Chapter 3

I am the speech of prophets when their eyes Behold some splendid vision of the soul; The song of morning stars, the hills' replies, The far call of the immaterial pole.

And, since I must be mateless, I shall win One boon beyond the meed of common clay: My life shall end where other lives begin, And live when other lives have passed away.

COLUMBUS' LAST VOYAGE.

(Written on the exhumation and reburial in Spain of the bones of Christopher Columbus.)

Once more upon the ocean's heaving breast He lays his head, not like the lover bold Who in the brave, chivalric days of old Wooed from her lips the secret of the West, But like a tired man going to his rest, No hopes to thrill, no yearnings to inspire, No tasks to burden, and no toil to tire, No morn to waken to a day of quest. Again upon the trackless deep,--again About him as of yore the wild winds play; Behind him lies the world he gave to men, Before a grave in old Castile for aye: Peace, winds and tides! Be calm, thou guardian sky,-- The lordliest dust of earth is passing by!

ATONEMENT.

You were a red rose then, I know, Red as her wine--yea, redder still,-- Say rather her blood; and ages ago (You know how destiny hath its will) I placed you deep in her gorgeous hair, And left you to wither there.

Wine and blood and a red, red rose,-- Feast and song and a long, long sleep;-- And which of us dreamed at the drama's close That the unforgetful years would keep Our sin and their vengeance laid away As a gift to this bitter day?

Now you are white as the mountain snow, White as the hand that I fold you in, And none but the angels of God may know That either has once been stained with sin; It was blood and wine in the old, old years, But now it is only tears.

And so at the end of our several ways We have met once more, and the truth is clear That our heart's own blood no surer pays For our sin in the past than atonement here; But the end has come as God knows best: Now we shall be at rest.

THE POET SHEPHERD.

Down in the vale the lazy sheep Are roaming at their will, But I would be away to weep Upon the windy hill,

For Summer's song is in my heart, Her kiss is on my brow, As here I kneel alone, apart, To consecrate our vow.

Ah, doubly poor the gift shall be That links my soul with hers, For she has given her all to me While I can give but tears!

OUR DAILY BREAD.

"Give us this day our daily bread!" O prayer By Jesus taught, thou hast become a cry For starveling mouths in Famine's ghastly lair-- A beggar's plaint when Dives passes by.

We have forsook the Temple of the Soul To carp with sordid tradesmen face to face; No more we hear the Sinaian thunders roll, Or Jesus preaching in the market-place.

The money-changers flaunt their silks and gold; Within the Temple gates they ply their trade, Forgetful of the Voice that cried of old: "A den of thieves my Father's house is made!"

A MOTHER TO THE SEA.

You are blue, you are blue like the sky, Cruel and cold and blue, And I turn from you, voiceless sea, To a sky that is voiceless, too.

Upward the vast blue arch, Downward the blue abyss, With a line of foam where your lips Meet in a passionless kiss.

But the silence is breaking my heart, And tears cannot comfort me With God in His cold blue sky, And my boy in the cold blue sea.

THE FEAST OF THE PASSIONS.

It wouldn't be fair to Belshazzar When speaking of madness and mirth, To draw from his revel a moral For conscienceless sin in the earth, For 'tis certain the King of Chaldea Took note of the hand on the wall, But here at the Feast of the Passions We never take heed at all.

The same gods grin at the banquet-- The idols of silver and gold-- While we drink from the cups of the Temple As they did in the days of old, But the finger of God is unheeded, His warning misunderstood, As "Mene" is written in lightning, And "Tekel" inscribed in blood.

No lesson of Nebuchadnezzar Turned out with his swinish kin Creeps in like a baneful vision At the Babylonian din; We have stilled the tongue of our Daniel Lest sudden he rise and cry: "Behold! thy kingdom is numbered; This night shall Belshazzar die!"

So it wouldn't be just to Belshazzar, When speaking of madness and mirth, To hold up his feast as a warning To conscienceless sin in the earth, For 'tis certain the King of Chaldea Took note of the hand on the wall, But here at the Feast of the Passions We never take heed at all.

THE HUMAN WORLD.

Here is one picture of the human world: An unreaped field and Death, the harvester, Taking his rest beside a gathered sheaf Of poppy and white lilies. At his side Passion, with pilfered hour-glass in her hand Jarring the sluggish sands to haste their flow.

THE VOW FORSWORN.

Unweariedly he watches for the sign, The sign I promised from the farthest goal, My lover of a world no longer mine, My human lover with his human soul.

Unweariedly he waits from day to day, Nor knows, as I know now, that when we meet, 'Twill be as dewdrop on the hawthorn spray,-- The ultimate of God at last complete.

