Chapter 2

Two hours, two hours: God give me strength for it! He who has given so much strength to me And nothing to my child, must give to-day What more I need to try and save my child And get for him the life I owe to him. To think that I may get it for him now, Before he knows how much he might have missed That other boys have got! The bitterest thought Of all that plagued me when he came was this, How some day he would see the difference, And drag himself to me with puzzled eyes To ask me why it was. He would have been Cruel enough to do it, knowing not That was the question my rebellious heart Cried over and over one whole year to God, And got no answer and no help at all. If he had asked me, what could I have said? What single word could I have found to say To hide me from his searching, puzzled gaze? Some coward thing at best, never the truth; The truth I never could have told him. No, I never could have said, "God gave you me To fashion you a body, right and strong, With sturdy little limbs and chest and neck For fun and fighting with your little mates, Great feats and voyages in the breathless world Of out-of-doors,--He gave you me for this, And I was such a bungler, that is all!" O, the old lie--that thought was not the worst. I never have been truthful with myself. For by the door where lurked one ghostly thought I stood with crazy hands to thrust it back If it should dare to peep and whisper out Unbearable things about me, hearing which The women passing in the streets would turn To pity me and scold me with their eyes, Who was so bad a mother and so slow To learn to help God do his wonder in her That she--O my sweet baby! It was not The fear that you would see the difference Between you and the other boys and girls; No, no, it was the dimmer, wilder fear, That you might never see it, never look Out of your tiny baby-house of mind, But sit your life through, quiet in the dark, Smiling and nodding at what was not there! A foolish fear: God could not punish so. Yet until yesterday I thought He would. My soul was always cowering at the blow I saw suspended, ready to be dealt The moment that I showed my fear too much. Therefore I hid it from Him all I could, And only stole a shaking glance at it Sometimes in the dead minutes before dawn When He forgets to watch. Till yesterday. For yesterday was wonderful and strange From the beginning. When I wakened first And looked out at the window, the last snow Was gone from earth; about the apple-trees Hung a faint mist of bloom; small sudden green Had run and spread and rippled everywhere Over the fields; and in the level sun Walked something like a presence and a power, Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses To all the world, but chiefly unto me. It walked before me when I went to work, And all day long the noises of the mill Were spun upon a core of golden sound, Half-spoken words and interrupted songs Of blessed promise, meant for all the world, But most for me, because I suffered most. The shooting spindles, the smooth-humming wheels, The rocking webs, seemed toiling to some end Beneficent and human known to them, And duly brought to pass in power and love. The faces of the girls and men at work Met mine with intense greeting, veiled at once, As if they knew a secret they must keep For fear the joy would harm me if they told Before some inkling filtered to my mind In roundabout ways. When the day's work was done There lay a special silence on the fields; And, as I passed, the bushes and the trees, The very ruts and puddles of the road Spoke to each other, saying it was she, The happy woman, the elected one, The vessel of strange mercy and the sign Of many loving wonders done in Heaven To help the piteous earth.

At last I stopped And looked about me in sheer wonderment. What did it mean? What did they want with me? What was the matter with the evening now That it was just as bound to make me glad As morning and the live-long day had been? Me, who had quite forgot what gladness was, Who had no right to anything but toil, And food and sleep for strength to toil again, And that fierce frightened anguish of my love For the poor little spirit I had wronged With life that was no life. What had befallen Since yesterday? No need to stop and ask! Back there in the dark places of my mind Where I had thrust it, fearing to believe An unbelievable mercy, shone the news Told by the village neighbors coming home Last night from the great city, of a man Arisen, like the first evangelists, With power to heal the bodies of the sick, In testimony of his master Christ, Who heals the soul when it is sick with sin. Could such a thing be true in these hard days? Was help still sent in such a way as that? No, no! I did not dare to think of it, Feeling what weakness and despair would come After the crazy hope broke under me. I turned and started homeward, faster now, But never fast enough to leave behind The voices and the troubled happiness That still kept mounting, mounting like a sea, And singing far-off like a rush of wings. Far down the road a yellow spot of light Shone from my cottage window, rayless yet, Where the last sunset crimson caught the panes. Alice had lit the lamp before she went; Her day of pity and unmirthful play Was over, and her young heart free to live Until to-morrow brought her nursing-task Again, and made her feel how dark and still That life could be to others which to her Was full of dreams that beckoned, reaching hands, And thrilling invitations young girls hear. My boy was sleeping, little mind and frame More tired just lying there awake two hours Than with a whole day's romp he should have been. He would not know his mother had come home; But after supper I would sit awhile Beside his bed, and let my heart have time For that worst love that stabs and breaks and kills. This I thought over to myself by rote And habit, but I could not feel my thoughts; For still that dim unmeaning happiness Kept mounting, mounting round me like a sea, And singing inward like a wind of wings.

