Chapter 2
She is mine, and she is very beautiful: And in her heart there is no evil thought. There is even love in her heart— Love of life, love of joy, love of this fair world, And love of me (or love of my love for her); Yet she will never consent to bear me a child. And when I speak of it she weeps, Always she weeps, saying: ‘Do I not bring joy enough into your life? Are you not satisfied with me and my love, As I am satisfied with you? Never would I urge you to some great peril To please my whim; yet ever so you urge me, Urge me to risk my happiness—yea, life itself— So lightly do you hold me.’ And then she weeps, Always she weeps, until I kiss away her tears And soothe her with sweet lies, saying I am content. Then she goes singing through the house like some bright bird Preening her wings, making herself all beautiful, Perching upon my knee, and pecking at my lips With little kisses. So again love’s ship Goes sailing forth upon a portless sea, From nowhere unto nowhere; and it takes Or brings no cargoes to enrich the world.
The years Are passing by us. We will yet be old Who now are young. And all the man in me Cries for the reproduction of myself Through her I love. Why, love and youth like ours Could populate with gods and goddesses This great, green earth, and give the race new types Were it made fruitful! Often I can see, As in a vision, desolate old age And loneliness descending on us two, And nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth, Fruit of my loins and of her womb to feed Our hungry hearts. To me it seems More sorrowful than sitting by small graves And wetting sad-eyed pansies with our tears.
_The bird flies home to its young_; _The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud_; _And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child_. _I close my window that I need not hear_.
SEPARATION
HE
One decade and a half since first we came With hearts aflame Into Love’s Paradise, as man and mate; And now we separate. Soon, all too soon, Waned the white splendour of our honeymoon. We saw it fading; but we did not know How bleak the path would be when once its glow Was wholly gone. And yet we two were forced to follow on— Leagues, leagues apart while ever side by side. Darker and darker grew the loveless weather, Darker the way, Until we could not stay Longer together. Now that all anger from our hearts has died, And love has flown far from its ruined nest, To find sweet shelter in another breast, Let us talk calmly of our past mistakes, And of our faults; if only for the sakes Of those with whom our futures will be cast. You shall speak first.
SHE
A woman would speak last— Tell me my first grave error as a wife.
HE
Inertia. My young veins were rife With manhood’s ardent blood; and love was fire Within me. But you met my strong desire With lips like frozen rose leaves—chaste, so chaste That all your splendid beauty seemed but waste Of love’s materials. Then of that beauty Which had so pleased my sight You seemed to take no care; you felt no duty To keep yourself an object of delight For lover’s-eyes; and appetite And indolence soon wrought Their devastating changes. You were not The woman I had sworn to love and cherish. If love is starved, what can love do but perish? Now will you speak of my first fatal sin And all that followed, even as I have done?
SHE
I must begin With the young quarter of our honeymoon. You are but one Of countless men who take the priceless boon Of woman’s love and kill it at the start, Not wantonly but blindly. Woman’s passion Is such a subtle thing—woof of her heart, Web of her spirit; and the body’s part Is to play ever but the lesser rôle To her white soul. Seized in brute fashion, It fades like down on wings of butterflies; Then dies. So my love died. Next, on base Mammon’s cross you nailed my pride, Making me ask for what was mine by right: Until, in my own sight, I seemed a helpless slave To whom the master gave A grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts showered Upon your chattel; but I was not dowered By generous love. Hate never framed a curse Or placed a cruel ban That so crushed woman, as the law of man That makes her pensioner upon his purse. That necessary stuff called gold is such A cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touch Of thought and speech when it approaches love, Or it will prove the certain death thereof.
HE
Your words cut deep; ’tis time we separate.
SHE
Well, each goes wiser to a newer mate.
TO THE TEACHERS OF THE YOUNG
How large thy task, O teacher of the young, To take the ravelled threads by parents flung With careless hands, and through consummate care To weave a fabric, fine and firm and fair. God’s uncompleted work is thine to do— Be brave and true!
