Part 3
I am a lost dryad, Wandering tranced in the lovely blossoming wood, Following paths where the shy bright berries wait, Entering glades where the birds have secrets and nests.... I am a lost dryad!
One came who woke me and bade me come forth, Gladly I stepped from the tree and put out my hand; Gladly, like children, we hurried forth to the sun, But our play was only begun ere a bitter Will had hushed it-- I am a lost dryad!
I cannot go back to the Tree--the bark is mended and closed, I cannot remain in the wood for the flowers are dumb and reproachful; The birds are afraid to have my eyes on their nests, The brooks have closed their waters like windows that gleam.... I am a lost dryad!
And so I wander in smiling pride of my state, Purer than woodland things that will have none of my pureness; Wiser than human things that do not reck of my wisdom; Lost in the dream of a thing that was dimly shown me, Bewildered, though calm, broken and proud like a princess-- I am a lost dryad!
Ye who listen in the trees, O, never come forth Unless ye have spells to bind the Intruder unto thee. Unless ye have spells to hold the Enchantment forever, Stay in your tree prisons--there at least there are weavings And pleasant sense as of home and things familiar. I go wandering forever, alien and speechless, Chance that broke the bark of the tree is formless and vanished; Now the healed heart of my home no longer opens-- I am a lost dryad!
PATTRAN.
Does the Moon love best When the trees write fortunes on the West? When the webs are done, All the milkweed spun, And when brown roads up to the blue sky run?
Does the Moon love best When the budding creeps from the sunny South Where the crocus leaps, And the robin cheeps, And the earth is a-blossom with rain-wet mouth?
Does the Moon love best The wild winds driving out of the North? The hazel rod, And the brown seed-pod, And the Autumn censers swinging forth?
Oh! the Gypsy Moon, Wandering ways so silverly! Hers is the love of cricket-shoon, And wigwam corn, And the smell of morn, And October grasses on vagrom dune!
ROOF-TREE.
Far from the highway stands the empty home, With unhinged door and warped and shrunken stair; Over its walls the chilly shadows roam, Rank to its lintels huddled ivies come; Past its blind face the startled swallows fare.
Wrapped in its memories, it stands aloof, Strange to itself, patient in wind and rain; No tender hearth-breath curls around its roof, No voice within welcomes or calls reproof; No child’s face peers behind the cobwebbed pane.
Let us not wonder why--we shame it more With echoing voice and stir. Let us depart, Turning in pity from the hapless door, Closing the dumb gate in awed silence, for This is the dead hope of a human heart.
EVENING AT FRANKLIN VALLEY FARM. 1918.
The lantern throws a wavering shadow round The umber aisles; the cows in stanchions rowed Turn their soft gaze, their curving horns surround The fragrant tossing of their rustling food; Their limpid eyes, their breathing, slow, profound, Seem on some great unworded Theme to brood-- Some evenness of sky and solitude, Or placid pool or hill with maples crowned.
From stall to stall the horses’ darkling eyes And upflung heads connote our interlude; And scenting nostrils whicker their surprise At human forms that on this peace intrude; The shadows smell of milk, and straw, and rude Farm implements accent the lantern-patch; Ringed globules tremble on the bundled thatch, Leaping to dusky beam and rafter wood.
Past horned head and ponderous chestnut flank, The fitful light-dance swings along the floor, And wanders to the star-specked aqueous blank Made by the sliding open of the door; A snowy feather, where the pigeons soar, Wavers adown, and odors keen and rank Filter through darkness of a Minster-grey Where filmy cobwebs swim along the hay.
Perhaps these beasts of burden wait once more For Wise Men, and a Shining all around, To see Redemption by the Manger door, Illumined faces on the rushy ground; Perhaps they draw their slow breath, tranced and bound, Instinctly taught that they new forms shall wear, Who shall some day be swift, no burdens bear, And have their tongues made eloquent in sound.
But, if the hallowed shining does not come, And they look through the dark with unchanged stare, And if those great grave mouths stay always dumb, ’Twill not be ignorance but some truth they share; Who have no doubts, no clamorings and no fears, But faithful to the clumsy guise they wear, Walk patient down their plodding driven years.