Before I lifted up the latch, I knew. I felt no fear; the One who waited there In the low lamplight by the bed, had come Because I was his sister and in need. My word had got to Him somehow at last, And He had come to help me or to tell Where help was to be found. It was not strange. Strange only He had stayed away so long; But that should be forgotten--He was here. I pushed the door wide open and looked in. He had been kneeling by the bed, and now, Half-risen, kissed my boy upon the lips, Then turned and smiled and pointed with his hand. I must have fallen on the threshold stone, For I remember that I felt, not saw, The resurrection glory and the peace Shed from his face and raiment as He went Out by the door into the evening street. But when I looked, the place about the bed Was yet all bathed in light, and in the midst My boy lay changed,--no longer clothed upon With scraps and shreds of life, but like the child Of some most fortunate mother. In a breath The image faded. There he lay again The same as always; and the light was gone. I sank with moans and cries beside the bed. The cruelty, O Christ, the cruelty! To come at last and then to go like that, Leaving the darkness deeper than before! Then, though I heard no sound, I grew aware Of some one standing by the open door Among the dry vines rustling in the porch. My heart laughed suddenly. He had come back! He had come back to make the vision true. He had not meant to mock me: God was God, And Christ was Christ; there was no falsehood there. I heard a quiet footstep cross the room And felt a hand laid gently on my hair,-- A human hand, worn hard by daily toil, Heavy with life-long struggle after bread. Alice's father. The kind homely voice Had in it such strange music that I dreamed Perhaps it was the Other speaking in him, Because His own bright form had made me swoon With its too much of glory. What he brought Was news as good as ever heavenly lips Had the dear right to utter. He had been All day among the crowds of curious folk From the great city and the country-side Gathered to watch the Healer do his work Of mercy on the sick and halt and blind, And with his very eyes had seen such things As awestruck men had witnessed long ago In Galilee, and writ of in the Book. To-morrow morning he would take me there If I had strength and courage to believe. It might be there was hope; he could not say, But knew what he had seen. When he was gone I lay for hours, letting the solemn waves Thundering joy go over and over me.

Just before midnight baby fretted, woke; He never yet has slept a whole night through Without his food and petting. As I sat Feeding and petting him and singing soft, I felt a jealousy begin to ache And worry at my heartstrings, hushing down The gladness. Jealousy of what or whom? I hardly knew, or could not put in words; At least it seemed too foolish and too wrong When said, and so I shut the thought away. Only, next minute, it came stealing back. After the change, would my boy be the same As this one? Would he be my boy at all, And not another's--his who gave the life I could not give, or did not anyhow? How could I look in his new eyes to claim The whole of him, the body and the breath, When some one not his mother, a strange man, Had clothed him in that beauty of the flesh-- Perhaps (for who could know?), perhaps, by some Hateful disfiguring miracle, had even Transformed his spirit to a better one, Better, but not the same I prayed for him Down out of Heaven through the sleepless nights,-- The best that God would send to such as me. I tried to strangle back the wicked pain; Fancied him changed and tried to love him so. No use; it was another, not my child, Not my frail, broken, priceless little one, My cup of anguish, and my trembling star Hung small and sad and sweet above the earth, So sure to fall but for my cherishing!

When he had dropped asleep again, I rose And wrestled with the sinful selfishness, The dark injustice, the unnatural pain. Fevered at last with pacing to and fro, I raised the bedroom window and leaned out. The white moon, low behind the sycamores, Silvered the silent country; not a voice Of all the myriads summer moves to sing Had yet awakened; in the level moon Walked that same presence I had heard at dawn Uttering hopes and loving-kindnesses, But now, dispirited and reticent, It walked the moonlight like a homeless thing. O, how to cleanse me of the cowardice! How to be just! Was I a mother, then, A mother, and not love her child as well As her own covetous and morbid love? Was it for this the Comforter had come, Smiling at me and pointing with His hand? --What had He meant to have me think or do, Smiling and pointing?

