Yet with your memorial mirth 
 You can sing like a caress, 
 '' Never shall a bit of earth 
 Die and change to nothingness! " 
 
 Spirit in me ! — when I die. 
 Will you laugh with equal glee? — 
 Will you whistle, where I lie. 
 Something of the sort for me ? 
 
 —48- 
 
Sweet Chariot 
 
 I sat one night and I said to the moon, 
 
 Come down over the foam, 
 Come on, my chariot, swing low, sweet chariot, 
 
 Coming for to carry me home ! 
 
 And the moon swung low, and the moon swung 
 low. 
 
 And the moon swung down the sea. 
 Swung down, that chariot, low, that chariot, 
 
 But never did come for me. 
 
 But the earth came on, the earth came on, 
 
 Came swinging up the sky — 
 I know my chariot, the earth my chariot ! 
 
 Sweet chariot, swing high ! 
 
 —49— 
 
Chieftains 
 
 Not the first growth of spruce and pine 
 
 Nor the second nor the third 
 Was what I saw in ordered line 
 
 And what at night I heard. 
 
 But often when old light would hold 
 
 Their shadows in the lake 
 While the sun would sink with dreams untold 
 
 And a first faint star would break, 
 
 I watched them come to the water's edge, 
 
 Leading a vanished race. 
 Warrior-chiefs from wood and ledge 
 
 And undiscovered place ; 
 
 I saw them stand, each feathered head 
 
 Unmoving and unmoved. 
 The captains of a people dead 
 
 Which first had fought and loved. 
 
Then in the night I heard the air 
 
 Stir with a moving line, 
 Till in the dawn were standing there 
 
 Hemlock and spruce and pine. 
 
 —SI— 
 
From Sea 
 
 Clear as a leaf of fern 
 Against a crystal sky, 
 Over the trailing stem 
 Hovers a butterfly. 
 
 Half-seen to southward sink 
 Sails that only now 
 Began, at the northern brink, 
 Half-seen to lift their bow. 
 
 Westward a fishing-fleet 
 Is anchored, dark of hull, 
 Eastward, in retreat. 
 Circles a single gull. 
 
 Not anywhere is land, 
 But under a soft sun 
 Peace is near at hand. 
 Simple and vast and one. 
 
 —52— 
 
Master of Moons 
 
 Along the Havana wharves was a sugar-train — 
 
 And an iron black, unloading bags from it, 
 
 His torso bare, with valleys of wet muscle. 
 
 His rhythm sure as that of tigers pacing. 
 
 And across from the car was a house of many 
 
 women, 
 Two of them quarrelling, a black with a yellow, 
 And the little yellow woman swung her palm 
 Against the black cheek of her adversary 
 Who, towering massive as a mountain-side. 
 Let loose an avalanche of angry might. 
 And they fought and blazed, and each of them 
 
 tore off 
 The other's only garment, whirling in bronze. 
 Till out from the sugar-car black waters leapt 
 And lifted the giantess to a naked shoulder 
 Like a great log along a stream at midnight 
 And carried her away into the distance. 
 
 —55— 
 
In Havana 
 
 I never saw your face, 
 But I saw you every night 
 Lean In the self-same place 
 Against the waning light. 
 
 There on your roof of the town 
 You would come out, like me. 
 To watch the sun go down 
 Beyond the sea. 
 
 And into my towered place 
 I would climb up, like you, 
 I never saw your face, 
 I never needed to. 
 
 —54— 
 
Haskell 
 
 Here In Kansas is a school 
 
 Made of square stones and windows, 
 
 Where Indian boys are taught to use a tool, 
 
 A printing-press, a book. 
 
 And Indian girls 
 
 -To read, to dress, to cook. 
 
 And as I watch today 
 
 The orderly Industrious classes. 
 
 Only their color and silence and the way 
 
 The hair lies flat and black on their heads pro- 
 claims them Sioux, 
 
 Comanche, Choctaw, Cherokee, 
 
 Creek, Chippewa, Palute — and the red and blue 
 
 Of the girls' long sweaters and the purple and 
 yellow. 
 
 And the tawny slant of the machine-made 
 shirts . . . 
 
 Noon — and out they come. And one tall fellow. 
 Breaking from the others with a glittering yell 
 
 and crouching slim. 
 Gives a leap like the leap of Mordkin, 
 —55— 
 
And the sun carves under him 
 A canyon of glory . . . 
 And then it shadows, and he darts, 
 With head hung, to the dormitory. 
 
 -56- 
 
Pittsburgh 
 
 Coming upon it unawares, 
 
 A town of men and millionaires, 
 
 A town of coal-dust and of churches, 
 
 I thought of moons, I thought of birches, 
 
 Goals forgotten in the faces 
 
 Of the swift who run the races. 
 
 Whip-poor-wills and misty meadows, 
 
 Musk-rats in the river-shadows, 
 
 Robins whistling five o'clock, 
 
 Mornings naked on a rock. 
 
 —57- 
 
The Patricians 
 
 There is a cold and admirable breed of men 
 
 Who exercise, between the poor and God, 
 
 An overseer's authority conferred 
 
 By the great Landlord. And their ken 
 
 Is constant, for they have themselves in mind. 
 
 They guard God's money and are stirred 
 
 By the extent of His abundance. They have 
 
 heard 
 His voice incorporating Heaven, where people 
 
 blessed 
 With means may venture to invest. 
 Not the abrupt corrupting kind. 
 Using their power to pile a Pittsburgh den 
 With plunder, these, in their gentler way, 
 Fifth Avenue, North Side, Back Bay, 
 Are the Patricians. Stewards for the rest, 
 They hide their talent lest they lose it, bind 
 Their sight with silken bands and, self-possessed 
 Because they dream themselves preferred 
 Above the eccentric friendships, vulgar, odd. 
 Of a Millionaire whose merest interest 
 —S&— 
 
Is more than all their capital combined, 
 They make their wives invite Him as a guest, 
 " O don't forget to ask that fellow, God!" 
 
 —59- 
 
The Two Thieves 
 
 I like the thief who's an honest thief, 
 Who can steal and wink and laugh, 
 
 Whose eye is clear and his grin is bold 
 For friend or photograph. 
 
 But set me a thousand miles away 
 From the unconditioned crook 
 
 Who can pry into his neighbors' prayers 
 And steal a pious look ! 
 
 —60— 
 
The Tree 
 
 Still are we soldier, Gentile, Jew, 
 
 And hear Him praying low, 
 " Father, they know not what they do! "- 
 
 Except that now we know • 
 
 Which are the thieves and which is He, 
 
 And, every day of the year, 
 We bind him not with rope on the tree, 
 
 But with nail and thorn and spear. 
 
 —6i— 
 
A Dead One 
 
 All night I walk the street, 
 
 Hearing the newsboys shout . . . 
 
 My soul, my body and my feet, 
 I cart the things about. 
 
 But any fellow that I meet 
 Can see I'm down and out. 
 
 The end ! I know it too 
 And don't care very much. 
 
 For I have lost my point of view 
 Of hell and heaven and such. 
 
 And am losing now — some of us do ■ 
 Memory, even touch. 
 
 A boy too hot to bide, 
 
 A friendly kid, well-made, 
 
 Stopped me the other night and tried 
 A sample of my trade. 
 
 But I just felt myself outside. 
 Walking — till he paid. 
 
 —62— 
 
The other night, I said? 
 
 No, it was long ago. 
 Time runs like a squirrel in my head, 
 
 Swift but somehow slow. 
 I wait — and wonder am I dead 
 
 Or dancing in a show. 
 
 I'll find out good and quick 
 When I take tomorrow's beat. 
 
 To face the wharves ought to make me sick, 
 Where drunks and dead ones meet. 
 
 But it doesn't. I'll soon learn the trick. 
 And it'll ease my feet. 
 
 I'm forgetting the face of my first, 
 
 My star of Bethlehem, 
 The first I ever kissed and cursed, 
 
 Clem was his name, yes, Clem. 
 Two others gripped me like a thirst . . . 
 
 And I can't remember them. 
 
 And that's the way it goes. 
 
 Something has snapped inside. 
 Those three ? — when I'm forgetting those, 
 
 I guess my soul has died — 
 And I might have kept it, held it close, 
 
 Sung to it when it cried. 
 
 —63- 
 
The Army drums away. 
 
 They want me to enroll. 
 It's not too late for them, they say, — 
 
 Jesus will make me whole. 
 He had his chance. But he wouldn't pay 
 
 Five dollars for my soul. 
 
 — 6^- 
 
A Fortune-Teller 
 
 Turning the secrets from her pack of cards, 
 Warning of sickness, tracing out a theft. 
 Guarding from danger as an omen guards, 
 Her hand grew withered as it grew more deft . . 
 
 Till in the stuffy parlor where she lies. 
 
 Now to these clients, neighbors, debtors, friends. 
 
 Truest is proven of her prophecies, 
 
 " I shall be dead before December ends." 
 
 That old man, facing us, who many years 
 Carried the marvellous message of her art. 
 Now hear him how he tells us with his tears 
 The simpler larger wisdom of her heart. 
 
 For she was quick to share the good that came, 
 So that young mothers turned at last and slept 
 And loafers gruffly reverenced her name — 
 Yet more than all she gave away she kept. 
 
 Kept red geraniums on her window-sill 
 And a gay garden in that narrow plot 
 -6s- 
 
Fenced-in behind her house. You'll find there 
 
 still 
 Her hoe, her rake, her rusty watering-pot. 
 
 Bright, in the midst of all these dingy yards. 
 Her roses, hollyhocks and pansies grew; 
 As if some happy jester in the cards 
 Whispered the gayest secret that he knew. 
 
 M-^ 
 
The Man with the Testament 
 
 The Passer-by 
 
 Put that away, don't whine at me with that, 
 
 I'll give you something if you'll quit your bluff. 
 
 The Man with the Testament 
 
 No, honest. Mister, by this book I live. 
 
 It's food and drink to me, this little book. 
 
 I haven't any overcoat, but warmth 
 
 Comes in my pocket from my Testament. 
 
 Honest to God, my Saviour warms my soul, 
 
 Also my body, like a miracle. 
 
 It's food and drink to me, this little book. 
 
 I'm like a blind man and it leads me round. 
 
 The Passer-by 
 
 It's what you live on, yes. You know your game, 
 The kind of fools you meet and how to fetch 'em. 
 Put it away. Take this and get a drink. 
 There's quicker warmth in alcohol, old man. 
 
 The Man with the Testament 
 
 Now, sir, you're talking and I guess you're white. 
 
 -67- 
 
But, God, the Bible catches 'em ! I thought 
 It out one night. The Gospel says the poor 
 Is here for keeps. You see, that pleases those 
 As has good money and their neighbours none. 
 They're glad to pay me something when I say 
 That Christ has taught me to be satisfied, 
 It kind of eases 'em along their way. 
 It's food and drink to me, this httle book. 
 
 The Passer-by 
 
 Use it, old man, use it for all it's worth. 
 
 A better use is coming by and by 
 
 From that same book, but you'll be dead by 
 
 then. — 
 Remember that he said, " Give us our bread," 
 Before he said, " Forgive our trespasses." 
 
 The Man with the Testament 
 You're white, you are. So let me tell you this. 
 I was an acrobat. I went with a show 
 Seventeen years. I fell and hurt my spine, 
 I couldn't do my business any more. 
 Tumbling was all I knew, I'd worked at it 
 So long. I always hoped I'd work at it 
 Again. And while I waited round to see, 
 I drank a bit. The drink got hold of me — 
 And here I am, sir, with my Testament. 
 
 —68— 
 
The Passer-by 
 
 What do you live for? What's ahead of you? 
 
 What makes you want to keep on going, old man? 
 
 The Man with the Testament 
 
 I'm always hoping something will turn up 
 
 To put me back again where I belong. 
 
 And if It don't, I've got a job all right, 
 
 A job they can't take from me. Listen here. 
 
 There's fellows, young ones, coming out of jobs, 
 
 Joining the bread-line, and I talk to 'em. 
 