BEAUTY MAKING
Methinks there is no greater work in life Than making beauty. Can the mind conceive One little corner in celestial realms Unbeautiful, or dull or commonplace? Or picture ugly angels, illy clad? Beauty and splendour, opulence and joy, Are attributes of God and His domain, And so are worth and virtue. But why preach Of virtue only to the sons of men, Ignoring beauty, till they think it sin? Why, if each dweller on this little globe Could know the sacred meaning of that word And understand its deep significance, Men’s thoughts would form in beauty, till their dreams Of heaven would find expression in their lives, However humble; they themselves would grow Godlike, befitting such a fair estate. Let us be done with what is only good, Demanding here and now the beautiful; Lest, with the mind and eye on earth untrained, We shall be ill at ease when heaven is gained.
ON AVON’S BREAST I SAW A STATELY SWAN
One day when England’s June was at its best, I saw a stately and imperious swan Floating on Avon’s fair untroubled breast. Sudden, it seemed as if all strife had gone Out of the world; all discord, all unrest.
The sorrows and the sinnings of the race Faded away like nightmares in the dawn. All heaven was one blue background for the grace Of Avon’s beautiful, slow-moving swan; And earth held nothing mean or commonplace.
Life seemed no longer to be hurrying on With unbecoming haste; but softly trod, As one who reads in emerald leaf, or lawn, Or crimson rose a message straight from God. . . . . . On Avon’s breast I saw a stately swan.
THE LITTLE GO-CART
It was long, long ago that a soul like a flower Unfolded, and blossomed, and passed in an hour. It was long, long ago; and the memory seems Like the pleasures and sorrows that come in our dreams.
The kind years have crowned me with many a joy Since the going away of my wee little boy; Each one as it passed me has stooped with a kiss, And left some delight—knowing one thing I miss.
But when in the park or the street, all elate A baby I see in his carriage of state, As proud as a king, in his little go-cart— I feel all the mother-love stir in my heart!
And I seem to be back in that long-vanished May; And the baby, who came but to hurry away In the little white hearse, is not dead, but alive, And out in his little go-cart for a drive.
I whisper a prayer as he rides down the street, And my thoughts follow after him, tender and sweet; For I know, by a law that is vast and divine, (Though I know not his name) that the baby is mine!
I AM RUNNING FORTH TO MEET YOU
I am running forth to meet you, O my Master, For they tell me you are surely on the way; Yes, they tell me you are coming back again (While I run, while I run). And I wish my feet were winged to speed on faster, And I wish I might behold you here to-day, Lord of men.
I am running, yet I walk beside my neighbour, And I take the duties given me to do; Yes, I take the daily duties as they fall (While I run, while I run), And my heart runs to my hand and helps the labour, For I think this is the way that leads to you, Lord of all.
I am running, yet I turn from toil and duty, Oftentimes to just the art of being glad; Yes, to just the joys that make the earth-world bright (While I run, while I run). For the soul that worships God must worship beauty, And the heart that thinks of You can not be sad, Lord of light.
I am running, yet I pause to greet my brother, And I lean to rid my garden of its weed; Yes, I lean, although I lift my thoughts above (While I run, while I run). And I think of that command, ‘Love one another,’ As I hear discordant sounds of creed with creed, Lord of Love.
I am running, and the road is lit with splendour, And it brightens and shines fairer with each span; Yes, it brightens like the highway in a dream (While I run, while I run). And my heart to all the world grows very tender, For I seem to see the Christ in every man, Lord supreme.
MARTYRS OF PEACE
Fame writes ever its song and story, For heroes of war, in letters of glory.
But where is the story and where is the song For the heroes of peace and the martyrs of wrong?
They fight their battles in shop and mine; They die at their posts and make no sign.
They herd like beasts in a slaughter pen; They live like cattle and suffer like men.
Why, set by the horrors of such a life, Like a merry-go-round seems the battle’s strife,
And the open sea, and the open boat, And the deadly cannon with bellowing throat.
Oh, what are they all, with death thrown in, To the life that has nothing to lose or win—
The life that has nothing to hope or gain But ill-paid labour and beds of pain?
Fame, where is your story and where is your song For the martyrs of peace and the victims of wrong?
HOME
The greatest words are always solitaires, Set singly in one syllable; like birth, Life, love, hope, peace. I sing the worth Of that dear word toward which the whole world fares— I sing of home.
To make a home, we should take all of love And much of labour, patience, and keen joy; Then mix the elements of earth’s alloy With finer things drawn from the realms above, The spirit home.
There should be music, melody and song; Beauty in every spot; an open door And generous sharing of the pleasure store With fellow-pilgrims as they pass along, Seeking for home.