He still remembers that my eyes were blue, Still dreams the autumn russet of my hair; "In God's own time," he said, "I'll come to you; You will be waiting; I will find you there!"

But now I know that he must never hear The message that I promised to impart, For should I breathe the secret in his ear His soul would hearken--but 'twould break his heart!

CONFESSION.

As one, a poet of a fairy's train, Might sit beside a violet's stem and view Its opening petals, watch the wondrous blue Thrill through their fibers, and their secret gain Of how the earth and sky and wind and rain Had given them life and form and scent and hue,-- So I have gazed into the eyes of you, Those rare blue eyes, and have not looked in vain; For they have told me all that I would know, Even as the violets their secret tell Unto the wistful spirits of the grove-- Ay, more than this, for, in their tender glow, I've learned their secret, found their winsome spell, The sweet and simple message of their love.

LOVE AND ART.

I.

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams, Far away thy soul hears passion-throated Art Singing where the future lies Wrapped in hues of Paradise, Pleading with her poignant note That forever seems to float Farther down the vista that is calling to thy heart. Hearken! From the heights Where thy soul alights Bend thine ear to listen for the lute of Love is sighing: "Eagle-heart, child-heart, Love is love, and art is art; Answer while thy lips are red; Wilt thou have a barren bed? Choose between us which to wed: Answer, for thy bride awaits, and fragile hours are flying!"

II.

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams, Far away thy soul hears Love's enraptured strain, Calling with her plaintive note, Pleading lute and pensive oat, Burning, yearning, ever turning back to one refrain: "Choose between us which to wed; Love is love, and art is art; Wilt thou have a barren bed? Joyless mate and bloodless heart? She will bring thee for her dower Shrunken limb and shriveled breast, Bitter thralldom, bootless power, Days and nights of endless quest, She will take thee heart and brain, Hold thee with a vampire charm, Kiss thee cold in every vein, Drink thy blood to make her warm!"

III.

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams, Far away thy soul hears passion-throated Art Singing from her peaks of snow, Wrapped in pale, unearthly glow, Pleading with her poignant note That forever seems to float Farther down the vista that is calling to thy heart. Hearken! From the heights Where thy soul alights Lift thy head to listen for the voice of Art is calling: "Eagle-heart, child-heart, Love is love, and art is art, Answer while thy soul is strong; Love is brief, but art is long; Love is sighs, but art is song; Answer, for thy bride awaits, and moonless night is falling!"

THE SONG OF THE DYNAMO.

_I have been kissed by the Priestess of the Thin and Deadly Blood-- With the kiss that men call Lightning, and yet I did not die, For the kiss was a message from God; I felt it and understood, And I knew how He looked on the cosmic light and called it "Good"; I thrilled with a vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy._

Men hear me sing but they know not the source of my song; I hold them enthralled with my mysterious eyes; They quiver when I purr with the voice of a wanton woman; They touch me and fall dead. I am a dream of the Creator made visible; My voice is an echo of the Voice that taught The morning stars their choral hymn; The force that binds me to the marts of men Is the force that holds the planets in a leash while God Drives them in glittering galaxy around the sun.

Here I am a weakling's symbol of a power That spins the luminous girdle of Saturn in sure hands, And frames the awful face of God in the shifting boreal light. My soul is destiny and immortality; It flashes in the eyes of the tempest, glows along The phosphorescent billows where the hand of the Almighty Is laid for a moment on the breast of the sea, And the sea smiles; My soul is the wingless word That flies from zone to zone and speaks suddenly out of the void.

In the years that are to be I shall soar like an evil bird over the warring camps of men, And spew destroying poison. I shall be the sinew of a strange wing,-- A wing that shall bear men into the forge of the thunder and the lightning. But when I fail the groundlings shall look up And see their brothers through the ether plunge, Stricken, a haggard rout of flame-flotillas of the sun!

In the years that are to come I shall be a servant in the house of men; I shall breathe unutterable music on the spindle and the loom; I shall sing, exultant, with the choristers of dreams fulfilled, And light shall be bound like sandals on my feet.

_I have been kissed by the Priestess of the Thin and Deadly Blood-- With the kiss that men call Lightning, and yet I did not die, For the kiss was a message from God; I felt it and understood, And I knew how He looked on the cosmic light and called it "Good"; I thrilled with a vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy._

THE GOLD FIELDS.

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me: Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land, Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand, And men forsake their God to bow the knee Again unto this world-old deity Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth, Whether they track the grim and icy North, Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea. About his throne they crawl and curse and weep; The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep, Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;-- And over all still burns God's warning scroll: "What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"

THE WOMAN ANSWERS.