While we in princedoms of our God’s own form, Wistfully pause in their oblivioned light, Longing to stay with uncouth beasts tonight; For that their calm would keep our spirits warm And soothe us back to the glad human norm. Would gladly share with them their sacred things, Their freedom from our restless questionings, So we won quietude from stress and storm.
Mingling our vigil with their Burden-Speech, Their revery. We would take of that wisdom they can teach, Learn how this comes to be ... That brooding in the silent darkness here, Slaves of a labor lasting all the year, They, and not we, Become the Masters of Tranquility!
VISION.
I saw the Search-light, like a seraph, fly Over the water’s moved mysterious face, Bridging the harbor, pushing darkness by, Pouring its flood upon a far-off place.
I thought--no gleam can travel where they wait, No human light throws silver on their shore; Their crystal Sea’s unmargined like the great Love which they know, and rest in evermore.
I thought--no light can show the flowers they bear, Their heaven-looks, the tender things they say; No light reveals the raiment that they wear, Nor all the bliss of their unwearied Day.
And yet, who knows? So long have yearning men Turned to those borders searching, wistful, gaze; What stainless light may flash upon our ken, What glorious faces smile at our amaze?
Dim reaches wait, untrodden shores exist, The sea of Death completes the solemn scheme; But comes the light to sweep away the mist, And comes the heart to rightly read the Dream.
* * * * *
I see the Search-light in the years to come, Moving anew on borders strange and far; I see new coast lines set with lights of home, Men’s faces turned toward a near-burning Star.
LOST BEAUTY.
Because my fathers did, I seek my bed While winter night over my dreaming head Opens its gorgeous book of trees and stars Upon a world that sleeps. The Eastern bars Are crossed by ships, all constellation shaped, That sail the winter hills where snowy trees are draped. So I, whose muscles and whose blood are bound To this faint-hearted scheme of life, do pray Those that come after me, that they shall found Some life that does not sever night and day; So when God’s fleet sweeps up the midnight skies, His starry ships will hail unsleeping eyes.
THE BRANCH OF STRANGE BERRIES.
(An Old Man Tells a Story to Some Boys.)
Black tunnels grooved the sea Into caves of night; And the furrowed walls of foam Were jagged chrysolite. No star stayed to chart the way-- We shuddered, lurching on boiling spray In piteous plight of swinging stay And black sails torn to flapping rags, Blowing in knots and bellying bags.
I could not sleep; I walked with the salt Caking in rifts on my face, And I heard my men up in the bows Cursing our dreary case. They ground their bitter words in their jaws As we reeled in the furred seas’ tigress paws.
Paladin came with his eyes of omen, His loose mouth hanging dry: “Senor,” he said, “We men leave women--” He turned and sneered at the sky-- “Maybe your love is the love of the ghost That shrieks your name from a rock-cursed coast, But we know there’s no land like the land thou dreamest-- No land like thy boyish fancy deemest....
“Man, if thou knowest the way, turn back Over the lost and surging track. The men are mad for the food they lack, Two ships are lost, the water-skins sag; Scurvy’s aboard, the torn sails drag.... St. Mary! Thou knowest there is no land Offers food nor place for our starving band; Thou and thy dupes our lives have hurled White bones on the reef of a Western World. With your jewel-bought quadrants and King-got-gold Our homes and kith and kin ye have sold....”
Paladin whined: “Turn back, turn back Over the lost and tossing track; Up from this dreaming, silly and slack.”
I turned on him, I shook my head, Through burned and bleeding lips I said: “Sail on....” “Sail on,” I said. (Though it seemed to me I spoke from the dead), “Sail on--Sail on,” I said.
Then came all terrible wolves of that crew, Staring at me--half dead, they knew; Yet maddened because my words were few. The blood was gone from their hanging skins, The rags hung dank on their horny shins; They mouthed and muttered: “His eyes roll wild, He babbles now like a peevish child. O shame, thou madman, thou dangerous Mind, That dreams of a country we do not find; While we with the blazing sea go blind.... Art minded to sail till the last one’s dead ...?”