Make ample room for silent friends—the books, That give so much and only ask for space. Nor let Utility crowd out the vase Which has no use save gracing by its looks The precious home.
To narrow bounds let mirrors lend their aid And multiply each gracious touch of art; And let the casual stranger feel the part— The great creative part—that love has played Within the home.
Here bring your best in thought and word and deed, Your sweetest acts, your highest self-control; Nor save them for some later hour and goal. Here is the place, and now the time of need, Here in your home.
THE ETERNAL NOW
Time with his back against the mighty wall, Which hides from view all future joy and sorrow, Hears, without answer, the impatient call Of puny man, to tell him of to-morrow.
Moral, be wise, and to the silence bow, These useless and unquiet ways forsaking; Concern thyself with the Eternal Now— To-day hold all things, ready for thy taking.
IF I WERE A MAN, A YOUNG MAN
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day, I would look in the eyes of Life undaunted By any Fate that might threaten me. I would give to the world what the world most wanted— Manhood that knows it can do and be; Courage that dares, and faith that can see Clear into the depths of the human soul, And find God there, and the ultimate goal, If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day, I would think of myself as the masterful creature Of all the Masterful plan; The Formless Cause, with form and feature; The Power that heeds not limit or ban; Man, wonderful man. I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway; I would weave my woes into ropes and climb Up to the heights of the helper’s gateway; And Life should serve me, and Time, And I would sail out, and out, and find The treasures that lie in the deep sea, Mind. I would dream, and think, and act; I would work, and love, and pray, Till each dream and vision grew into a fact, If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day, I would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures, And keep them high and clean. (For the will of a man, with his passions, measures; It is strong as they are keen.) I would think of each woman as some one’s mother; I would think of each man as my own blood brother, And speed him along on his way. And the glory of life in this wonderful hour Should fill me and thrill me with Conscious power, If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know to-day.
WE MUST SEND THEM OUT TO PLAY
Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste; But slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town. But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so: When a murderer’s hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste; And the way to change his purpose is first to knock him down And teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.
The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon; And the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil. But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way, For the roots of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon; If you would better your garden and make the most of your soil, Hurry and dig up the evil things and cast them out to-day.
The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface; We must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls to their sons. But listen, my brothers, listen—when a child cries out in pain, We must rise from the banquet board and go, though the host is saying grace; We must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our little ones, Nor ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.
The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes, As a sturdy oak will face the storm, and does not break or bow. But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day; If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise? We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children NOW; We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to play.
PROTEST
To sit in silence when we should protest Makes cowards out of men. The human race Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised Against injustice, ignorance and lust The Inquisition yet would serve the law And guillotines decide our least disputes. The few who dare must speak and speak again To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God, No vested power in this great day and land Can gag or throttle; Press and voice may cry Loud disapproval of existing ills, May criticise oppression and condemn The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws That let the children and child-bearers toil To purchase ease for idle millionaires, Therefore do I protest against the boast Of independence in this mighty land. Call no chain strong which holds one rusted link, Call no land free that holds one fettered slave Until the manacled, slim wrists of babes Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee, Until the Mother bears no burden save The precious one beneath her heart; until God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed And given back to labour, let no man Call this the Land of Freedom.
REWARD
Fate used me meanly; but I looked at her and laughed, That none might know how bitter was the cup I quaffed. Along came Joy, and paused beside me where I sat, Saying, ‘I came to see what you were laughing at.’
THIS IS MY TASK
When the whole world resounds with rude alarms Of warring arms, When God’s good earth, from border unto border Shows man’s disorder, Let me not waste my dower of mortal might In grieving over wrongs I cannot right. This is my task: amid discordant strife To keep a clean sweet centre in my life; And though the human orchestra may be Playing all out of key— To tune my soul to symphonies above, And sound the note of love. This is my task.
When by the minds of men most beauteous Faith Seems doomed to death, And to her place is hoisted, by soul treason, The dullard Reason, Let me not hurry forth with flag unfurled To proselyte an unbelieving world. This is my task: in depths of unstarred night Or in diverting and distracting light To keep (in crowds, or in my room alone) Faith on her lofty throne; And whatsoever happen or befall, To see God’s hand in all. This is my task.