 Tell 'em my story, how a man can work 
 
 Seventeen years and then be left like this. 
 
 And that's my job, to make 'em discontent, 
 
 Me that Christ teaches to be satisfied. 
 
 I am. My job's a job worth living for. 
 
 Something may come of it when men like me 
 
 Has thought enough and made the young ones 
 
 think. 
 Thank you, I'll take it If you'll let me buy 
 One drink apiece for us? — Here's how, young 
 
 man! 
 
 — 6g — 
 
The End of the Road 
 
 There's always lots of fussin' on a farm, 
 
 Summer 'n' winter, 
 
 Leastwise I've found it so. 
 
 But I go about when I c'n get a chance. 
 
 To 'Scutneyville or, like last week, to Windsor 
 
 Where I heard the band, a darn good band . . . 
 
 The town o' Windsor pays 'em for the season 
 
 Three hundred dollars — 
 
 Pretty fair pay for sittin' still an' tootin'. 
 
 Most of 'em work regular in the machine-shop. 
 
 Over a thousand hands where there used to be five 
 hundred. 
 
 An' takin' all the boys that's come with the boom, 
 there's lots of talent. 
 
 What was I sayin' ? O yes, the river-road 
 
 An' all the roads that lead to any place, 
 
 I know 'em well ... 
 
 But there's a road, a little pesky road. 
 
 That starts off toward Ascutney, toward the moun- 
 tain. 
 
 An' nobody I hear of ever took it more'n four 
 miles back, 
 
Where a house was once, 
 
 An' they only use it now to reach a mowin'. 
 
 But all my life I've meant to see the end on't, 
 
 Not that there's any use o' seein' it, 
 
 But just to satisfy a kind o' notion for seein' where 
 
 things go. 
 I wa'n't more'n six years old first time I went to 
 
 take that road. 
 But I found a berry-patch. 
 And since that time I've alius meant to go on 
 An' never have ... 
 Till 191 5 June the 27th I got aroun' to it. 
 The rest of 'em went drivin' somewhere else. I 
 
 footed it. 
 An' when I fetched up at the turn 
 An automobile come by 
 And someone hollered, " Where does that road 
 
 go r 
 I said, " I've lived here all my life 
 An' it ain't gone anywhere." 
 They thought I'd said a terrible funny thing, 
 But it wa'n't so blame funny . . . 
 Well, sir, I walked a little piece o' that darn road, 
 Till the sun turned on so doggone swelterin' 
 That I'd 'a' been a fool not to go home 
 An' lay down quiet in the hammock. 
 When a man gets a chance to loaf, what does he 
 
 want to foot it up a hill for? 
 
 —71— 
 
That was all right, but what do you think has hap- 
 pened? 
 What do you suppose I read in Monday's paper? 
 I read about myself an' what I said. 
 They didn't give my name, an' that's a comfort. 
 For I don't like gettin' into newspapers. 
 But who do you think was in that automobile ? — 
 The President ! — 
 Mebbe he has a kind o' notion, too, 
 The same as me, 
 For seein' where things go . . . 
 I kind o' wish I hadn't turned back home. 
 No, not because he asked me, not for that, 
 But just to satisfy a kind o' notion 
 That's bothered me since I was six years old. 
 
 —72— 
 
A Song in the Grass 
 
 Sometimes I wish the day might pause 
 And not become the night, 
 Or I wish the night might have no cause 
 To interchange with light. 
 
 Some nights I wish the day might break, 
 Some days I crave a star, — 
 But mostly I have learned to take 
 The moments as they are. 
 
 —75— 
 
A Red' Wing 
 
 Cluck and hover, cluck and whine, 
 
 Whose step so disturbs you? Mine? 
 
 Why not cover and dissemble 
 
 All this trouble, all this tremble? 
 
 Why not calmly let me be 
 
 With caraway and timothy, 
 
 Let me pass and never see 
 
 Black and scarlet in the sun? 
 
 Or can men like me have done 
 
 Harm to birdlings? Is that why 
 
 You hang and flutter, dart and cry? 
 
 Or is it humor in your breast, 
 
 Is your flurry all a jest 
 
 Of cluck and worry, flap and bristle? 
 
 Surely you have found the best 
 
 Of protection for a nest, 
 
 Thickening burrs and spikes of thistle, 
 
 Cluck and hover, cluck and whine, 
 
 And a poison-ivy vine. 
 
 Cluck and chirrup, cluck and whistle. 
 
 —74— 
 
Meadow-Shoes 
 
 My shoe-soles, wet in the meadow, 
 Sang like the chirrup of birds — 
 But hke birds of only a note or two, 
 Like persons of few words. 
 
 And, O my shoes, how hard it is 
 To tell the joy you touch! 
 I know, for I have tried to sing 
 The things I love too much. 
 
 —75- 
 
Grass-Tops 
 
 What bird are you in the grass-tops? 
 Your poise is enough of an answer, 
 With your wing-tips hke up-curving fingers 
 Of the slow-moving hands of a dancer . . . 
 
 And what is so nameless as beauty, 
 Which poets, who give it a name, 
 Are only unnaming forever? — 
 Content, though it go, that it came. 
 
 —76- 
 
The Sandpiper 
 
 Along the sea-edge, like a gnome 
 
 Or rolling pebble in the foam, 
 
 As though he timed the ocean's throbbing, 
 
 Runs a piper, bobbing, bobbing. 
 
 Now he stiffens, now he wilts, 
 Like a little boy on stilts ! 
 Creatures burrow, insects hide, 
 When they see the piper glide. 
 
 You would think him out of joint, 
 Till his bill begins to point. 
 You would doubt if he could fly, 
 Till his straightness arrows by. 
 
 You would take him for a clown, 
 Till he peeps and flutters down, 
 Vigilant among the grasses. 
 Where a fledgling bobs and passes. 
 
 '77— 
 
The Enchanted Toad 
 
 Three times you had neared — I unaware — 
 
 My body warm in the sand and bare. 
 
 Three times you had hopped your silent track 
 
 To the arch of shadow under my back. 
 
 And each time, when I felt you cool 
 
 And turned on you and, like a fool, 
 
 Prodded your exit from my place. 
 
 Sorrow deepened in your face. 
 
 You were loth to leave me, though I threw 
 
 Handfuls of sand to quicken you. 
 
 You would look as you went and blink your eyes 
 
 And puff your pale throat with surprise. 
 
 Three times you had tried,'like someone daft . . . 
 
 O could it be that evil craft 
 
 Had long bewitched, from the man you were, 
 
 Some old Chinese philosopher 
 
 And warted you dank and thwarted you dumb 
 
 And given you three times to come 
 
 And beg a friend to set you free ? — 
 
 And had you spent them all on me ? 
 
 —rj8- 
 
The Enchanted Swans 
 
 Out of a fairy-tale they flew above me, 
 
 Three white wild swans with silk among their 
 
 wings — 
 And one might be a princess and might love me, 
 If I had not forgotten all such things. 
 
 They flew abreast and would not pause nor 
 
 quicken. 
 One of them guarded by the other two, 
 And left me helpless here, alone and stricken, 
 Without the secret that I thought I knew. 
 
 —79— 
 
The Swimmer 
 
 The reach of peace, the sky, the pines, 
 Leave me no more perplexed. 
 In which a memory divines 
 That bodies, buried, yet arise 
 Across the reach of all the skies, 
 Unburied and unvexed, 
 As arisen are the grass, the pines, 
 In upward-grown, delighted lines — 
 As a swimmer with one wave declines 
 And rises with the next. . 
 
 —80— 
 
Carvings of Cathay 
 
 All the world was near today . . . 
 The waves were carvings of Cathay 
 Thrown and broken at my feet, 
 And these old desert-sands were sweet 
 With dead pagodas, buried tiles 
 And ocean-grass for miles and miles. 
 
 Every little tuft of green 
 Was a brush-stroke on a screen, 
 Mounds and dunes made a redoubt 
 Good for keeping Tartars out, 
 And a temple-cloud was dim 
 At the sea's imperial rim. 
 
 This, the ocean I was on, 
 
 Confucius witnessed from T'ai-Shan, 
 
 The knees of Buddha made the sign 
 
 Of calm that I composed with mine, 
 
 And as many as the sands 
 
 Were Kwan-Yin's mercies and her hands. 
 
I could hear a dragon-whelp 
 Mewing in a maze of kelp, 
 Gulls, with turnings, flashes, flares. 
 Filled the wind like paper prayers. 
 And capping me, like Him, from sun. 
 The snails of thought crawled one by one. 
 
 —82^ 
 
Through a Gateway in Japan 
 
 A torii stood, three miles above the bay, 
 
 A gate of sacred ground, 
 And when I wandered through a little way, 
 
 I paused and found 
 
 No temple-steps, no lanterns and no shrine, 
 
 Only divinity — 
 The solitary presence of a pine 
 
 Facing the sea. 
 
 -S3- 
 
Japanese Notes 
 
 In the House of Lafcadio Hearn 
 
 I left my name today 
 
 Before him and Buddha, 
 
 And knelt among his books, 
 
 And had tea with his wife and two children 
 
 And bowed low to them . . . 
 
 And then in his garden, 
 
 When his wife picked for me the petals I wished, 
 
 His son said, 
 
 " But he liked the maple best," 
 
 And brought me a spray of young leaves. 
 
 In the Yoshiwara 
 
 She sat as white as moonlight 
 When the sea is still. 
 She moved as bright as moonlight 
 When the sea wrestles with the shore. 
 
 In a Temple 
 
 This was the fortune I was told : 
 
 If you work hard all the time, 
 
 Good-luck will attend you like a steady wind. 
 
 —84- 
 
In a Theatre 
 
 As the wooden blocks clack 
 
 For the curtain to rise, 
 
 Step after step I hear his wooden clogs 
 
 Clacking through the night to my door, 
 
 For the curtain of my heart to rise 
 
 On my own actor, 
 
 My beloved. 
 
 In a Poem 
 
 This night last year, 
 
 An old woman dusted the paper shutter 
 
 Very carefully, 
 
 That the shadow of the pine-tree 
 
 Might be quite perfect. 
 
 In a Fainting 
 
 I have guided you many a day 
 
 Up the infinite mountain. 
 
 And you have not seen till now, 
 
 At the summit, 
 
 That the mountain Is made of skulls. 
 
 Are you asking me whose ? 
 
 Your own! 
 
 -85- 
 
In Kamakura 
 
 In Kamakura, near the great Diabutsu, 
 
 When I had sat a long time on the ground 
 
 And been gathered up, forgetful of my face and 
 
 form, 
 Into the face and form of endless dream, 
 I found among the booths a little pendant Buddha 
 With the steel of a round mirror for His halo . . , 
 
 So that a brooding head still intervenes in bronze 
 Between my face and the image of my face. 
 And I cannot see myself and not see Him. 
 
 —86-^ 
 
The Neighbors Help Him Build 
 His House 
 
 A Japanese Folk-Chant 
 
 A Young Man Sings 
 
 Out come the leaves, 
 
 The long green leaves 
 
 Of the young pine-tree in spring — 
 
 So may the days, 
 
 The growing days. 
 
 Yield you everything. 
 
 The Others 
 
 As part is true 
 
 May the rest be true. 
 
 True in the heart of the spring! 
 
 An Old Man Sings 
 
 Blest be the house. 
 
 Honored the house. 
 
 May a woman's womb, adored. 
 
 Which was Buddha's house 
 
 —87— 
 
And Shaka's house, 
 
 Here be the house of the Lord. 
 
 The Others 
 
 As part is true 
 
 May the rest be true 
 
 And here be the house of the Lord! 
 
 ^88-^ 
 
Chinese Notes 
 
 In Manchuria 
 
 In my heart flutter wings 
 
 Toward the little bright bough 
 
 On the brown hillside, 
 
 Toward the solitary tree, blossoming 
 
 My heart flies there, 
 
 Leaving a shadow of azaleas. 
 
 In Peking 
 
 My eyes are blinded 
 
 By the flying dust of the dead. 
 
 And my heart smiles 
 
 At my own motions 
 
 In the wind. 
 