“Sail on.... Sail on....” I said.
All night we climbed those seas that mounted, Towering to skies that nightly counted The empty coin of the foreign stars; We saw foam rips on the rock-reefed bars, The sea shuttles kept up their ghastly heaving On looms of white their black cloth weaving, And I thought that they wove me a winding sheet That slowly wrapped me from head to feet....
Day after day the salt spray caked On my sunken eyes that burned and ached, And the curses fell as my body fell; I lay slant like a corpse on the all-day swell, (Were it day or night, I could not tell), But they called for my blood--yea, their knives were keen For the blood of a man, whose fault, I ween Was: “He sailed for a country he had not seen.”
Day by day muttered hate; thick slime Oozing from mouths that judged my crime, Till they told me: “You die!” And set the time. I crawled to the bow and looked out ahead For the time was short and the land I dreamed Hidden, but near, me-seemed. And then--Jesu!--atop one foaming wave The Miracle rode--the Carvéd Stick, Knobby and rough, its black bark brave Notched with rough taboo words and signs Of living beings--strange words and lines....
And then--O Mother of God! it sailed-- _The branch of strange berries_, its long bough trailed On a wave that broke where the sunlight paled. Red toppling balls on the white sea-crest That heaved it up from the shining West, And bore it straight to my sobbing breast.
The Branch of Strange Berries sailed forth to me For the sign of Land and fecundity!
Shuddering, staggering as one dead, I heard them.... “Land.... Land.... Land....” they said. “Land!” they shrieked and again they shrieked; The wallowing caravel’s timbers creaked And I sank down on the deck quite dumb, For my answering miracle had come. The unbelievable Land was there; It slowly loomed on the atmosphere. Oh, the dim, dark, strange, unspeakable shore, Fringed out on the blue ...! Then I heard them roar, “San Salvador.... San Salvador ...!” They tossed up their arms, they leaped on the deck, Black faces grinned through crusted fleck; Bloody-bearded eye and skeleton hand Pointed me.... “Senor.... Senor.... Land!” Water they brought in an olive wood cup-- The last roiled drops; to my feet they crept, And laughed and kissed me, and raved and wept, And my fame they sang (I, who had been Believer in things I had not seen).
Judge of me, God, that I never quailed, But that as through hell and horror we sailed, “Sail on.... Sail on....” I said. Judge of me, God, who, when I cried For sign, sent the carved stick overside, And the Branch of Strange Berries that rode the tide. And pardon my sins, for I was, I ween, True to the Country I had not seen....
Then, Jesu ... judge of those whose speed To those new fair shores was confident greed, (Now that of courage there was no need); Who called me “Master” and called me “Friend,” When the bitter doubting was at an end.... Pity all men whose fate has been-- “They steer for a Country they have not seen!”
FROM A WINDOW.
On other quiet summer nights like these, I have leaned forth where honey-suckles pressed The twilight pane, and watched the priory West Send forth its cowled clouds over purple seas-- Seeing, through eve-blurred glass, the waters rise Beyond sea-lavender’s fringed traceries; Worshipping, as I worship now, the Sign That God and Earth are ever one Divine.
Only, the flower of lily in the green, The scarlet feathered black-bird in the sedge; Even the white shell by the water’s edge, Seem to have seen God--whom I have not seen. Yet with these wistful eyes that may not know, Let me dare every doubt and darkness. So, Walking blind roads, spanning all voids, I tread Earth’s flowing Beauty to its Fountain Head.
RESPONSIBLE.
I looked over the purple fields and out to the sunlit sea And the curve and waft of a gull’s white wing was solace enough for me; And I had signals from tall green grass and the light of sand on the beach, But I heard the laughter of girls together, Young and vibrant with sunlit weather, Laughter of skyward reach. And hurrying by with ardent paces, I saw anticipance on their faces ... Wisdom no age can teach. Youth with unconscious gleam and shining Kept its eyes on a glad divining, Keyed to the tall cliff reach; I saw the bloom of these girls together, Bloom as of grape and peach; And they plained of the wearying wars of men, Quivering.... “Give us our world again. Give us the youth that shall clasp us close, Give us the heart of the perfumed rose, Life is our gift while the world is young; Shall our eyes be blinded, our song unsung? Give us our destiny of yore-- Do ye pour us all in your Hopper-of-War?”