All at once I saw A way to save my darling from myself And make atonement for my grudging love! Under the sycamores and up the hill And down across the river, the wet road Went stretching cityward, silvered in the moon. I who had shrunk from sacrifice, even I, Who had refused God's blessing for my boy, Would take him in my arms and carry him Up to the altar of the miracle. I would not wait for daylight, nor the help Of any human friendship; I alone, Through the still miles of country, I alone, Only my arms to shield him and my feet To bear him: he should have no one to thank But me for that. I knew the way was long, But knew strength would be given. So I came. Soon the stars failed; the late moon faded too: I think my heart had sucked their beams from them To build more blue amid the murky night Its own miraculous day. From creeks and fields The fog climbed slowly, blotted out the road; And hid the signposts telling of the town; After a while rain fell, with sleet and snow. What did I care? Baby was snug and dry. Some day, when I was telling him of this, He would but hug me closer, hearing how The night conspired against us. Better hard Than easy, then: I almost felt regret My body was so capable and strong To do its errand. Honeyed drop by drop, The ghostly jealousy, loosening at my breast, Distilled into a dew of quiet tears And fell with splash of music in the wells And on the hidden rivers of my soul.

The hardest part was coming through the town. The country, even when it hindered most, Seemed conscious of the thing I went to find. The rocks and bushes looming through the mist Questioned and acquiesced and understood; The trees and streams believed; the wind and rain, Even they, for all their temper, had some words Of faith and comfort. But the glaring streets, The dizzy traffic, the piled merchandise, The giant buildings swarming with fierce life-- Cared nothing for me. They had never heard Of me nor of my business. When I asked My way, a shade of pity or contempt Showed through men's kindness--for they all were kind. Daunted and chilled and very sick at heart, I walked the endless pavements. But at last The streets grew quieter; the houses seemed As if they might be homes where people lived; Then came the factories and cottages, And all was well again. Much more than well, For many sick and broken went my way, Alone or helped along by loving hands; And from a thousand eyes the famished hope Looked out at mine--wild, patient, querulous, But always hope and hope, a thousand tongues Speaking one word in many languages.

In two hours He will come, they say, will stand There on the steps, above the waiting crowd, And touch with healing hands whoever asks Believingly, in spirit and in truth. Can such a mercy be, in these hard days? Is help still sent in such a way as that? Christ, I believe; pity my unbelief!

JETSAM

I wonder can this be the world it was At sunset? I remember the sky fell Green as pale meadows, at the long street-ends, But overhead the smoke-wrack hugged the roofs As if to shut the city from God's eyes Till dawn should quench the laughter and the lights. Beneath the gas flare stolid faces passed, Too dull for sin; old loosened lips set hard To drain the stale lees from the cup of sense; Or if a young face yearned from out the mist Made by its own bright hair, the eyes were wan With desolate fore-knowledge of the end. My life lay waste about me: as I walked, From the gross dark of unfrequented streets The face of my own youth peered forth at me, Struck white with pity at the thing I was; And globed in ghostly fire, thrice-virginal, With lifted face star-strong, went one who sang Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle. Out of the void dark came my face and hers One vivid moment--then the street was there; Bloat shapes and mean eyes blotted the sear dusk; And in the curtained window of a house Whence sin reeked on the night, a shameful head Was silhouetted black as Satan's face Against eternal fires. I stumbled on Down the dark slope that reaches riverward, Stretching blind hands to find the throat of God And crush Him in his lies. The river lay Coiled in its factory filth and few lean trees. All was too hateful--I could not die there! I whom the Spring had strained unto her breast, Whose lips had felt the wet vague lips of dawn. So under the thin willows' leprous shade And through the tangled ranks of riverweed I pushed--till lo, God heard me! I came forth Where, 'neath the shoreless hush of region light, Through a new world, undreamed of, undesired, Beyond imagining of man's weary heart, Far to the white marge of the wondering sea This still plain widens, and this moon rains down Insufferable ecstasy of peace.