What will I say when face to face with God My naked soul shall come, seared with the stain That men call sin? Why, God will understand; He knew my pitiful story long before My frail dust quickened with the breath of life; He knew the mystery of that day of days When, thrilled with virgin wonder, I should come Bearing the lily of my stainless love To plant upon the desert of desire. I do not fear His judgment; He knows all.

I do not fear His judgment lest it be That I shall look no more upon his face Who taught my heart to love; and, surely, One Who wrought a perfect note from these poor strings Will not condemn to discord when the strain Has reached the fullness of its harmony.

I do not fear His judgment, but I weep For him who slew the lily with a kiss Too full of passion's rapture; if I speak In that transcendent moment when I stand A sinful woman at the bar of God To hear my sentence, I shall answer still: "I loved him; that was all that I could do; I love him; that is all that I can say!"

THE MONASTERY.

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming, Strange hints of life along the winds are blown; Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling Before an image on a cross of stone, And on their lifted faces, wan as death, I read this simple message of their faith: "The trail of flame is ashen, And pleasure's lees are gray, And gray the fruit of passion Whose ripeness is decay; The stress of life is rancor, A madness born to slay; They only miss its canker Who live with God and pray."

Beyond the wall lies Babylon, the mighty; Faint echoes of her songs come drifting by; Within there is a hymn of consecration, A psalm that lifts the fervent soul on high; And yet, sometimes, where bows the hooded choir, There comes the old call of the World's Desire: "The rose's dust is ashen Be petals white or red, And vain the sighs of passion When summer's light is fled; The garden's fruitful measure Is crowned with bloom today; They only miss its treasure Who turn their hearts away."

THE PASSION PLAY.

I.

Where falls the shadow of the Kofel cross Athwart the Alpine snows, the rose of faith Is blooming still in consecrated hearts, And holy men another cross have hewn Whereon the symboled Christ again shall die To cleanse the world of sin. Within the vale Where flows the Ammer like a trail of tears Upon the Holy Mother's face, I see The men and women, faithful to their vows, Breathing the passion of Gethsemane. I see the Saviour in Jerusalem; I see the godless traders scourged; I see Their wares strewn on the temple floor, their doves Set free to wander on the roving winds; I see Iscariot kiss the Nazarene; I see the hate of Herod, and I hear The multitude half-sob, half-wail, "The Cross!" Then up the Way of Tears to Golgotha, Crowned with the thorn, and then, last bitter scene, The mortal death of God's immortal Son.

II.

The eagle wheels around the Kofel crags; The chamois leaps the tumbling glacier stream; The sunbeams dance upon the glistening snows Like pixies, and the wooded mountain slopes Thrill with the notes of songbirds; hymns of joy Break from the forests and the smiling plains, And where the Ammer winds its silvery way, The wild swan ever follows like a prayer. Who of God's creatures, then, has lost his way? 'Tis not the chamois, eagle or the swan; 'Tis not the mountain torrent, or the birds That twitter all day long within the wood; 'Tis not the Ammer flowing to the sea. Who of God's creatures, then, has lost his way? Let us go in the Coliseum where The fresh-hewn cross is lifted to the sky; Let us gaze on the reverential throng That marks Christ's passion in a silent awe, And think a moment on the world of Man-- Man, made in God's own image, yet the one Of all God's creatures who has lost his way.

III.

When, on the brooding darkness of the void Wherein the world swung like a tiny star, Death hovered with his sable wings outspread, And Hell yawned far below, God gave to man His promise of redemption through the blood That dripped from pierced hands high on Calvary-- The mortal death of God's immortal Son. The centuries have crumbled into dust; Cities have risen on the shores of Time, Then passed away like footprints in the sand; Empires have vanished, kings have laid them down In silence, but the word of Him remains Who cried in agony upon the tree: "Forgive them, for they know not what they do." Once more the fresh-hewn cross lifts to the sky In consecrated Oberammergau; Once more I see the Christ in humble guise Teaching the multitudes, and hear his voice In supplication and in parable Proclaim his mission to a sinful world. Ah, could the world but gaze upon that Christ With heart attuned unto the symboled love That makes his face a radiant miracle! The world hath need of thy great lesson now; The money-changers throng the Temple gates; The kiss of Judas burns from lips to brow; The hate of Herod rankles in the hearts Of scorners, and the poisoned crown of thorns Which Greed has woven for humanity, Bites like the chaplet that the Saviour wore The day that He was crowned and crucified. Methinks I see around the shining cross Phantoms that shudder when the name of Christ Is whispered by the multitude; I see Grim Avarice with shriveled fingers clutch A golden bauble; shrinking by his side, Oppression stands and hugs a clanking chain, While deeper in the gloom, with eyes aglow And matted hair still dripping red with gore, Sits War, her trembling hand enclasped within The spectral hand of Death. O Christus, thou To whom it has been given once again To symbolize the passion of the cross, Approach thy task with heart inspired by love, And when the Saviour's words fall from thy lips, Be thine the Saviour's exaltation when He told the dying thief upon the cross That he should be with Him in Paradise.