 The Ming Tombs 
 
 Blown shadows, through the grass, 
 
 Not of the kings. 
 
 But of the builders and carriers . . . 
 
 It is the kings now who seem chained, 
 And the others free. 
 
 -89- 
 
In Shantung 
 
 A burnished magpie 
 
 Strutting in the sun 
 
 Claiming a path among furrows of rice 
 
 But in the distance 
 
 The quiet trot 
 
 Of a blue-coated horseman. 
 
 —90— 
 
Chinese Drawings 
 
 A Father 
 
 There is a fruit, my son, 
 Bitter to the taste at first 
 But afterward sweet ... 
 It is called advice. 
 
 A Tea-Girl 
 
 When the fish-eyes of water 
 
 Bubble into crab-eyes — 
 
 Teal 
 
 A Wanderer 
 
 Last night is a thousand years ago — 
 But tomorrow is a new mist. 
 
 A Lover 
 
 The plums and cherries are blossoming, 
 My heart too is unsheathing from winter 
 And it has all happened in one day. 
 
 —gi— 
 
A Vendor of Rose-Bushes 
 
 I am very poor, 
 
 Anyone who can buy from me 
 
 Ought to do it. 
 
 A Painter 
 
 I cannot paint 
 The growth of the spirit, 
 But I can paint an old man 
 Watching the smoke of incense 
 Join the sky. 
 
 A Lady 
 
 She does not see the tea her servant brings 
 
 Into the garden, 
 
 Her hands have fallen down from the instrument 
 
 She was playing. 
 
 But the strings can still answer 
 
 The cold fingers of autumn. 
 
 A Scholar 
 
 Having won his diploma. 
 He rides a horse of air 
 Through ten miles of the color 
 Of apricot-blossoms. 
 
 A Philosopher 
 What though they conquer us ? 
 _p2— 
 
The tea has come. 
 
 In at most nine hundred years, 
 
 Someone will conquer them. 
 
 A Horseman 
 
 Beyond him are many inlets curving among moun- 
 
 taiii6 
 And on the way a temple, 
 And there is gold on the harness of his horse 
 Whose head and foot are uplifted together . . . 
 But the rider sits quiet now, 
 As he rides toward the shadow 
 Of the second willow. 
 
 —93— 
 
The Chinese Horseman 
 
 There were flutes once merry with stops 
 And bottles round with wine, 
 Lips dewy as with attar-drops 
 And breasts of deep moon-shine, 
 There were thrushes in the market-rows, 
 Caught from the circling air, 
 And no bird sang so true as his. 
 And there were hills for prayer — 
 But over the bridge the rider goes. 
 The rider who was fond, 
 Leaving what was, crossing what is, 
 By the bridge that leads beyond. 
 Beyond the many songs he knew 
 And sang to lips he kissed. 
 Beyond the rounded green and blue, 
 Beyond the mist. 
 
 And the scholar who may question him 
 Will hear only the sound 
 Of wind-curled waves at the river-brim 
 And of willows trailing the ground 
 —94— 
 
And will see the quiet of five bays 
 Pointing like a hand 
 Toward the five valleys that divide 
 The long mountain-land 
 Beyond the white azalea ways, 
 Beyond the moonstone wave, 
 Where no one may be lost nor hide 
 Nor may be saved nor save, 
 But where the rider may forego, 
 And laugh no more nor moan, 
 And of all pulses never know 
 Which were his own. 
 
 -95— 
 
Tiles 
 
 Chinese magicians had conjured their chance, 
 And they hunted, with their hooded birds of glee, 
 The heat that rises from the summer-grass 
 And shakes against the sea. 
 And when they had caught a wide expanse 
 In nets of careful wizardry. 
 They colored it like molten glass 
 For roofs, imperially. 
 
 With blue from a cavern, green from a morass 
 And yellow from weeds in the heart of the sea. 
 And they laid long rows on the dwellings of ro- 
 mance 
 In perfect alchemy — 
 
 And before they ascended like a peal of brass, 
 They and their tiptoeing hawks of glee 
 Had topped all China with a roof that slants 
 And shakes against the sea. 
 
 ^6. 
 
The Pure-Hearted Girl 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 The ospreys are echoing us 
 On the river-island — 
 Where is the pure-hearted girl 
 To be our princess ? 
 
 Long lotus, short lotus, 
 Leaning with the current, 
 Turns like our prince in his quest 
 For the pure-hearted girl. 
 
 He has sought and not found her. 
 Awake, he has thought of her. 
 Asleep, he has dreamed of her. 
 Dreamed and tossed in his sleep. 
 
 Long lotus, short lotus. 
 
 Pluck it to left and to right, 
 
 And make ready with lutes and with harps 
 
 For the pure-hearted girl. 
 
 —97— 
 
Long lotus, short lotus, . 
 
 Cook it for a welcome, 
 
 And be ready with bells and with drums 
 
 For the pure-hearted girl. 
 
 -98- 
 
Colloquy 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 " You with the collar of blue, 
 I cannot come to you, 
 But you, if you please, are free — 
 Then why not come to me? " 
 
 " You with the girdle of blue, 
 I cannot come to you, 
 But you, if you choose, are free - 
 So why not come to mef " 
 
 " O you who fancy the new. 
 The day when you go for a view 
 From the tower lasts for me 
 A month or two or three ! " 
 
 —99— 
 
Home 
 
 (An Old Chinese S>ong) 
 
 Great trees in the south 
 
 Give me no shelter 
 
 And women loitering by the Han 
 
 Leave me cold. 
 
 O Han too deep for diving, 
 O Kiang too long for poling ! 
 
 Faggots, brambles, 
 
 I cut them with a will — 
 
 But those girls facing home, 
 
 I should like to feed their horses. 
 
 O Han too deep for diving, 
 O Kiang too long for poling I 
 
 Faggots, artemisia, 
 I cut them with a will — 
 But those girls facing home, 
 I should like to feed their colts. 
 — 700 — 
 
O Han too deep for diving, 
 O Kiang too long for poling! 
 
 — lOl- 
 
The Two Rivers 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 Where you fish between two rivers 
 
 With your tall bamboo, 
 When the oar-light quivers, 
 
 My heart comes to you. 
 
 Far from the new home gleaming, 
 
 I see the old again, 
 And you who sit there dreaming 
 
 Between the K'e and Ts'uen. 
 
 To the left the Ts'uen is moving 
 And the K'e flows to the right — 
 
 And I long for you whose loving 
 Was once my delight I 
 
 You hear the rising, falling, 
 Of the boats of yellow pine, 
 
 You hear two rivers calling — 
 One of them, mine. 
 
 — 102 — 
 
And a young girl's girdle-jewel 
 Is the oar-light that you see - 
 
 For O my heart is cruel 
 And goes where I would be ! 
 
 ■103— 
 
The Silk-Dealer 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 You were young and a dealer in silk 
 
 And appeared to have no thought but of silk, 
 
 But I was the silk you desired. 
 
 And we crossed far over the ford 
 
 And you seemed to have no thought but of me 
 
 And of marrying me in the autumn. 
 
 But before autumn came I was weeping, 
 
 For you seemed to have no thought but of spring. 
 
 And the gate was an empty shadow — 
 
 Till I laughed your name in the gate, 
 Where back you came, your young face bright 
 With the blessing of fortune-tellers. 
 
 And I rode away as your bride. 
 Before autumn had tarnished mulberry-leaves, 
 Mulberry-leaves and a woman . . . 
 — 104 — 
 
All this was years ago. 
 
 And now I am crossing the ford again, 
 
 Where the mulberry-leaves are yellow, 
 
 With no change in my heart 
 
 Which beat through poverty those years with you. 
 
 But I tell my brothers nothing . . . 
 
 O to be facing old age 
 
 Hand in hand, instead of this remembering 
 
 How we crossed the ford together 
 
 And there, beyond the marshy shore. 
 
 How you seemed to have no thought but of me — 
 
 And how I let my hair down ! 
 
 —los- 
 
The Forsaken Wife 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 The wind Is no more from the north. 
 But when there was storm and hail 
 None was closer to you than I. 
 When there was woe and misfortune 
 You chose me, 
 And now that ease has come 
 You have found fault with me 
 And left me. 
 
 The wind is not yet from the north, 
 
 But the hill shall be bleak again 
 
 And there shall be no blade of grass unwithered. 
 
 No tree not bowed. 
 
 And then, when you are alone, 
 
 You shall think of one 
 
 Whose faults are all you remember now 
 
 And never a virtue. 
 
 — io6- 
 
Change 
 
 (An Old Chinese Song) 
 
 The days and months do not last long, 
 The springs and autumns follow one by one, 
 And when I watch the fall of the flowers 
 And of the leaves and of the trees, 
 I know that even the loveliest person 
 Little by little must change. 
 
 — loy — 
 
Temple-Inscriptions 
 
 Half-way up the hill 
 And into the light. 
 
 Where the heart is, 
 
 There is Buddha. 
 
 How can the hills of the spirit 
 
 Be only in the Western Quarter? 
 
 The distant water, 
 
 The near hills, 
 
 The deep blue of the clearing sky. 
 
 What is sacred is universal. 
 
 The three religions have for their soul 
 
 One principle. 
 
 The pure wind. 
 
 The bright moon, 
 
 The clear and thoughtful heart. 
 
 ~io8— 
 
Night 
 
 (From the Russian of Polonski) 
 
 I have loved you, O silvery night 
 
 Why ? Who knows — 
 
 When my love has brought me more pain than 
 
 repose ! 
 Yet I love you, unanswering night 
 Kinder to everyone else than to me 
 With the touch of your light 
 Of the stars and the moon, making diamond-bright 
 Flower-paths on the diff, trailing gold on the sea, 
 But bringing no quieting beauty to me 
 And no end of my years 
 And no ease for my tears. 
 
 Why should I love you then, why, 
 Silent, silvery night, 
 
 Since you give no reply to my heart and its cry 
 And I have only pain from you, never delight? 
 Who knows why I love you ? O not even I — 
 Though I lift up my love and implore you, yet 
 nothing is there 
 
 — log — 
 
But the vague of the silvery air 
 
 And a whisper that peace and the answer are far, 
 
 Are beyond the last gleam of the ultimate star. 
 
 ■no- 
 
Russians 
 
 To Stephen Graham 
 
 (With acknowledgment of suggestions from his 
 book, " Undiscovered Russia ") 
 
 An Englishman 
 
 I went an Englishman among the Russians, 
 
 Set out from Archangel and walked among them, 
 
 A hundred miles, 
 
 Another hundred miles, 
 
 A moujik among moujiks, 
 
 Dirty as earth is dirty. 
 
 And found them simple and devout and kind, 
 
 Met God among them in their houses — 
 
 And I returned to Englishmen, a Russian. 
 
 A Concertina-Player 
 
 I earn my copecks at the beer-houses, 
 Or on a pilgrimage; 
 And — shall I tell you ? — 
 
 I often play to beggars — and they pay me . . . 
 I lost my eye by hoping to be rich. 
 — /// — 
 
Some Germans built a factory, 
 
 And people said to all the boys : 
 
 " Go work there and be rich ! " 
 
 You know the German way? — 
 
 Using up men for making things ? 
 
 What are things for but men? 
 
 Yet when they took my eye with their machinery 
 
 They made me this, they made a man of me, 
 
 They turned me to my music, 
 
 As you see me. 
 
 Tramping, never starving. 
 
 In prison, never sorry, 
 
 My music and my freedom and the road — 
 
 The earth my hostess 
 
 And the sun my host. 
 
 A Prophet 
 
 Tomorrow is Elijah's Day! 
 
 The world comes to an end! 
 
 Release your souls, release your souls, 
 
 For whoso in his body keeps his soul 
 
 Upon that dreadful day 
 
 Is damned! 
 
 Hang yourselves and drown yourselves, 
 
 Die by the knife, the gun, the rope, 
 
 All shall please God! 
 
 And if your women and your children falter, 
 
 Then kill them first. 
 
 — 112 — 
 
The cheerful giver pleaseth God I . . . 
 