My heart is man's heart, strong to bear this night's Unspeakable affliction of mute love That crazes lesser things. The rocks and clods Dissemble, feign a busy intercourse; The bushes deal in shadowy subterfuge, Lurk dull, dart spiteful out, make heartless signs, Utter awestricken purpose of no sense,-- But I walk quiet, crush aside the hands Stretched furtively to drag me madmen's ways. I know the thing they suffer, and the tricks They must be at to help themselves endure. I would not be too boastful; I am weak, Too weak to put aside the utter ache Of this lone splendor long enough to see Whether the moon is still her white strange self Or something whiter, stranger, even the face Which by the changed face of my risen youth Sang, globed in fire, her golden canticle. I dare not look again; another gaze Might drive me to the wavering coppice there, Where bat-winged madness brushed me, the wild laugh Of naked nature crashed across my blood. So rank it was with earthy presences, Faun-shapes in goatish dance, young witches' eyes Slanting deep invitation, whinnying calls Ambiguous, shocks and whirlwinds of wild mirth,-- They had undone me in the darkness there, But that within me, smiting through my lids Lowered to shut in the thick whirl of sense, The dumb light ached and rummaged, and with out, The soaring splendor summoned me aloud To leave the low dank thickets of the flesh Where man meets beast and makes his lair with him, For spirit reaches of the strenuous vast, Where stalwart stars reap grain to make the bread God breaketh at his tables and is glad. I came out in the moonlight cleansed and strong, And gazed up at the lyric face to see All sweetness tasted of in earthen cups Ere it be dashed and spilled, all radiance flung Beyond experience, every benison dream, Treasured and mystically crescent there.

O, who will shield me from her? Who will place A veil between me and the fierce in-throng Of her inexorable benedicite? See, I have loved her well and been with her! Through tragic twilights when the stricken sea Groveled with fear, or when she made her throne In imminent cities built of gorgeous winds And paved with lightnings; or when the sobering stars Would lead her home 'mid wealth of plundered May Along the violet slopes of evensong. Of all the sights that starred the dreamy year, For me one sight stood peerless and apart: Bright rivers tacit; low hills prone and dumb; Forests that hushed their tiniest voice to hear; Skies for the unutterable advent robed In purple like the opening iris buds; And by some lone expectant pool, one tree Whose gray boughs shivered with excess of awe,-- As with preluding gush of amber light, And herald trumpets softly lifted through, Across the palpitant horizon marge Crocus-filleted came the singing moon. Out of her changing lights I wove my youth A place to dwell in, sweet and spiritual, And all the bitter years of my exile My heart has called afar off unto her. Lo, after many days love finds its own! The futile adorations, the waste tears, The hymns that fluttered low in the false dawn, She has uptreasured as a lover's gifts; They are the mystic garment that she wears Against the bridal, and the crocus flowers She twined her brow with at the going forth; They are the burden of the song she made In coming through the quiet fields of space, And breathe between her passion-parted lips Calling me out along the flowering road Which summers through the dimness of the sea.

Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand shores To find remembered respite, and far drawn Through weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coast The myriad silence yearns to myriad speech. O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues be So eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tongues Be dumb to speak thy longing? Say I hold Life as a broken jewel in my hand, And fain would buy a little love with it For comfort, say I fain would make it shine Once in remembering eyes ere it be dust,-- Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this, When all my spirit hungers to repay The beauty that has drenched my soul with peace? Once at a simple turning of the way I met God walking; and although the dawn Was large behind Him, and the morning stars Circled and sang about his face as birds About the fieldward morning cottager, My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste! Day grows and it is far to market-town." Once where I lay in darkness after fight, Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of song Searching and searching at my muffled sense Until it shook sweet pangs through all my blood, And I beheld one globed in ghostly fire Singing, star-strong, her golden canticle; And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past, A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun; Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm, From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?" Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gaze Was heavy on me with yearning and with scorn My sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife, Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep." O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to go Where all sweet throats are calling, once be brave To slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us go The path her singing face looms low to point, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood; For all my spirit's soilure is put by And all my body's soilure, lacking now But the last lustral sacrament of death To make me clean for those near-searching eyes That question yonder whether all be well, And pause a little ere they dare rejoice.