Chapter 2

Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife, And the sting of His chastening rod! Thank God for the stress and the pain of life, And Oh, thank God for God!

The Thorn

(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)

The garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.

David is the song upon God's lips, And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: And Gabriel's the breath of His command, But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand.

The Ivory Tower is fair to see, And may her walls encompass me! But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, Saint Michael, show me how to fight!

The Big Top

The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay. I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art, And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.

I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair, Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng. It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.

Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.

Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife, And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring, By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life; And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.

For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same. They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth, And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim; For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.

But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness, Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live, Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress -- What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?

Well -- here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand, One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin, And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand, And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.

You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look; You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear; Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book. O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!

Queen Elizabeth Speaks

My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold, My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold. So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God, Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod.

Mid-ocean in War-time

(For My Mother)

The fragile splendour of the level sea, The moon's serene and silver-veiled face, Make of this vessel an enchanted place Full of white mirth and golden sorcery. Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace, And the old stars, in their unending race, Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away, These waters blush a strange and awful red. Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey Rises from decks that crash with flying lead. And these stars smile their immemorial way On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

In alien earth, across a troubled sea, His body lies that was so fair and young. His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; His arm is still, that struck to make men free. But let no cloud of lamentation be Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

The New School

(For My Mother)

The halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.

The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.

For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.

They have taken their youth and mirth away from the study and playing-ground To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.

And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.

And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts with laughing eyes, On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, A flame that they took with strong young hands from the altar-fires of God.

Easter Week

(In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave.") William Butler Yeats.

"Romantic Ireland's dead and gone, It's with O'Leary in the grave." Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn A hue so radiantly brave?

There was a rain of blood that day, Red rain in gay blue April weather. It blessed the earth till it gave birth To valour thick as blooms of heather.

Romantic Ireland never dies! O'Leary lies in fertile ground, And songs and spears throughout the years Rise up where patriot graves are found.

Immortal patriots newly dead And ye that bled in bygone years, What banners rise before your eyes? What is the tune that greets your ears?

The young Republic's banners smile For many a mile where troops convene. O'Connell Street is loudly sweet With strains of Wearing of the Green.

The soil of Ireland throbs and glows With life that knows the hour is here To strike again like Irishmen For that which Irishmen hold dear.

Lord Edward leaves his resting place And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce. See Emmet leap from troubled sleep To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!

There is no rope can strangle song And not for long death takes his toll. No prison bars can dim the stars Nor quicklime eat the living soul.

Romantic Ireland is not old. For years untold her youth will shine. Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread, The blood of martyrs is her wine.

The Cathedral of Rheims

(From the French of Emile Verhaeren)

He who walks through the meadows of Champagne At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear, Sees it draw near Like some great mountain set upon the plain, From radiant dawn until the close of day, Nearer it grows To him who goes Across the country. When tall towers lay Their shadowy pall Upon his way, He enters, where The solid stone is hollowed deep by all Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.

Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls, Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings? Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train, Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep An echo of the voice of Charlemagne. For God thou has known fear, when from His side Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new, But still the sky was bountiful and blue And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride. Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base; And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass The setting sun sees thousandfold his face; Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass Across thy walls, the shadow and the light; Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames, The brows of saints with venerable names, And in the night erect a fiery wall. A great but silent fervour burns in all Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb, And know that down below, beside the Rhine -- Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line -- With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.

Suddenly, each knows fear; Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear, The hostile banners blaze against the sky And by the embassies mobs rage and cry. Now war has come, and peace is at an end. On Paris town the German troops descend. They are turned back, and driven to Champagne. And now, as to so many weary men, The glorious temple gives them welcome, when It meets them at the bottom of the plain.

At once, they set their cannon in its way. There is no gable now, nor wall That does not suffer, night and day, As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall. The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower; The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir Are circled, hour by hour, With thundering bands of fire And Death is scattered broadcast among men.

And then That which was splendid with baptismal grace; The stately arches soaring into space, The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold, The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled, The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places, The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces, All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord Were struck and broken by the wanton sword Of sacrilegious lust.