 I take my leave of you, 
 
 I lead the way. 
 
 Hand me the rope, 
 
 Make sure the noose will slip . . . 
 
 Forgive me if I have not saved your souls. 
 
 As I forgive you for not listening. 
 
 My mother I forgive for bearing me, 
 
 My father for begetting me. 
 
 Mankind for being like me. 
 
 So farewell! 
 
 Receive me — 
 
 God! 
 
 A Drunkard 
 
 They ask me what I sing about — 
 Who knows ? . . . . 
 Vodka bakes me in my innards. 
 Drops of it are in my beard, 
 And I find my wife as wicked 
 As I feared; 
 
 For she barred the door against me 
 And I haven't any roof, 
 O she sent the devil walking 
 On his hoof! 
 
 The canary puts her babies 
 In a cosy little nest 
 And the wolf, for all his prowling, 
 —113— 
 
Goes to rest — 
 
 But I haven't any family 
 
 And I might as well be dead, 
 
 I haven't any corner 
 For my head ! . . . 
 
 They ask me what I sing about — 
 Who knows? . . . 
 Vodka burns me in my innards, 
 And I'm crying in my beard — ^ 
 And yet nothing is the matter, 
 
 1 am comforted and cheered. 
 
 A Miserable Maiden 
 
 I'm a miserable maiden 
 
 And my petticoat is torn — 
 
 Though I'm thirty, not a baby 
 
 Have I born . . . 
 
 Though my face is very pretty, 
 
 Yet a face can never save, 
 
 And they'll carry me unmarried 
 
 To the grave. 
 
 I have gone to many ikons 
 
 And my tears came out and ran 
 
 And I begged the saints for mercy 
 
 And a man . . . 
 
 Nursing other people's babies 
 
 For eleven years I've done, 
 
 But I haven't any children, 
 
 —114.— 
 
Not one ! 
 
 Madonna, my Madonna, 
 Pity me and make me brave, 
 Till they lay me, cold and single, 
 In the grave . . . 
 
 An Old Man 
 
 1 shall die soon; 
 
 For I hear a voice inside my skull, 
 
 Blowing like a wind . . . 
 
 My son, his wife and all of them want me to die. 
 
 I can do no more work. 
 
 And so they beat me and beat me 
 
 And give me no sugar in my tea . . . 
 
 Last week they put me to work making my coffin. 
 
 They hurried me, lest I should die 
 
 Before it was done. 
 
 Now that it's done, they make me sleep in it — 
 
 Yes, every night they make me sleep in it . . . 
 
 If I should oversleep some day — 
 
 They might — before I waked — 
 
 There ! 
 
 You hear it now? 
 
 That wind inside my skull, 
 
 Trying to blow my soul out I 
 
 A Boy 
 
 On the edge of the narrow river 
 My little dear sits 
 
 —115— 
 
With her little white feet in the water ... 
 
 Overhead in the air 
 
 The gray geese fly. 
 
 Fly away, gray geese, fly away, 
 
 For your touch might ruffle the water, 
 
 Or your shadow darken the water, 
 
 And I couldn't be seeing them so clear. 
 
 Her darling white feet ! 
 
 A Girl 
 
 They say that on this night of St. John the Bather 
 
 Twelve blossoms open in the woods. 
 
 And one of them is happiness . . . 
 
 So I go out to find it in the woods — 
 
 Past the young men who leap through the lighted 
 
 bonfires, 
 The young men brave with vodka . . . 
 And in the woods will be other girls — 
 And there may be — one young man . . . 
 O help me, bless me, dear St. John the Bather! 
 
 let me miss the blossom — 
 And find him ! 
 
 A Revolutionary 
 
 Father! — 
 
 1 wanted to come back and make you see. 
 I could have shown you. 
 
Nothing has hurt me like your misunderstanding 
 
 me ... 
 And you, my mother, 
 Your honey-lips, your apple-cheeks, 
 If I could have had the comfort of kissing them 
 And been comforting to you, 
 It would not be so hard . . . 
 I shall be here ten months, before I go. 
 Perhaps they'll let you see me. 
 Come, if you can. 
 
 For I have no sweetheart but you — 
 And Hfe. 
 
 And life is a strange sweetheart 
 To see me young and strong and clean, 
 Yet to have no wish for me. 
 To let me give up, go out — 
 When I have cared so much ! 
 
 A Communist 
 
 I shall need no priest, 
 Only my people, 
 Communion with my people. 
 " Forgive me, north and south. 
 Forgive me, east and west! " 
 That will be all — 
 And enough. 
 
 —777— 
 
A Moujik 
 
 Hola, ye Siberian steppes and stars, 
 Why has he so much 
 And I nothing? 
 
 Why has he so much who does no work? 
 Why does he eat and drink and make merry, 
 When I who do all the work 
 Have nothing? 
 
 Hola, ye steppes and stars. 
 Why has he so much 
 And I nothing? 
 
 —7/5— 
 
Pan Sings 
 
 They are all mine for my song, 
 The right, the divine, the wrong, 
 The sailor with wings of the sea, 
 The cooley who sings to a tree, 
 The poet with a moon in his river. 
 The red with a rune in his quiver. 
 The black with a harp in his feet 
 Playing sharp, sweet. 
 And even the Englishman 
 Somehow singing with Pan, 
 The right, the wrong, the divine, 
 They belong — they are mine ! 
 
 —779— 
 
Robert Browning 
 
 An amateur of melody and hue, 
 
 Of marble outline and of Italy, 
 
 Of heresies and individuals 
 
 And every eccentricity of truth; 
 
 And yet an EngHshman, a healthy brute 
 
 Loving old England, thrushes and the dawn; 
 
 A scholar loving careful gentlemen; 
 
 A man of fashion loving the universe; 
 
 A connoisseur loving dead artists' lives, 
 
 Their names, their labors and their enemies; 
 
 A poet loving all the ways of words; 
 
 A human being giving love as love, 
 
 Denying death and proving happiness — 
 
 When you love women because youth loves women, 
 And when you love a woman because heart 
 Understands heart through more than youth or 
 
 age 
 Or time, and when you marvelously become 
 The man whom Carlyle and whom Lander 
 
 loved — 
 You are hfe's poet by a poet's life, 
 — 120 — 
 
But when you set yourself about with words, 
 Abracadabra, bric-a-brac and the dust 
 Of piled confusion, toying with obsolete 
 Prescriptions, and when owlish lenses hide 
 Your eyes until you marvelously become 
 A ponderous, pondering apothecary — 
 You dispense remedies, but not to me ! . . . 
 So I take down your bulky book of records, 
 Turn to those certain pages where you tell 
 The beauty of a shoulder or reveal 
 The pure and simple permanence of love, 
 And am content to learn by a lazy glance, 
 Through other passages, how you conserve 
 The true susceptibility and pathos 
 Of bishops, mediums and murderers. 
 Manage the rhythm of fantastic souls, 
 Mark in the fault something to profit by. 
 Challenge the far perfection resident 
 In imperfection's opportunity, 
 And, more magnanimous than most of us. 
 Finding yourself in all humanity, 
 Forgive humanity for what you find. 
 
 '121- 
 
A Portrait 
 
 There are two of them : 
 
 One is easy-going, with a forelock of beauty, 
 His mouth an avenue for words natural to the 
 
 heart, 
 His heart an avenue of likings and aversions, 
 His mind less given to ideas than to arguments 
 And less to neighbors whom he knows than to dis- 
 tillers whom he does not know . . . 
 And yet his heart and mind and mouth make 
 music ; 
 
 The other, patient and convinced of the breath of 
 
 life 
 As the one breath of many people, 
 A man of tenderness and understanding, 
 Is full of speech but dumb 
 And, with everything of good to sing. 
 Cannot make music. 
 
 But is it so ill-portioned as it seems? 
 Or is it balanced and acceptable? 
 Is it not music? 
 
 122 — 
 
You Told Me of Your Mother 
 
 You came to town tonight 
 
 Wearied and worn of heart, no feeling left, 
 
 You came to town tonight 
 
 And, meeting me who hardly knew you, 
 
 You told me of your mother, of the memories that 
 
 mingled and ordained 
 Her heart your refuge and her life your minister. 
 You told me of your mother, naming her with a 
 
 proud smile, 
 Comparing her with women whom we knew. 
 But on your mouth brimmed heartbreak 
 Because you were no longer at home, waiting the 
 
 minutes through. 
 Helpless, unhelping, an atom of life, made of her 
 
 life . . . 
 You looked at me, and in your eyes 
 Wandered the human woe and could not rest. 
 Why had she borne you, to be made of her, 
 To take her life and hold It unfulfilled, 
 To break a part of it away that might not be re- 
 stored 
 
 — I2S— 
 
By her love or by yours or any tenderness 
 
 Or any grief. 
 
 Hour after hour, day after day, 
 
 Life had assembled its ironic facts 
 
 And hurt your heart with them 
 
 And left you nothing but desire 
 
 To be obedient and mindful of her, to abate 
 
 The beat of gay unhappiness 
 
 That had shut out her simple word. 
 
 Heart touches heart but briefly in this world 
 
 And faith is lightly taken and the grave 
 
 Is full of unacknowledged love. 
 
 jYou could not sit at home there, separate from 
 
 her. 
 And face the wing of death 
 That makes of silence hurricane. 
 You came to town tonight, 
 Met me by chance and tried to laugh with me 
 At lesser things. And all the while 
 Death blew with life alternate on your brow . . . 
 Then suddenly you rose, cried out upon yourself 
 For coming and for laughing, clenched your hands 
 
 and hid your forehead 
 For admitting life and its absurdities 
 When death was the companion you had changed 
 For me ... 
 O I am humble. But I tell you this, 
 
 — I2/f — 
 
That greatness was upon me when I looked be- 
 yond the dim horizon of your eyes 
 And saw arisen like a perfect sun 
 The rounded wonder of eternity, 
 Your death, her life, beyond the reach of time, 
 Commingling me and all men in their dawn. 
 
 —725— 
 
To a Young Passer-By 
 
 You have the look my cousin had 
 When he was young as you. 
 But the look my cousin has today — 
 Is that to be yours too ? 
 
 What would you say If I stopped you now 
 And said what I have to say 
 And told you a simple way to keep 
 The look you have today, 
 
 To believe that hate is always the lie 
 And that love is always the truth, 
 To believe to the end, yes, even alone . . 
 But who can talk to youth ! 
 
 -126 — 
 
The Desert 
 
 To David Greenhood 
 
 The world was good but was empty 
 Of all but mottled sand, 
 When out of the blue above it 
 Stretched a Hand 
 Whose fine and fiery fingers, 
 Making the breath of men, 
 Placed on the rim of the desert 
 Adam again. 
 
 — I2y — 
 
You Told Me of an Ragle 
 
 To Worth Ryder 
 
 • When you told me of an eagle, caged, 
 Sitting on his dead tree 
 And facing motionless 
 That opening toward mountains 
 And that air for wings, 
 You turned your head 
 Like an eagle caged. 
 
 And when you told me of a leopard 
 Pacing his bare floor, 
 Your hand curved back and forth 
 Like the motion of a leopard . . . 
 
 And beyond the iron of imagination 
 Crept toward the desert hills. 
 
 ^128— 
 
At a California Homestead 
 
 To Jack Lyman 
 Hills of haze bordered your valley 
 And fountains of roses your old home, 
 Where I had never been before 
 Yet climbed again the stairs of my childhood 
 
 And found on the wall two swallows, em- 
 broidered. 
 Threading over stitches of water 
 And saw, through the honeysuckle window, 
 The stone-wall falling into woods . . . 
 
 But I have left the childhood room, 
 Down the stairway, bending my head. 
 Out of the gray house, past the roses, 
 Into these unfamiliar days. 
 
 • — i2g- 
 
On Leaving California 
 
 To Elvira Foote 
 
 There's a long line of iron track 
 With mountains at the end, 
 And I who leave am looking back, 
 Through them, to a friend, 
 
 To California, to a bay 
 Inwinding from the sea. 
 Where swords of sun and water play 
 'Not tonight for me . . . 
 