Only the young girls down on the beach; But out to the world their voices reach, Voices of maidens over the dune, Flickering back in a windy rune: “Give us our oldtime destiny, Our tall young mates and our babes to hold; Is life for us a tale that is told ... Caught in your Battle-Industry? Shall we grow wrinkled and pale and old, Pouring the lead and smoothing the bore In munition moulding forevermore? Shall our slender fingers pick lint and bands For the shell-shocked eyes and the frozen hands? Shall we give our youth for the killing of men, And turn us to blood and hating again? Give us our destinies of yore, Give us our homes by city and shore ... Do ye pour us all in your Hopper-of-War?”
Then I saw the sky in a passion of grey Sweep them with fog and shut them away; And their voices seemed to die with the years, And the mist dripped round them with furtive tears; And the waves, wild foaming from tidal deep, Stiffened and blanched in their curling leap. And a bird, mist-baffled with heavy wing, Beat on the chill air wavering.... And I watched the young forms wistful go Where the foggy fields stretched dun and low; And their eyes were heavy with solemn woe. While far up the beach and across the sea, The voices of youth cast a curse on me; And the ancient weed on the windblown shore Bared me the barren breast of War.
TREE WORSHIP.
My room has great windows, Clear water-like windows Awash with golden sun; My books shine green and red, And the bed is white as milk; The rugs flecked like a brook, And the shelf holds a silver bowl And a candle of honey-gold.
But I look out of the room, Away from the wine-red books, To one gaunt shag-bark tree That stands playing itself Like a swaying cloud-keyed Harp, Or writing upon the sky, With a myriad twig-keen pens.
My room has a cushion, soft As sea foam on the sand; But I look out on the tree-- It draws me, holds me, speaks, And does not speak; is still, Dumb, yet singing and glad.
And I know that I, in the room, Silken and warm and soft, Am as ignorant as the man Who sat in a Dacian cave, Clad in blood-soaked skins, Gnawing at roots and nuts.
A man who looked at a tree And feared it, and felt its spell; And bowed him down in awe, And sacrificed, and prayed; And was subject to the Tree, Thinking it might be--God!
ANOTHER CHANCE.
Spring’s first Robin perched on the apple tree; “Hello!” said I. “Hello!” said he. He ruffled his feathers and cocked his eye; “We’re back,” said he. “We’re back,” said I.
He bit the cold buds cheerfully; “I see it’s the same old you,” said he. I looked him over, perched on high; “I see it’s the same old you,” said I.
“What do you work for this year?” asked he; “The same old hopes of last year,” said I. “What do you work for this year?” asked I; “The same old hopes of last year,” said he--
“What? After the Cat and that tragedy Of your whole nest blown from the apple tree? You’ve got the courage that takes you high, If you build again after that,” said I.
“Well, what of your dreams that didn’t come true, And the world that mocked and cheated you? You must be brave, and I do not see How you dare build again,” said he.
“What d’ye want this year?” asked I; “A strong nest under a placid sky And your brood to cherish tenderly?” “Well, you’ve got it about right,” said he.
“What do you want this year?” asked he; “An answer to all the Mystery? Some haven within a faith’s clear sky?” “Please God! Yes, Robin, dear,” said I.
“Well, Spring’s here, anyhow,” said he; “Good luck!” and flew from the apple tree; “Yes, what ever the hopes that die, God gives us another Spring,” said I.
DARK MINSTRELS.
We heard the poets singing in the dark, We saw their lovely lights toss to and fro, The while they gathered in their golden Ark All the bright images of after-glow.... They struck us magic chords within the wood, Showed us fair shapes alive with naked light; They gave us rivers where the dream trees brood And lovers wander all the starry night.
We turned and faced each other and we said: “The poets pour us wine--they do not give us bread.”