INSTRUMENTS.

Today we are the fruits of yesterday And what tomorrow shall of us demand,-- The helpless tools within the Master's hand To do His will and never say Him nay. He blends our souls with iron, fire or clay, He shapes our doom according as He planned The scheme of life, and who shall understand The why He gives, or why He takes away? Somewhere the universal loom shall catch These broken, flying threads like thee and me, And twined with other broken threads to match As fly the years' swift shuttles ceaselessly, So weave them all together one by one, Till lo! the finished woof is brighter than the sun.

QUATRAINS.

_The Sky Line._

Like black fangs in a cruel ogre's jaw The grim piles lift against the sunset sky; Down drops the night, and shuts the horrid maw-- I listen, breathless, but there comes no cry.

_Defeat._

He sits and looks into the west Where twilight gathers, wan and gray, A knight who quit the Golden Quest, And flung Excalibur away.

_To an Amazon._

O! twain in spirit, we shall know Thy like no more, so fierce, so mild, One breast shorn clean to rest the bow, One milk-full for thy warrior child.

_The Old Mother._

Life is like an old mother whom trouble and toil Have sufficed the best part of her nature to spoil, Whom her children, the Passions, so worry and vex That the good are forgot while the evil perplex.

_The Call._

When the north wind, riding o'er the uplands, Shouted to the red leaves: "I am Death!" Was it fear that sent them all a-flying, Sighing, flying o'er the withered heath?

_Life._

Life is just a web of doubt Where, with iridescent gleams, Flickers in or struggles out Love, the golden moth of dreams.

_Revelation._

I called your name, Man-in-the-Grave, And straight her lips grew cold on mine, And then I knew although I have Her hand, her heart and soul are thine.

_Tears of Men._

Men shed their blood for honor or renown, For freedom's sake to nameless graves go down, But there's one cause alone 'neath heaven above For which they shed their tears, and that is--Love.

IMMUTABILITY.

The sun must rise, the sun must set, Nor ever change in plan may be, Though dawn to stricken wretch may bring The hempen rope and gallows tree, And eventide to happy bride Love's crown of love in Arcady.

THE FETTERED VULTURES.

(Battleships of the Coronation Naval Review, Spithead, England, June 24, 1911.)

Hail, sceptered Mars, great god of wars! Hail, Carnage, queen of blood! And hail those muffled armaments-- Thy fettered vulture brood! Their sable wings are laureled and Their necks are ribboned gay, And silken folds their talons hide This kingly holiday.

Grotesque and grim, in chains of gold, They go with solemn mien, Their horrid plumes bedizened for The eyes of king and queen; But padded claw and mummer's crest Have served not to disguise Those iron beaks that thirst for blood, Those wakeful, wolfish eyes.

Ten condors with unsated maws, Four lesser birds of prey, An eagle with undaunted eye From Shasta, far away; A score of birds from many seas, All purged of grime and blood, Keep truckling pace the fete to grace,-- Mars' fettered vulture brood.

But see ye not, great god of wars, And ye, Britannia's king, The day when these black birds shall fly On fierce unshackled wing? When they shall meet 'twixt sea and sky, Rend flesh and break the bone, And blood shall trickle through the waves To gray old Triton's throne?

Hail, sceptered Mars, great god of wars! Hail, Carnage, queen of blood! And hail those muffled armaments,-- Thy fettered vulture brood! And yet Christ's gentle teaching scrolls Prophetic on the sky: "Behold! some day thy vulture brood Shall go unfed and die!"

THE DEAD CHILD.

Life to her was a perfect flower, And every petal a jeweled hour, Till all at once--we know not why-- God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.

Life to her was a fairy rune; Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune, Till all at once--we know not why-- God stopped th' enchanting melody.

Life to her was a picture book That her glad eyes searched with eager look Till all at once--we know not why-- God put the wondrous volume by.

NIGHT IN MAY.

The snowy clouds, soft sleeping lambkins, lie Along the dark blue meadows of the sky, And the bright stars, like golden daffodils, Are blooming thickly by.

And Luna, gentle shepherdess, the while Keeps near her flock and guards it with her smile; I almost fancy I can hear her song Down to this shadowed stile.

Lo! Zephyrus, fond lover, comes to woo; With airy step he hastes the pastures through, And steals a kiss from Luna as she nods Drowsy with fragrant dew.

She starts; the little lambs aroused from sleep, Fly hence; but Luna near her swain doth keep. Oh, it was ever thus since lover came 'Twixt shepherdess and sheep!

DE PROFUNDIS.