 But the eucalyptus still was there 
 At owl-time with no moon; 
 And as the morrow grew aware, 
 So shall I be soon 
 
 Of the household on the hill. 
 The two beloved pines, 
 The color of the window-sill. 
 The pointing of the vines, 
 
 ^130— 
 
And I shall see your face unite 
 Tomorrow with today, 
 And watch it changing like the light 
 Of waters in the bay. 
 
 —7^7— 
 
Away from California 
 
 To Edna Garnett 
 
 They try to show me a moon here, 
 Forgetting that I went 
 Up the hills of Berkeley 
 Into the firmament. 
 
 They try to show me a sun here, 
 " It glitters bright," they say. 
 Forgetting that I watched the fog 
 On San Francisco Bay. 
 
 They try to show me beauty, 
 To ease my heart's desire 
 For a face of California 
 Profiled with fire ! 
 
 —7^2— 
 
Reminder 
 
 To Haniel Long 
 
 Rise, lad, let the world grow weary, 
 Linger not with snailing things. 
 Lift and where the winds are veery 
 Ride them with your larking wings. 
 Leave the thunder plunging after 
 And the lightning, where you range 
 On the plumes of love and laughter 
 Through the crooked gust of change ! 
 
 —133— 
 
A Dinner-Table 
 
 To Scudder Middleton 
 
 It was a dinner-table and the talk 
 
 Except for you would have been smooth and com- 
 fortable, 
 
 Revering money mostly and its whims. 
 
 But you were there and danced around the table, 
 
 Light on your feet and laughing in the room 
 
 And young and hard to follow. 
 
 They could not be your partners in that dance; 
 
 And they rebuked such manners in a proper world 
 
 And scored your faith with facts. 
 
 Yet all the time they watched a light that danced 
 with you. 
 
 Darkness as old as time towered about you, 
 
 From aged crags the rocks fell down, 
 
 And yet you danced impetuous, a very fool of 
 
 light, ^ 
 The swift, impatient partner of the sun. 
 
 —134— 
 
The House of Music 
 
 Tb, Florence Blumenthal 
 
 Those corridors of calm where beauty paced, 
 
 With wonder on her smiling lip, those heights 
 
 Where went columnal gray antiquity 
 
 Veiling her youth with curious memories. 
 
 That round and carven fountain where leaned love 
 
 And watched the breathing bosom of her tears — 
 
 All were forgotten in the echoing silence 
 
 Of the lone figure, In that house of music, 
 
 Of hope still fingering a shaft of sun. 
 
 —^55— 
 
Voices 
 
 To Sara Teasdale 
 
 O there were lights and laughter 
 And the motions to and fro 
 
 Of people as they enter 
 
 And people as they go . . . 
 
 And there were many voices 
 
 Vying at the feast, 
 But mostly I remember 
 
 Yours — who spoke the least. 
 
 — j^d— 
 
Two Poets Reading Together 
 
 To Wilfrid Wilson Gibson and Walter de la Mare 
 
 The ancient elements of poetry 
 
 Have come together here, two kinds of art, 
 
 In Gibson the old wizardry of the heart. 
 
 In De la Mare the heart of wizardry. 
 
 Gibson has told how harsh the world can be 
 
 To humble folk with dreams who have to part 
 
 From dreams awhile, and De la Mare can start 
 
 Dreams tiptoeing beyond adversity. 
 
 For Gibson words are people, everything 
 They suffer and enjoy, and in the end 
 The sufferings are not so great as the joy. 
 For De la Mare people are words that bring 
 New magic to the ear, strangers that lend 
 A book of fairy-stories to a boy. 
 
 —137— 
 
To One Young as a Rose 
 
 To Rose O'Neill 
 
 There never was so young a child, 
 There never was a rose so wild, 
 There never was a lip that smiled 
 So wise of all the world. 
 
 Save you, a rose of suddenness 
 Young as an infant's first caress — 
 And your dear lip of bitterness 
 Deep within sweetness furled. 
 
 -13S- 
 
In a River-Town 
 
 To Edwin Arlington Robinson 
 
 Brave listener to the melodious heart, 
 
 Its broken rhythms, its beating in the night, 
 
 Accurate scribe, the figures of whose art 
 
 Subtract, divide, add, multiply aright. 
 
 We who came after, reverent and wise, 
 
 Went visiting your river-town and you 
 
 And, haunted by the quiet of your eyes. 
 
 Yet saw them beautiful and found them true . . 
 
 And now when ecstasies of youth subside 
 
 And shadows darken the importunate will 
 
 And neighbors are away and friends have died, 
 
 We learn compassion on your evening-hill 
 
 And, by forgiving, are ourselves forgiven. 
 
 Near an old apple-tree petalled with heaven. 
 
 —139— 
 
Till Spring 
 
 To Sarah Ernst Abbott 
 
 Frail through the earth you came, but flowering 
 With courage of the sun, with wisdom of the rain. 
 Now, blown to earth by a sudden wind of pain, 
 Your beauty rests from venture till the spring. 
 
 •140- 
 
In Memory of a Young Painter 
 
 To Warren Rockwell 
 
 He dreamed of Italy and Greece: 
 
 His heart was sure that Rome, 
 The Forum, the Acropolis, 
 
 Athens, were beauty's home. 
 
 He waited hoping to the end 
 
 For Greece, for Italy; 
 But with a family to befriend, 
 
 His way was never free. 
 
 Attentive he approved them dear, 
 
 Shielded them day by day 
 From want, while softly year by year 
 
 Italy drew away. 
 
 Yet beauty which his eyes could see 
 Made them adore and shine. 
 
 And what in Greece or Italy 
 Has done as much for mine ? 
 
 —141— 
 
Richard 
 
 To Richard Mansfield 2nd 
 The fretful brow 
 Is smoothed away, 
 The little smile 
 Has come to stay . . . 
 He was uncertain 
 Now and then, 
 But Richard 
 Is himself again. 
 
 Happy, hasty, 
 Wanton, wild. 
 So young a sage. 
 So old a child. 
 He was bound to fret 
 Among ordinary men 
 But Richard 
 Is himself again. 
 
 ^142- 
 
The Boxer 
 
 To Jack London 
 
 For how could you grow up, boy of the world? 
 
 You were not meant 
 
 To be forgetful and content 
 
 And sober, on whose brow youth curled 
 
 Unkempt. Time had no right to tell 
 
 You how to go. And so with all your vim 
 
 You made a gay adventurous pass at him. 
 
 He struck. You fell. 
 
 You dared to be young. That, in the sight 
 
 Of Time the Champion, was tantamount 
 
 To challenge. So you came chaffing. 
 
 Defying, sparring with him as an angel might . . . 
 
 And now are still. Or do you hide your face to 
 
 use the count. 
 And are you laughing? 
 
 —143— 
 
Aloha Oe 
 
 To Queen Liliuokalani 
 
 Aloha, valiant queen, who to the end 
 
 Made of indignity a crown 
 And not until you died would condescend 
 
 To lay your kingdom down. 
 Child-woman, queen of children, born for fun, 
 
 For play, for make-believe, increase. 
 At last your heritage, earth, water, sun, 
 
 And take them now in peace. 
 
To Shepherds and Wise Men 
 
 In Memory of Anna Howard Sham 
 
 A star danced and she was born 
 To hold Its dancing In her eyes, 
 To be a guide to the forlorn, 
 To be a beacon to the wise. 
 
 She was a rising of the dead 
 To prove they had not died In vain, 
 And ghosts of the uncomforted 
 Followed laughing in her train. 
 
 She was a living benison 
 To prove the potency of birth 
 With the dear honor she has done 
 To generations of the earth. 
 
 She was herself the starry light 
 Leading still to Nazareth, 
 Moving lovely through the night, 
 Dominating even death . . . 
 
Follow, then, to every town 
 When an angel blows his horn, 
 Where a light is leaning down. 
 Where a little child is born. 
 
 — 146 — 
 
Rain 
 
 To Celia Keays 
 
 They tell me that we tenderly keep 
 
 The happy things, * 
 
 Forgetting pain. 
 
 There was a night when I could not sleep 
 
 For happiness of the sound 
 
 Of rain 
 
 Along the ground. 
 
 And in the morning-sun, from east to west 
 
 I felt the dancing wings 
 
 Of a mocking-bird. 
 
 And of all the sounds I ever heard 
 
 I hear those oftenest, 
 
 That rain still falls, that mocking-bird still sings 
 
 Though Celia went away 
 
 That day, 
 
 Not to come back again. 
 
 'I47- 
 
Night 
 
 To Celia Keays 
 
 Celia, when you bade me 
 Good-morning, I would wake 
 Quick again on your account, 
 Eager for your sake. 
 
 Yet at morning or at noon 
 In the clearest light, 
 Is there any voice as near 
 As your voice at night? 
 
 Or has anyone alive 
 Ever come and said 
 Anything as intimate 
 As you are saying, dead? 
 
 —148- 
 
An Ode to a Dancer 
 
 To Isadora Duncan 
 
 O Keats, thy Grecian urn has been upturned 
 
 And from its ashes is a woman made, 
 To dance them back again as when they burned 
 In young antiquity and pipes were played ! — 
 And who that early woman was that danced 
 Them dead, thou, Keats, wert born too late to 
 know 
 And born too early for her later birth. 
 And yet thy lips of poesy could blow 
 Both lives, until their ankles met and glanced 
 
 Between the dead world and the unborn earth. 
 
 Here is thy living witness from the dead. 
 
 With the garment and the measure and the 
 grace 
 Of a Greek maid, with the daisies on her head 
 And the daring of a new world in her face. 
 Dancing, she walks in perfect sacrifice. 
 Dancing she lifts her beauty in her hands 
 And bears it to the altar, as a sign 
 
 —149— 
 
Of joy in all the waters and the lands. 
 And while she praises with her pure device, 
 
 The breath she dances with, O Keats, is 
 thine ! 
 
 Life rises rippling through her like a spring, 
 
 Or like a stream it flows with deepening whirl. 
 Leaves in a wind taught her that fluttering 
 
 Of finger-tips. She moves, a rosy girl 
 Caught in a rain of love; a prophetess 
 
 Of dust struck on the instant dumb with pain; 
 A lovely melancholy being, wild 
 
 With remembering, with groping to attain 
 The edge and entrance of a wilderness. 
 To play again, untroubled as a child. 
 
 She strikes at death. But the escaping foe 
 
 Awaits unwearied, knowing every wile. 
 Forward she comes to take the final blow — 
 
 And in defeat defies him with her smile . . , 
 Upward she bares her throat to the keen thrust 
 
 Of triumph : — " O ye gods of time who give 
 And take, ye makers of beauty, though I die 
 
 In this my body, — beauty still shall live 
 Because of me and my immortal dust! — 
 
 O urn! Take back my ashes! It is I! " 
 
 ■ISO- 
 
Isadora 
 
 To Her Six Dancers 
 
 Beauty came out of the early world, 
 Her hyacinthine hair still curled, 
 Her robe still white on auroral limbs ; 
 And her body sang the self-same hymns 
 It long ago had sung to the morn 
 When death gave birth and love was born. 
 
 And once again her presence proved, 
 As most immortally she moved, 
 That in her meditative eye 
 The child of death can never die 
 But dances with inspired feet 
 On every hill, in every street. 
 
 She raised her hand — and Irma came, 
 Theresa, Lisel, each like a flame, 
 Anna, Erica, Gretel: the tread 
 Of life still dying, never dead . . . 
 And like a bird-song in a wood, 
 Within their very heart she stood. 
 —iSi— 
 
Tolstoi 
 
 Awhile I felt the Imperial sky 
 Clothe a sole figure, which was I; 
 Then, lonely for democracy, 
 I hailed the purple robe of air 
 Kinship for all mankind to share ; 
 But now at last, with ashen hair, 
 I learn it is not they nor I 
 Who own the mantle of the sky: 
 Silence alone wears majesty. 
 
 —752— 
 
Saint' Gaudens 
 
 He called: and forth there came 
 
 Not wholly veiled, 
 
 Forth from the earth, 
 
 Silence made visible. 
 
 Touching no finite answer on that mouth, 
 
 Yet his fine fingers found reply 
 
 And from the light upon his soul 
 
 He drew the light of the unlighted tomb, 
 
 From man and woman both 
 
 The image of the unimagined face, 
 
 And left here in this Rock Creek burial-place 
 
 The arm of life. 
 
 The veil of time. 
 
 The uncorrupted presence of the dead. 
 
 ■^53- 
 
Whitman 
 
 As voices enter earth, 
 
 Into your great frame and windy beard 
 
 Have entered many voices, 
 
 And out of your great frame and windy beard, 
 
 As out of earth, 
 
 They are shaken free again . . . 
 
 With the thunder and the butterfly. 
 
 With the sea crossing like runners the tape of the 
 beach. 
 
 With machinery and tools and the sweat of men, 
 
 With all lovers and comrades combining. 
 
 With the odor of redwoods and the whisper of 
 death. 
 
 Comes your prophetic presence, 
 
 Never to be downed, never to be dissuaded from 
 singing 
 
 The comfortable counsel of the earth 
 
 And from moving, athletic, intimate, sure, non- 
 chalant. 
 
 Friending whoever is friends with himself, 
 
 Accusing only avoiders, tamperers, fabricators, 
 —154— 
 
And yet touching with your finger-tips 
 All men, 
 
 As Michael Angelo imagined God 
 Touching with sap the finger-tips of Adam. 
 
 —^55- 
 
Across the Ferry to Fort Lee 
 
 Across the ferry to Fort Lee 
 One Sunday twilight we set out. 
 And I loved you and you loved me 
 Shyly, sharply, tenderly. 
 And each heartbeat between us was the hushing of 
 a shout. 
 
 Among the youthful trees we came, 
 New as ourselves, breathless and dim; 
 And, leaving behind the ripples of flame, 
 Each of us named the other's name 
 And we stood there rooted like a double sapling, 
 limb to limb. 
 
 Sabbath was in the little town 
 And sleepy people in the cars ; 
 We wandered east again, to see 
 The city of infinity 
 Over our heads and, down below, the little New 
 York stars. 
 
 -156- 
 
And so we happened, in the dark, 
 Upon an inn called Belvedere . . . 
 Lured by a lit and beckoning mark 
 As at the entrance to a park, 
 We stood before an ancient house that promised 
 modern cheer. 
 
 As German as a proper brew. 
 Our host himself opened the door. 
 I think the round-necked German knew 
 That you loved me and I loved you, 
 I think he must have welcomed lovers many times 
 before. 
 
 He led us to a low long room, 
 A public room with a private air: 
 At one end, shining in the gloom, 
 A Christmas-tree was still in bloom, 
 And members of his family sat each in a special 
 chair. 
 
 They sat in a circle round a stove, 
 Contentment in its anchored guise, 
 Like fishing-vessels in a cove 
 After the daylight. And we throve 
 In our own inward harbor and our home was in 
 our eyes. 
 
He brought up heavy, hearty food, 
 And heavy, hearty fun as well, 
 And then he left us to our mood 
 And, as if to prove that the world was good, 
 He crossed to the piano and played us JVilhelm 
 Tell, 
 
 But we forgot him presently 
 As we retold the chosen way 
 We had planned at dawn to find Fort Lee, 
 I loving you, you loving me, 
 And we lived again each hour of the dear long 
 day. 
 
 An aged woman parted our dream. 
 As into a kiss there comes a pang; 
 On the mother's face was many a seam 
 Of years and only a little gleam . . . 
 " Bitte, ' Der liebe, lange Tag ' ! " she said. And 
 so he sang. 
 
 His folds of fat faded away 
 And one by one her folds of pain; 
 Hearing him sing " The Dear Long Day," 
 She was no more ancient and gray. 
 She was her God's eternal love, she was a girl 
 again. 
 
 —15S— 
 
At first she nodded her head and tapped 
 Her foot along the simple beat, 
 And then we saw her clasp her chapped 
 And withered hands, her eyes were rapt, 
 And in and out on her toothless gums her lips were 
 singing sweet. 
 
 And through my own tears I could see 
 Upon your face the tears that fell, 
 I loving you, you loving me. 
 We were that moment old as she . . . 
 We know what she remembered — and beloved, 
 it is well. 
 
 •159- 
 
Alma Mater 
 
 And one enlisted for my land 
 When war let loose the sundering flood; 
 And one — because his father's blood 
 Was hot in him — let go my hand. 
 
 I lost them both, — but not before 
 I kissed them both. The battle, done, 
 Defeated one, exalted one . . . 
 Ask me not which I love the more. 
 
 igi4 
 
 — i6o- 
 
Jane Addams 
 
 It is a breed of little, blinded men 
 And fickle women, who would laugh at her 
 Because in time of war she sets astir 
 Against the sword the legions of the pen 
 To write the name pf Jesus Christ again 
 And on this page, a swarming broken blur, 
 Restore the word of the deliverer 
 Above the little words of blinded men. 
 
 In time of peace, which is a time of war 
 More subtle slow and cunning, she has brought 
 Together enemies in armistice , . . 
 Yet, in the face of what she did before 
 Against the war that centuries have fought, 
 We ban her from a little war like this ! 
 
 jgiS 
 
 ~i6i- 
 
To Germany 
 
 (For her son, Karl Liebknecht, who alone in the 
 Reichstag stood up against war) 
 
 I love thee for one hero, surely one. 
 
 My spirit straightens, like the tempered blade 
 
 Of his unmasterable weapon made 
 
 In heaven's high forge, not hell's. I had begun 
 
 To dread thy horrid shadow in the sun, 
 
 To hate thee for thy national parade 
 
 Of heathen men idolatrous of Trade, 
 
 Shouting the great commandment of the Gun. 
 
 But thou hast bred out of thy land a man 
 Of braver metal than thy generals; 
 Above the thunderbolt his courage calls. 
 He is thy founder and thy guardian. 
 He is thy hero, Liebknecht, who alone 
 Under the lightning lays thy cornerstone. 
 
 — 162 — 
 
Foam 
 
 The ocean tosses patterns at my feet — 
 
 Large, irresistible, minute and lost. 
 
 A busy rabbit-headed grasshopper 
 
 Carves a green blade down to the yellow spine. 
 
 Over the mounded sand hot-foots an ant. 
 
 A ghostly spider pauses in the sun. 
 
 Across the sea those armies, that small chaos 
 
 Of rabbit-headed hot-foot ghostly men 
 
 Are ocean-patterns brought me by the surf, 
 
 Large, irresistible, minute and lost. 
 
 igi6 
 
 —i6s^ 
 
Sands 
 
 I fell on a dune and slept, 
 
 Sharp grasses by my head: 
 
 While armies far-ojFf warred and wept, 
 
 I joined the earth instead . . . 
 
 Until I moved my hand 
 
 And was awake again 
 
 And shook myself out of the sand 
 
 To the cold wind of men. 
 
 igi6 
 
 — 164 — 
 
News of a Soldier 
 
 A stem of grass, by my left foot, 
 Stands upward from the root. 
 A blade of grass, by my right hand, 
 Has bent downward to the sand . . 
 
 Life, to me strange, to him was dear. 
 But he is gone and I am here 
 And on his earth I move my feet 
 Which were still when he was fleet. 
 
 I see my hand sweat in the sun 
 As if with labor he has done — 
 For he took earth as for the strong, 
 While I have heard earth as a song, 
 
 A song intricately sung 
 Of me older, of him young . . . 
 Can I believe now, he submit, 
 I on the earth, he under it? 
 
 igi6 
 
 -165- 
 
The Wounds 
 
 I saw a German soldier 
 
 Off duty lift his gun 
 And shoot a Belgian hanging 
 
 By the neck in the sun, 
 A Nazarene, a peasant, 
 
 Hanging till he died, 
 And the German soldier's bullet 
 
 Made a hole in his side. 
 
 I saw a Belgian soldier 
 
 Walking in the dark, 
 And he stumbled on a German 
 
 Who lay still and stark, 
 A Nazarene, a peasant. 
 
 Who dies in many lands. 
 And the Belgian soldier's bayonet 
 
 Pierced both his hands. 
 
 igi6 
 
 ^i66- 
 
Niagara-on-the-Lake 
 
 I heard them march and drill, 
 
 Canadian men and boys : 
 Around a cross upon a hill 
 
 I heard a martial noise. 
 
 O shall I never know, 
 But do as I did then? — 
 
 At Rome's commanding, always go 
 To mock my God again? 
 
 igi6 
 
 — i6y- 
 
Kit Thurber 
 
 Unseen These Thirty Years 
 
 Up that river Norwich lies 
 
 And the little gate 
 Which used to click me off to school 
 
 When I was late . . . 
 
 A rhododendron in the yard, 
 
 A well, an arbored seat 
 And, behind the house, a cherry-tree 
 
 Where robins dared to eat. 
 
 And past the cherry, past the grapes 
 And the hen-house and the shed 
 
 And the bean-poles, cabbages and beets 
 And the apples overhead 
 
 — /^^- 
 
And past the mystical fringe of trees, 
 Bushes and stumps and ferns, 
 
 We used to find a world-wide river 
 And its endless turns. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe wandered there 
 And the Swiss Family swarmed 
 
 And other vagabonds we knew 
 Whom you and I performed. 
 
 Two stones and a boulder made a bay 
 And a rubbishy stick a boat, 
 
 And frigates, caravels, pinnaces 
 Would enter there and float, 
 
 Would anchor off our palmed coast 
 
 Or founder and go down, 
 And companies would come ashore 
 
 To build a holy town. 
 
 Columbus came, Balboa came, 
 
 Vespucci and Cortez, 
 And there were deaths and burials 
 
 And births and marriages . . . 
 
 Kit Thurber came and I, I came. 
 And we built a shore of dreams, 
 
 As many boys in many lands 
 
 Have built on many streams . . . 
 — i6g — 
 
And now I pass in time of war 
 
 This river hung in fog, 
 Where two bare-legged, wading boys 
 
 Caught once a log 
 
 And made of it a monitor 
 
 For conquering the South — 
 And all those memories today 
 
 Are bitter in my mouth. 
 
 O river Thames, my river Thames, 
 
 Bitter you lead away 
 Into a fog, into a dark. 
 
 To a death we used to play, 
 
 Pupils of malice, sons of war — 
 
 Preparing to be hurled 
 Into a grave of agony. 
 
 The children of the world . . . 
 
 So come once more through the fringe of 
 trees 
 
 Where long ago we came — 
 Leave Hfe behind. Kit Thurber, come ! 
 
 Death is the game I 
 
 igi6 
 
 — lyo — 
 
The Thunder-Bringer 
 
 America, you cannot do without me ! — 
 
 I have come back again, 
 
 Shaker of men. 
 
 And where I tread 
 
 Between the living nations and the dead, 
 
 My bold young eagles of the west 
 
 Rattle their wings about me 
 
 And, like a clashing legion, breast 
 
 The tumult of my enemies. 
 
 These are my weapons, these, 
 
 you who doubt me : 
 
 The beaks of my young eagles against the fiery 
 
 beast, 
 Their claws against the dragon of the east, 
 Their eyes and wings against the infested seas! 
 
 1 am The Man ! — 
 
 Take me, America ! — the irresistible, the req- 
 uisite ! 
 Nothing shall harm you, nothing can, 
 If it results in Me. 
 
 —171— 
 
1 am the perfect fit 
 
 For all your moods, 
 
 Shooting a slug of solid slang 
 
 Into every wall of the whole shebang: 
 
 American enough 
 
 To pull a bluff 
 
 And to keep on bluffing till I win ; 
 
 Or to parley with philosophy; 
 
 Or to be natural — a hearty, rough 
 
 Man of the woods; 
 
 To use both enemies and friends 
 
 All to my ends ; 
 
 To thrust my chin 
 
 Into any face 
 
 In any place. 
 
 And to make the round world farther ring 
 
 My fame than that of any king; 
 
 To keep down age and ease and fat 
 
 By a try at this and a try at that; 
 
 To do my thinking in my hat ; 
 
 To do my talking with a click 
 
 Of a trigger-jaw and a loaded stick; 
 
 To be never weak and always strong; 
 
 To be always right and never wrong; 
 
 To be a whirlwind on the way 
 
 Toward second place on Judgment-Day; 
 
 To make myself God's punishing-thong, 
 
 — 772 — 
 
His winnowing fan : 
 
 The thunderbolt American! 
 
 Eagles, arouse my country from her sleep, 
 
 That she shall leap 
 
 Awake and keep her faith with Me 
 
 Who am her Destiny, 
 
 Me! Me! 
 
 Shaker of men ! 
 
 Then — 
 
 Who in heaven can doubt us, 
 
 Who in hell flout us ? — 
 
 Rattle your wings about us 
 
 Wildly as you can — 
 
 My Country and her Man ! 
 
 igi6 
 
 —173- 
 
The Liight'Bringer 
 
 This is a time of death and blinded pain; 
 
 And men, as if half-slain, 
 
 New-bleeding from old scars, 
 
 Stare at delirium 
 
 With empty eyes 
 
 And can no longer tell how patient come 
 
 Into the skies 
 
 The counselling stars. 
 
 These be my weapons in the fight : 
 
 The invincible nights and days 
 
 (My bright flag signalling their points and rays) 
 
 And the one proud profoundest gun, 
 
 The blazing unassailable light 
 
 Of the sun ! 
 
 O my own people I — if we dare to be 
 
 Humanity, 
 
 If our preparedness be first within, 
 
 If we be resolute to sever 
 
 The heart of courage from the heart of fear — 
 
Then we shall hear, 
 
 Above the din, 
 
 The only trump of victory, 
 
 Not for the day, not for the year, 
 
 But forever. 
 
 i()i6 
 
 ■175— 
 
Republic to Republic 
 
 France ! 
 
 It Is I, answering, 
 
 America. 
 
 And it shall be remembered not only in our lips 
 
 but in our hearts 
 And shall awaken forever, familiar and new as the 
 
 morning. 
 That we were the first of all lands to be lovers. 
 To run to each other with the great cry 
 Of recognition. 
 
 Bound by no ties of nearness or of knowledge 
 
 But of the nearness of the heart. 
 
 You chose me then. 
 
 And so I choose you now 
 
 By the same nearness ... 
 
 And the name you called me then 
 
 I call you now — 
 
 O Libei;ty, my Love ! 
 
 igij 
 
 — 1^6 — 
 
The Home-Land 
 
 (From the French of Emile Cammaerts) 
 
 It's a certain voice, it's the sound 
 Of a bell in a distant tower, 
 It's sunlight on the ground 
 Through trees or after a shower. 
 It's a certain roof under a certain sky, 
 The fragrance of the path of a certain street, 
 A steeple with a farm kneeling nearby. 
 The feeling of the grass under the feet, 
 The fragrance of the path of a certain street. 
 The flash of a look, the faltering of a hand, 
 A something from the past, too quick to under- 
 stand, — 
 It's what one feels and cannot say 
 Even when one sings, 
 Though that's the nearest way, 
 It's all those things. 
 
 It's what one tastes and sees, 
 It's what one breathes and hears, 
 Tobacco, bread and cheese, 
 
 —177— 
 
Bright leaves, a wind that veers, 
 
 The common sights and sounds, 
 
 Dogs barking, people greeting, 
 
 A mug of ale that pounds and pounds 
 
 A table at some meeting — 
 
 It's what one feels and cannot say 
 
 Even when one sings, 
 
 Though that's the nearest way, 
 
 It's all those things. 
 
 It's the body's very best, 
 It's the heart-beat in the side 
 For children at the breast. 
 It's remembering those who died, 
 It's the ardor of the way, 
 It's the savor of the song, 
 It's the dream, aching to stay, 
 And the passion, to belong, 
 The sower's will to reap. 
 The lover's will to keep — 
 It's what one feels and cannot say 
 Even when one sings, — 
 Though that's the nearest way, 
 It's all those things. 
 
 1918 
 
 -178- 
 
A Canticle of Praise 
 
A Canticle of Praise 
 
 (A salutation of bugle and drum) 
 
 The First Cantor (to the continuing solemn, low 
 heat of the drum) 
 
 Sing in thanksgiving, a song of the Lord 
 
 Who moves in His might through the feet of His 
 horde. 
 
 (The drum ceases) 
 
 O clap your hands, you people, and O you hills, 
 give praise 
 
 For the coming of His glory, the mystery of His 
 ways! 
 
 Look and you shall see the Lord, though your eyes 
 be dim ! 
 
 Sing and you shall hear the Lord — in His Battle- 
 Hymn! 
 
 The People (singing) 
 
 " Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of 
 
 the Lord; 
 " He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes 
 
 of wrath are stored; 
 
 —i8i— 
 
" He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His ter- 
 rible swift sword; 
 " His truth is marching on. 
 " Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
 " Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
 " Glory, glory, hallelujah! 
 " His truth is marching on." 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 O clap your hands, you people, and O you hills, 
 give praise ! 
 
 An end is come of Egypt, an end of evil days. 
 
 Under the red sea again that covers all vain things 
 
 Are drawn the intolerant, intolerable kings. 
 
 Behold, their drowning chariot-wheels, those im- 
 perial wills. 
 
 Give praise, O you people, and clap your hands, 
 you hills ! 
 
 (A salutation of bugles) 
 
 Give thanks for lads who held Liege, the gate, 
 
 While Europe shook amazed. 
 
 Those first, those garlanded, those sons of fate ! 
 
 O let the name be praised 
 
 Of the town where the conquerors met the Belgian 
 heart, 
 
 Till France came, and Britain came, to do their 
 part! 
 
 Liege! That name! Name it with a shout! 
 
 —182-^ 
 
The People 
 
 Liege ! 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Again — 
 
 The People 
 Liege ! 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 And what were they fighting for, fighting to de- 
 fend? 
 
 They were fighting for the homeland, world with- 
 out end — 
 
 Not for the monster, the devourer, the state. 
 
 But for everybody's homeland they held Liege, 
 the gate. 
 
 Their home and your home, well you all know it — 
 
 Yet hear it in the echo of a Belgian poet . . . 
 
 The Second Cantor (as a hell rings softly) 
 
 " It's a certain voice, it's the sound 
 
 " Of a bell in a distant tower, 
 
 " It's sunlight on the ground 
 
 " Through trees or after a shower, 
 
 " It's a certain roof under a certain sky, 
 
 " The fragrance of the path of a certain street, 
 
 " A steeple with a farm kneeling nearby, 
 
 " The feeling of the grass under the feet, 
 
 " The fragrance of the path of a certain street, 
 
 -183- 
 
" The flash of a look, the faltering of a hand, 
 " A something from the past, too quick to under- 
 stand — 
 " It's what one feels and cannot say 
 *' Even when one sings, 
 " Though that's the nearest way, 
 " It's all those things " — 
 For which France came and Britain came 
 To do their part, 
 And Russia, Russia, 
 With the bleeding heart . . . 
 
 Both Cantors and the Musicians (singing in uni- 
 son, first boldly, then faintly, slowly, to the 
 air of The Volga Boatmen) 
 
 Hear the boatmen on the Volga, 
 
 Hear them singing on the Volga, 
 
 Hear the boatmen on the Volga ... 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Hear them, those forgotten men, men with bare 
 hands. 
 
 Who fought for their own and for other lands 
 
 And in Mazurian marshes, in snow and in sleet, 
 
 Saved the British and the French from de- 
 feat! . . . 
 
 Remembering Russia, let us not mistake 
 
 Her hopeful, crucified heart-break! 
 
 In our ease of victory, let us give thanks 
 —184— 
 
To those peasant-soldiers, those Russian ranks 
 Who, betrayed by their masters, yet fought and 
 
 fought again — 
 And dared at last the estate of men . . . 
 Let us be humble and own to them our debt, 
 Lest we be arrogant, lest we forget 
 Who gave to us our wider cry against imperial 
 
 wills — 
 Praise them, O you people, remember them, you 
 
 hills! 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 And why is every freeman every freeman's 
 
 friend. 
 If not for every homeland, world without end ! 
 " It's the body's very best, 
 *' It's the heart-beat in the side 
 " For children at the breast, 
 " It's remembering those who died, 
 " It's the ardor of the way, 
 " It's the savor of the song, 
 *' It's the dream, aching to stay, 
 " And the passion, to belong, 
 " The sower's will to reap, 
 " The lover's will to keep — 
 " It's what one feels and cannot say 
 " Even when one sings, 
 " Though that's the nearest way, 
 " It's all those things." 
 
 —185— 
 
(A long roll of drums) 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 And what would have become of all those 
 things, 
 
 Where would they be, by the will of kings? 
 
 Over them all, a tide would have rolled 
 
 An ocean of iron, if the kings controlled . . . 
 
 But the men of France and England heard the 
 flood, 
 
 They raised human dykes up, dykes of flesh and 
 blood, 
 
 Building, ever building, when some would give 
 way. 
 
 Another and another, till the flood should stay . . . 
 
 And O the holy river 
 
 Whose calm name shall ever 
 
 Be a name — by which to pray ! 
 
 Stand ! Uncover ! 
 
 Stand, every lover 
 
 Of France and of Britain and of home today 
 
 And name that river, that immortal river, 
 
 Once for the first battle, once for the second. 
 
 Both of those battles which the foe never reck- 
 oned, 
 
 Let high heaven hear you say — 
 
 The People 
 The Marne! 
 
 —i86— 
 
The First Cantor 
 Again — 
 
 The People 
 The Marne! 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Stand, yet stand — 
 
 And name the command, 
 
 The everlasting answer 
 
 That has saved Alsace ! 
 
 Miraculous answer, 
 
 Agonized answer, 
 
 Solemn as a mass ! 
 
 Cannon! Machine-gun! Liquid-fire! Gas! 
 
 But Verdun answered — 
 
 Indomitable answer ! 
 
 They shall not pass ! 
 
 Remember it ! Speak it — 
 
 The People 
 
 They shall not pas? ! 
 
 The First Cantor 
 
 Again — with all your voices — 
 
 The People 
 
 They shall not pass ! 
 
 (A roll of muffled drums) 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 And now your own are answering . . . 
 
 —187- 
 
Listen to them clear — 
 Saying in their graves, 
 " Lafayette, we are here " — 
 Your young, your quick, 
 Your dead, your dear — 
 O say it, say it with them, 
 Deeper than a cheer, 
 Say it as an anthem, 
 Say it as a tear, 
 A wreath, a crown — 
 Lafayette, we are here, 
 Say it as a prayer — 
 
 The People 
 Lafayette, we are here. 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Say it as a trumpet ! 
 
 The People 
 Lafayette, we are here ! 
 
 (Trumpets blow) 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 
 Give praise for America, 
 
 Final, mighty, sure. 
 
 Whose heart, as the strength of ten, 
 
 Dared to endure ! 
 
 Be glad of her patience, 
 
 Slow to wrath . . . 
 
 —i88— 
 
For love shall be given 
 
 To a land if love it hath — 
 
 And from the land that hath not 
 
 Love for aye 
 
 All that it hath 
 
 Shall be taken away . . . 
 
 O be glad for America, 
 
 Whatever they say, 
 
 America, to whom the world 
 
 Turns for love today . . . 
 
 So remember St. Mihiel — 
 
 Argonne — Grandpre — 
 
 And the tide at Chateau-Thierry 
 
 That rolled the other way ! — 
 
 The First Cantor (with an accent of cym- 
 bals) 
 O the catalogue of victory. 
 The catalogue of cheer, 
 City after city 
 Which the world holds dear — 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Jerusalem, Bagdad, 
 Rheims, Monastir, 
 Strassburg, Metz — - 
 
 Both Cantors 
 Free! 
 
 —189— 
 
The Second Cantor 
 And that city by the Plave, 
 That city by the sea, 
 Venice, delivered. 
 Delivered Italy! 
 