When, in church pews, men worship God in words, But meet their kind with swords, When Fair Religion, stripped of holy passion, Walks masked as Fashion, Let me not wax indignant at the sight; Or waste my strength bewailing her sad plight. This is my task: to search in my own mind Until the qualities of God I find; To seek them in the hearts of friend and foe— Or high or low; And in my hours of toil, or prayer, or play, To live my creed each day. This is my task.
THE STATUE
A granite rock in the mountain side Gazed on the world and was satisfied. It watched the centuries come and go, It welcomed the sunlight yet loved the snow, It grieved when the forest was forced to fall, Yet joyed when steeples rose white and tall In the valley below it, and thrilled to hear The voice of the great town roaring near.
When the mountain stream from its idle play Was caught by the mill-wheel and borne away And trained to labour, the gray rock mused, ‘Tree and verdure and stream are used By man the master, but I remain Friend of the mountain and star and plain, Unchanged forever by God’s decree While passing centuries bow to me.’
Then all unwarned, with a mighty shock Out of the mountain was wrenched the rock; Bruised and battered, and broken in heart It was carried away to the common mart. Wrenched, and ruined in peace and pride, ‘Oh, God is cruel,’ the granite cried, ‘Comrade of mountain, of star the friend, By all deserted—how sad my end.’
A dreaming sculptor in passing by Gazed on the granite with thoughtful eye; Then stirred with a purpose supremely grand He bade his dream in the rock expand. And lo! from the broken and shapeless mass That grieved and doubted, it came to pass That a glorious statue of priceless worth And infinite beauty adorned the earth.
BEHOLD THE EARTH
Behold the earth swung in among the stars Fit home for gods if men were only kind— Do thou thy part to shape it to those ends, By shaping thine own life to perfectness. Seek nothing for thyself or thine own kin That robs another of one hope or joy, Let no man toil in poverty and pain To give thee unearned luxury and ease. Feed not the hungry servitor with stones, That idle guests may fatten on thy bread. Look for the good in stranger and in foe, Nor save thy praises for the cherished few; And let the weakest sinner find in thee An impetus to reach receding heights. Behold the earth swung in among the stars— Fit home for gods; wake thou the God within And by the broad example of thy love Communicate Omnipotence to men. All men are unawakened gods: be thine The voice to rouse them from unhappy sleep
WHAT THEY SAW
_Sad man_, _Sad man_, _tell me_, _pray_, _What did you see to-day_?
I saw the unloved and unhappy old, waiting for slow delinquent death to come. Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where sunlight is ashamed to go. The awful alms-house, where the living dead rot slowly in their hideous open graves. And there were shameful things; Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil ships, and loud-winged devil birds, All bent on slaughter and destruction. These and yet more shameful things mine eyes beheld. Old men upon lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with no thought of God; And half clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the underworld— Engrossed in shallow pleasures and intent on being barren wives. These things I saw. (How God must loathe His earth.)
_Glad man_, _Glad man_, _tell me_, _pray_, _What did you see to-day_?
I saw an aged couple, in whose eyes Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith Which makes the earth one room of Paradise, And leaves no sting in death.
I saw fair regiments of children pour, Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door By Progress mobilised. They seemed to say ‘Let ignorance make way; We are the heralds of a better day.’
I saw the college and the church that stood For all things sane and good.
I saw God’s helpers in the shop and slum Blazing a path for health and hope to come; And men and women of large soul and mind Absorbed in toil for bettering their kind.
Then, too, I saw life’s sweetest sight and best— Pure mothers with dear babies at the breast, These things I saw. (How God must love His earth.)
HIS LAST LETTER
Well, you are free; The longed for, lied for, waited for decree Is yours to-day. I made no protest; and you had your say, And left me with no vestige of repute. Neglect, abuse, and cruelty you charge With broken marriage vows. The list is large But not to be denied. So I was mute.
Now you shall listen to a few plain facts Before you go out wholly from my life As some man’s wife. Read carefully this statement of your acts Which changed the lustre of my honeymoon To sombre gloom, And wrenched the cover from Pandora’s box.
In those first talks ’Twixt bride and groom I showed you my whole heart, Showed you how deep my love was and how true; With all a strong man’s feeling I loved YOU: (God, how I loved you, my one chosen mate.) But I learned this (So poorly did you play your little part): You married marriage, to avoid the fate Of having ‘Miss’ Carved on your tombstone. Love you did not know, But you were greedy for the showy things That money brings. Such weak affection as you could bestow Was given the provider, not the lover.