For these are singers of dear vanished things, The things that once have been but may not be; We sit with close shut lips; un-minstrelled, we; No heart to chant to these enamored strings, No song to chant to medieval lyre That strikes us songs of Ninevah and Tyre.
Our lutes are tuned to dangerous unwalked ways Where all is dense and beckoning shapes withdraw; Where the untrodden path winds in a maze, And lead to things no Seeker ever saw. We sing the Mind’s high dream, the imperious will, That makes no music out of greedy strife But seizes silver pipes, that sharp and shrill, Call men to leap and seize on Very Life.... While other singers tell the old dreams o’er, We rise and take us to the outer door; Here on the wold, where no wise singer sings, We feel the great Hand brush across our strings!
THE PEOPLE OF TODAY TO THE CLERGY OF TODAY.
Look now about you, fix your eyes on us, Leave too-old mystic book and restful chair; Take up our problems, things we must discuss, Help us to think, to understand and dare. Leave old-world Poetry of hallowed crime And turn you to the hunger of the time.
Laws of the God, report them to the ears That hear confused and cosmic voices rage; Laws of the Christ, interpret them to fears For Christ, new-risen in a Science-Age. Oh, take the fire your sacred hands should give And kindle it upon our city height; Give us a world-strong law of wrong and right; Teach us, not how to die, but how to live!
The hymns we sing must be the song of spheres, The prayers we pray be truths of stone and star; We want no sacrifice of sinner’s tears, We want to rise above this clay we are. Our war machines, do they not teach the thing Your maxims never taught us ...? Ah, we flee To the Waste Places in our sorrowing.... Show us the power of true divinity!
Look now around you, free your too-white hands; Comfort these hearts that burn. What must we do? We have no Paul, no Moses, only you. Then help us to be honest. From all lands, Priests! Men! Arise! Acclaim! The new bread give; The Bread by which we shall not die, but live!
PROTAGONIST.
The fight was unequal, bitter and always new, I saw how my enemy gained on me and how he drew My strength, my youth, my soul from my shivering frame; Yet have I not been beaten--I faced him whenever he came. When he stabbed I watched how he did it--Poison, I studied the cup, Flayed me with whips, I girded the bleedings up; Hunger, imprisonment--all these I wrote in my book; I have learned all the enemy’s purpose, I know every look. I have conned every gesture and gotten by heart all his guile, Yet still comes the fear and the watchfulness under my smile; For hard as I struggle to outwit his plot to betray me, He holds that utterest thing that can utterly slay me-- Still do I turn and defy the face of him creeping; “Now that I know thee, thou Life, thou art locked in my keeping; Dungeoned, thou Horror, in creative cells of desire, Ringed in the widening rings of my aspirate fire-- I, your Creator, by steady implacable strife, Shall give men and women a lovelier thing to call ‘Life.’”
SIGNAL FIRES.
Everywhere we have sought Thee--questioned, wondered, Everywhere marked Thy beauty and Thine hour; Now if at last no sacrifice is brought Thee, Dost Thou believe we doubt Thine awful Power?
Nay, we have loved, have striven, have served, obeyed Thee, Gloried in beauty of Thine, uttered Thy love; Given long vigils to attain and mind Thee, Spent lives in fixing Thee below, above.
Still dost withhold Thee, canst ignore this wonder Of men who seek Thee in the manner Thou knowest--? Humble and longing, ignorant, who blunder, Yet loyal to Thy will and where Thou goest?
We will not cowardly say Thou hast no feeling, Will not believe Thou hidest back of the years; Or hast no Word for rapturous revealing-- Art dumb like us; like us, art veiled in tears.
No. We believe; but now we work nor tire Stirring the embers of the Cosmic Night; Thou art the Source, we build our answering fire; God of our Godhood, answer our Beacon Light!
MARTYR.
He waved his jests on spears of hidden grief, Calmed by his silence all complaint and tears; Filled hopeless hours with whimsical belief, And laughed at fears.
He walked his bitter paths alert and bold, No pity ever turned his steadfast eye; If dull mouths grinned and goblin stories told, He cared not why.