 The First Cantor 
 And river after river, 
 Line after line, 
 The Aisne, the Oise, 
 The Meuse — 
 
 (A final sharp challenge from the bugle) 
 
 Both Cantors and the Musicians 
 The Rhine ! 
 
 (The cymbals cease) 
 
 The Second Cantor 
 Cities and rivers 
 Evermore to be 
 Hymns of the happy, 
 Songs of the free . . . 
 
 The First Cantor (with an increasing drum-roll) 
 
 O sing, now sing a song of praise, 
 
 A song of no nation now, of no narrow ways — 
 
 (One quick drum-beat) 
 Both Cantors 
 The song of the world — 
 
 (Another single drum-heat) 
 — I go — 
 
'Both Cantors and the Musicians 
 The Marseillaise ! 
 
 (A final drum-heat) 
 
 The People (singing) 
 
 " O now arouse, ye sons of a world of light, 
 
 " To greet the day your glory comes ! 
 
 " Though the might of the tyrant advances, 
 
 " And though hate be the beat of his drums, 
 
 " Though hate be the beat of his drums, 
 
 " Shall the tread of his legions appal you, 
 
 " Though trampling the fields of your home, 
 
 " Though near and nearer yet they come — 
 
 " Hear the lips of your little children call you 
 
 " To arms, ye sons of light ! 
 
 *' From mountain to the sea, 
 
 " March on, march on, sons of the world — 
 
 " Till all the world be free ! " 
 
 19 18 
 
 ■igi— 
 
The Day 
 
 Not as they planned it or will plan again, 
 Those captains whose command was forged in hell, 
 Not as they promised for their terrible 
 Obedient horde, Teuton and Saracen, 
 Bulgar and Slav, not as they dreamed it then, 
 Masters of might with sobs for paeans to swell 
 Their darkening sway, but like a far-off bell 
 Undoing night, the day has come for men. 
 
 The people's day has dawned, a deeper sky 
 Than any day that ever rose from sea. 
 And more than any captain dared is won. 
 And this great light that opens carries high 
 More justice than we dreamed of, even we 
 Who still are blind awhile, facing the sun. 
 
 igiS 
 
 — ig2 — 
 
Jews of the World 
 
 " Dear, fainting Jesu, now to thine own seed 
 Creep home again — who else can understand 
 thee? " 
 
 — Israel Zangwill. 
 
 I make amends to you . . . 
 
 I have disdained you, 
 
 I have made a mock'of your misfortunes, 
 
 Money-lenders, money-gatherers, 
 
 Hoarders of might. 
 
 But today you come from a new Nazareth, 
 
 Baffling the Pharisees, 
 
 Understood by the humble and meek, 
 
 Earning the world 
 
 Against usurers, 
 
 Winning the world 
 
 Against Caesar, 
 
 Saving the world 
 
 With the mere heart of man, 
 
 Bringing the world 
 
 Peace. 
 
 1919 
 
 —193— 
 
Prepare! 
 
 O human hearts, 
 
 Beating through fear, through jealousy. 
 Through pride, through avarice, through bitter- 
 ness, 
 Through agony, through death, 
 Beating, beating 
 Shame and forgiveness, 
 Bewilderment and love, 
 O my own country, 
 My new world. 
 Prepare, 
 Prepare — 
 Not to avenge wrong 
 But to exalt right. 
 Not to display honor 
 But to prove humility, 
 Not to bring wrath 
 But vision. 
 Not to win a war 
 But a people. 
 And not one people only 
 
 —194— 
 
But all peoples, 
 
 Not to exact justice from your enemies only 
 
 But from your friends, 
 
 And not from your friends only 
 
 But first from yourselves! 
 
 I gig 
 
 —195— 
 
Shantung 
 
 In the west you free Jerusalem, 
 
 But in the east you sell 
 T'ai Shan, the Holy Mountain . . 
 
 I hear a temple bell 
 Breathing, like a perfume 
 
 From its exalted place, . 
 The presence of Confucius, 
 
 The wisdom of a race, 
 The future of a people 
 
 The only one of all 
 Whose conquerors are conquered, 
 
 Whose history is tall — 
 Taller than Fujiyama, 
 
 Taller than Koyasan, 
 Taller than that red sun 
 
 Consuming from Japan . . . 
 And my face is in the flowers 
 
 And my brow is in the dust 
 And my heart is sick with perfume 
 
 And I weep because I must, 
 
 — ig6 — 
 
I weep for you, O masters, 
 O conquerors, O slaves. 
 
 As I hear you stir in China 
 The quiet of your graves. 
 
 igiQ 
 
 —m- 
 
An American 
 
 They buried him in Russia . . . 
 When he tried 
 
 To ask what he was dying for, 
 No man replied. 
 
 " What's it all about, mate? 
 
 Why can't I know 
 
 If I'm on the side of " — Answer him. 
 
 Silence and snow ! 
 
 igig 
 
 —igS— 
 
Russia 
 
 He shall be our brother and be our friend, 
 And hunger and war and woe shall end ! 
 
 The word, the word, of heart, of mouth, 
 East and west and north and south, 
 Sharp on the mountains, rolling on the rivers, 
 Wide on the steppes the white word quivers. 
 Leaping, laughing, singing, humming: 
 Christ is coming, Christ is coming ! 
 
 Make ready your houses, make ready your doors, 
 Yours, Mother Mary, and, Peter, yours! 
 Martha, Joseph, Judas, awake — 
 Christ is coming, for your sake ! 
 Christ is coming through the land 
 With white lilies in his hand, 
 Lilies of plenty, lilies of peace. 
 Coming to see that grief shall cease. 
 He shall touch with his lilies every head, 
 Giving love, giving bread. 
 And he shall be our little czar 
 With angels trumpeting his car, 
 —igg~ 
 
And he shall speak ■ — and no more sin ! 
 And the Kingdom of Heaven shall begin. 
 
 But who IS this with a savage face ? — ■ 
 What man has come, in Jesus' place, 
 With a voice not saying words to bless 
 But crying in the wilderness? 
 
 John, John, John, John, 
 
 Preparing the way for the Lord ! 
 
 He has put his hairy raiment on 
 
 And he drinks from a bitter gourd. 
 
 He faces the Herods, he frightens them dumb 
 
 John, John, John has come . . . 
 
 And a million innocent, a million wise 
 Wait for the star and watch it rise. 
 
 O slay our first-born, men of the west, 
 You shall not slay at Mary's breast! 
 Send your soldiers, send your might, 
 They shall not find him in the night. 
 And yet the Riissian shepherds know 
 And Russia'n wise men in the snow 
 That John is prophesying true 
 And Christ shall come — in spite of you I 
 
 19 19 
 
 — 200 — 
 
To a President 
 
 If this was our battle, if these were our ends, 
 Which were our enemies, which were our friends ! 
 
 igig 
 
 •201- 
 
Jehovah 
 
 Brand him for what he is, 
 
 Have done with him, 
 
 Cast out Jehovah ! 
 
 Cast out the author of eternal war, 
 
 Slayer of little children and of joy! 
 
 If there be churches that will harbor him. 
 Burn them, destroy them, rend them stone from 
 stone ! 
 
 If there be men and women who will hide him, 
 Love them with laughter, crowd into their hearts 
 Till there be room for nothing else but love I 
 
 If there be dread of enemies. 
 
 If there be godly and terrific wrath. 
 
 Know first the mightiest enemy of all, 
 
 Cast out the jealous god, 
 
 Cast out the king of war, 
 
 Cast out Jehovah ! 
 
 igig 
 
 202 
 
The Resurrection of the Body 
 
 The people of the earth are mighty 
 And their time is at hand. 
 They do not believe how soon, 
 But I believe. 
 
 The rulers of the earth are stubborn, 
 But their end is at hand. 
 They dare not think of the end, 
 But I dare. 
 
 The dead of the earth are past reckoning, 
 But they are still to be reckoned with. 
 They do not seem to be living, 
 But I live. 
 
 For to dream and to dare 
 
 Is the only life. 
 
 And to dream and to dare and to die 
 
 Is the resurrection. 
 
 1919 
 
 —203— 
 
The True Pacifist 
 
 Come at me with your scorn, 
 And strike me with your rod — 
 Though I be slain a thousand times, 
 I will not fight my God. 
 
 I gig 
 
 — 204 — 
 
The Mask 
 
 I saw the old lie look up again, 
 With its mask. 
 
 O truth, 
 
 If they must have masks, 
 
 Where is yours ? — 
 
 That you may seem beauty 
 
 To heroes 
 
 And to poets 
 
 And to women. 
 
 igig 
 
 —205— 
 
The Eclipse 
 
 Between the sun and moon 
 Passed the earth 
 On a January night during war, 
 And the face of the moon changed 
 Reflecting blood. 
 
 But the sun was not put out . . . 
 Unhke me, it took the whole thing 
 Largely and lightly. 
 
 — 206 — 
 
Gardening 
 
 Go and plant a lilac-tree 
 With water and with sun. 
 Gardens are a surety, 
 Gardening's never done. 
 
 Shut the gateway and let pass 
 The windy throng of war, 
 See the sky in the water-glass 
 Ripple as before — 
 
 A rosebud bending at a cloud, 
 A mountain and a tree, 
 A shadow telling what a shroud 
 R'ain can be. 
 
 Would you bring unruly folk 
 Into a ruly land? 
 Would you plant the poison-oak, 
 To show a poisoned hand ? 
 
 Shut them out and have no ruth, 
 Bid them all good-bye, 
 — 207 — 
 
All who have not learned the truth 
 That beauty dares to die. 
 
 And if ruin come awhile — 
 Then let earth renew 
 The gradual beauty, mile by mile, 
 Which is always you. 
 
 -^208- 
 
Epilogue 
 
To a Volunteer 
 
 And ard you off to war, Pan? 
 Dance well among the dead ! 
 For there's a shaking in your shin, 
 And now the tufts of hair begin 
 To crest upon your head. 
 
 A crest becomes a helmet, Pan, 
 A hoof becomes a sword, 
 And pipes become a bayonet — 
 And so, to feel the music jet. 
 You drill before the Lord. 
 
 And are you off to war, Pan ? — » 
 I thought you long had shed 
 That gory happiness of horn 
 You felt before the Christ was born 
 Yet are you off to war, Pan? — 
 Dance well among the dead ! 
 
 211- 
 
The Faun that Went to War 
 
 He hid his hoof in an army shoe 
 
 And he marched and marched and marched, 
 He did the things they told him to do* — 
 
 Though the deep of his soul was parched 
 For leaves with morning,dripping through, 
 
 Yet he marched and marched and marched. 
 
 They told him the stars would drip no more 
 Till he killed and killed and killed, 
 
 So he left the ways that he loved before 
 Where his leafy cup was filled 
 
 And he threw it aside and he went to war 
 And he killed and killed and killed. 
 
 And he killed a man and saw him fall, 
 
 And he wept and wept and wept 
 For a body once as young and tall 
 
 As dawn when the whole world slept . . . 
 He had killed the highest heart of all 
 
 And he wept. 
 
 -212- 
 
The Singing Faun 
 
 I had come down from the hill of trees, 
 Down from the prophetic leaves, 
 
 And I had seized among men a weapon 
 
 And sung among men a brave song, 
 
 And I had broken the weapon and thrown it away, 
 
 Singing among men a braver song, 
 
 And was tall with the pride of my singing. 
 
 When one who was wounded like a scarlet tanager 
 
 Looked up at me from his blood, 
 
 Looked up and murmured in so still a voice 
 
 That my singing was undone. 
 
 My weapon of song broken : 
 
 " Go hack to the hill of trees, 
 I need you there," he said, 
 " Go hack to the prophetic leaves, 
 My singing faun! 
 Must I he stripped of everyone, 
 Must I he stripped of you? 
 —213— 
 
'Must I he so forsaken and condemned? 
 Shall no one listen for me to the trees, 
 Shall no one speak for me among the leaves? ** 
 
 And I came back to the hill of trees, 
 And I came back to the prophetic leaves. 
 
 — 214 — 
 

 
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