O beauty slain, O glory in the dust! Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown! The crawling flames, like adders glistening Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing. Now from its soul arose a piteous moan, The soul that always loved the just and fair. Granite and marble loud their woe confessed, The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed, The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath; The horror everywhere did range and swell, The guardian Saints into this furnace fell, Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death.

Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing, The burning sun reflects the lurid scene; The German army, fighting for its life, Rallies its torn and terrified left wing; And, as they near this place The imperial eagles see Before them in their flight, Here, in the solemn night, The old cathedral, to the years to be Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.

Kings

(For the Rev. James B. Dollard)

The Kings of the earth are men of might, And cities are burned for their delight, And the skies rain death in the silent night, And the hills belch death all day!

But the King of Heaven, Who made them all, Is fair and gentle, and very small; He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall -- Let them think of Him to-day!

The White Ships and the Red

(For Alden March)

With drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters Beside a sunless beach. Their mighty masts and funnels Are white as driven snow, And with a pallid radiance Their ghostly bulwarks glow.

Here is a Spanish galleon That once with gold was gay, Here is a Roman trireme Whose hues outshone the day. But Tyrian dyes have faded, And prows that once were bright With rainbow stains wear only Death's livid, dreadful white.

White as the ice that clove her That unforgotten day, Among her pallid sisters The grim Titanic lay. And through the leagues above her She looked aghast, and said: "What is this living ship that comes Where every ship is dead?"

The ghostly vessels trembled From ruined stern to prow; What was this thing of terror That broke their vigil now? Down through the startled ocean A mighty vessel came, Not white, as all dead ships must be, But red, like living flame!

The pale green waves about her Were swiftly, strangely dyed, By the great scarlet stream that flowed From out her wounded side. And all her decks were scarlet And all her shattered crew. She sank among the white ghost ships And stained them through and through.

The grim Titanic greeted her "And who art thou?" she said; "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet Arrayed in living red? We are the ships of sorrow Who spend the weary night, Until the dawn of Judgment Day, Obscure and still and white."

"Nay," said the scarlet visitor, "Though I sink through the sea, A ruined thing that was a ship, I sink not as did ye. For ye met with your destiny By storm or rock or fight, So through the lagging centuries Ye wear your robes of white.

"But never crashing iceberg Nor honest shot of foe, Nor hidden reef has sent me The way that I must go. My wound that stains the waters, My blood that is like flame, Bear witness to a loathly deed, A deed without a name.

"I went not forth to battle, I carried friendly men, The children played about my decks, The women sang -- and then -- And then -- the sun blushed scarlet And Heaven hid its face, The world that God created Became a shameful place!

"My wrong cries out for vengeance, The blow that sent me here Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream Has reached Jehovah's ear. Not all the seven oceans Shall wash away that stain; Upon a brow that wears a crown I am the brand of Cain."

When God's great voice assembles The fleet on Judgment Day, The ghosts of ruined ships will rise In sea and strait and bay. Though they have lain for ages Beneath the changeless flood, They shall be white as silver, But one -- shall be like blood.

*****

The following biographical information is from the Occasional Notes to 'A Treasury of War Poetry', 1919, edited by George Herbert Clarke.

Kilmer, Joyce. He was born in New Brunswick, N.J., December 6, 1886. He had first joined the Officers' Reserve Corps, but soon resigned. Within seventeen days after the entrance of the United States into the war he left his journalistic career to enlist as a Private in the Seventh Regiment, National Guard, New York. Shortly before the Seventh left New York for Spartanburg, S.C., he was transferred at his own request to the 165th U.S. Infantry, formerly the 69th National Guard Regiment of New York. He accompanied the regiment as a Private to Camp Mills, Long Island. He was transferred from Company H to Headquarters Company, and became Senior Regimental Statistician. The regiment sailed for France in October, 1917, and there he was placed in the Adjutant's Office and made Sergeant. Thereafter he was attached to the Regimental Intelligence Staff as an observer, and showed great fidelity and courage in the tasks to which he was assigned. He was killed in action on July 30, 1918, while trying to locate hostile machine-guns in the Wood of the Burned Bridge, on the Ourcq. His war writings may be found in 'Main Street, and other Poems', and 'Joyce Kilmer, Poems, Essays and Letters'.

End of Project Gutenberg's Main Street and Other Poems, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer