Chapter 2

Much they marvelled, these women of earth, at the strange and curious call, And some of them laughed, and some of them sneered, but they answered it one and all, For they wanted to hear what never before was heard since the world began— The spoken word of Beast and Bird, and the message it held for Man.

‘A plea for shelter,’ the woman said, ‘or food in the wintry weathers, Or a foolish request that we be dressed without their furs or feathers. We will do what we can for the poor dumb things, but they must be sensible.’ Then The meeting was called and a she-bear stood and voiced the thought of the fen.

‘Now this is the message we give to you’ (it was thus the she-bear spake): ‘You the creatures of homes and shrines, and we of the wold and brake, We have no churches, we have no schools, and our minds you question and doubt, But we follow the laws which some Great Cause, alike for us all, laid out.

‘We eat and we drink to live; we shun the things that poison and kill, And we settle the problems of sex and birth by the law of the female will, _For never was one of us known by a male_, _or made to mother its kind_, _Unless there went from our minds consent_ (_or from what we call the mind_).

‘But you, the highest of all she-things, you gorge yourselves at your feasts, And you smoke and drink in a way we think would lower the standard of beasts; For a ring, a roof and a rag, you are bought by your males, to have and to hold, And you mate and you breed without nature’s need, while your hearts and your bodies are cold.

‘All unwanted your offspring come, or you slay them before they are born; And now the wild she-things of the earth have spoken and told their scorn. We have no mind and we have no souls, maybe as you think—And still, Never one of us ate or drank the things that poison and kill, _And never was one of us known by a male except by our wish and will_.’

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.

A BACHELOR TO A MARRIED FLIRT

ALL that a man can say of woman’s charms, Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told To you a thousand times. Your perfect arms (A replica from that lost Melos mould), The fair firm crescents of your bosom (shown With full intent to make their splendours known),

Your eyes (that mask with innocence their smile), The (artful) artlessness of all your ways, Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its guile— All these have had my fond and frequent praise. And something more than praise to you I gave— Something which made you know me as your slave.

Yet slaves, at times, grow mutinous and rebel. Here in this morning hour, from you apart, The mood is on me to be frank and tell The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart. These thoughts are bitter—thorny plants, that grew Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.

Those flowery praises led you to suppose You were my benefactor. Well, in truth, When lovely woman on dull man bestows Sweet favours of her beauty and her youth, He is her debtor. I am yours: and yet _You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt_.

I owe you for keen moments when you stirred My senses with your beauty, when your eyes (Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word Your curled lips uttered. You are worldly wise, And while you like to set men’s hearts on flame, You take no risks in that old passion-game.

The carnal, common self of dual me Found pleasure in this danger play of yours. (An egotist, man always thinks to be The victor, if his patience but endures, And holds in leash the hounds of fierce desire, Until the silly woman’s heart takes fire.)

But now it is the Higher Self who speaks— The Me of me—the inner Man—the real— Whoever dreams his dream and ever seeks To bring to earth his beautiful ideal. That lifelong dream with all its promised joy Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.

Woman, how can I hope for happy life In days to come at my own nuptial hearth, When you who bear the honoured name of wife So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth? Descending from your pedestal, alas! You shake the pedestals of all your class.

A vain, flirtatious wife is like a thief Who breaks into the temple of men’s souls, And steals the golden vessels of belief, The swinging censers, and the incense bowls. All women seem less loyal and less true, Less worthy of men’s faith since I met you.

THE SUPERWOMAN

WHAT will the superwoman be, of whom we sing— She who is coming over the dim border Of Far To-morrow, after earth’s disorder Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring To make life better on tempestuous earth? How will her worth Be greater than her forbears? What new power Within her being will burst into flower?

She will bring beauty, not the transient dower Of adolescence which departs with youth— But beauty based on knowledge of the truth Of its eternal message and the source Of all its potent force. Her outer being by the inner thought Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.

She will bring virtue; but it will not be The pale, white blossom of cold chastity Which hides a barren heart. She will be human— Not saint or angel, but the superwoman— Mother and mate and friend of superman.

She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan, Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined, Drawn from the Cosmic Mind— Wisdom to act, strength to attain, And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.

She will bring that large virtue, self-control, And cherish it as her supremest treasure. Not at the call of sense or for man’s pleasure Will she invite from space an embryo soul, To live on earth again in mortal fashion, Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.

To motherhood she will bring common sense— That most uncommon virtue. She will give Love that is more than she-wolf violence (Which slaughters others that its own may live).

Love that will help each little tendril mind To grow and climb; Love that will know the lordliest use of Time In training human egos to be kind.

She will be formed to guide, but not to lead— Leaders are ever lonely—and her sphere Will be that of the comrade and the mate, Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear, Which casts its searchlight on the course of fate, And to the leaders says, ‘Proceed’ or ‘Wait.’

And best of all, she will bring holy faith To penetrate the shadowy world of death, And show the road beyond it, bright and broad, That leads straight up to God.

CERTITUDE

THERE was a time when I was confident That God’s stupendous mystery of birth Was mine to know. The wonder of it lent New ecstasy and glory to the earth. I heard no voice that uttered it aloud, Nor was it written for me on a scroll; Yet, if alone or in the common crowd, I felt myself a consecrated soul. My child leaped in its dark and silent room And cried, ‘I am,’ though all unheard by men. So leaps my spirit in the body’s gloom And cries, ‘I live! I shall be born again.’ Elate with certitude towards death I go, Nor doubt, nor argue, since I know, I know!

COMPASSION

HE was a failure, and one day he died. Across the border of the mapless land He found himself among a sad-eyed band Of disappointed souls; they, too, had tried And missed their purpose. With one voice they cried Unto the shining Angel in command: ‘Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand, For we are failures, failures! Let us hide.’

Yet on the Angel fared, until they stood Before the Master. (Even His holy place The hideous noises of the earth assailed.) Christ reached His arms out to the trembling brood, With God’s vast sorrow in His listening face. Come unto Me,’ He said; ‘I, too, have failed.’

LOVE

DREAMING of love, the ardent mind of youth Conceives it one with passion’s brief delights, With keen desire and rapture. But, in truth, These are but milestones to sublime heights After the highways, swept by strong emotions, Where wild winds blow and blazing sun rays beat, After the billows of tempestuous oceans, Fair mountain summits wait the lover’s feet.

The path is narrow, but the view is wide, And beauteous the outlook towards the west Happy are they who walk there side by side, Leaving below the valleys of unrest, And on the radiant altitudes above Know the serene intensity of love.

THREE SOULS

THREE Souls there were that reached the Heavenly Gate, And gained permission of the Guard to wait. Barred from the bliss of Paradise by sin, They did not ask or hope to enter in. ‘We loved one woman (thus their story ran); We lost her, for she chose another man. So great our love, it brought us to this door; We only ask to see her face once more. Then will we go to realms where we belong, And pay our penalty for doing wrong.’

‘And wert thou friends on earth?’ (The Guard spake thus.) ‘Nay, we were foes; but Death made friends of us. The dominating thought within each Soul Brought us together, comrades, to this goal, To see her face, and in its radiance bask For one great moment—that is all we ask. And, having seen her, we must journey back The path we came—a hard and dangerous track.’ ‘Wait, then,’ the Angel said, ‘beside me here, But do not strive within God’s Gate to peer Nor converse hold with Spirits clothed in light Who pass this way; thou hast not earned the right.’

They waited year on year. Then, like a flame, News of the woman’s death from earth-land came. The eager lovers scanned with hungry eyes Each Soul that passed the Gates of Paradise. The well-beloved face in vain they sought, Until one day the Guardian Angel brought A message to them. ‘She has gone,’ he said, ‘Down to the lower regions of the dead; Her chosen mate went first; so great her love She has resigned the joys that wait above To dwell with him, until perchance some day, Absolved from sin, he seeks the Better Way.’

Silent, the lovers turned. The pitying Guard Said: ‘Stay (the while his hand the door unbarred), There waits for thee no darker grief or woe; Enter the Gates, and all God’s glories know. But to be ready for so great a bliss, Pause for a moment and take heed of this: The dearest treasure by each mortal lost Lies yonder, when the Threshold has been crossed, And thou shalt find within that Sacred Place The shining wonder of her worshipped face. All that is past is but a troubled dream; Go forward now and claim the Fact Supreme.’

Then clothed like Angels, fitting their estate, Three Souls went singing, singing through God’s Gate.

WHEN LOVE IS LOST

WHEN love is lost, the day sets towards the night, Albeit the morning sun may still be bright, And not one cloud-ship sails across the sky. Yet from the places where it used to lie Gone is the lustrous glory of the light.

No splendour rests in any mountain height, No scene spreads fair and beauteous to the sight; All, all seems dull and dreary to the eye When love is lost.

Love lends to life its grandeur and its might; Love goes, and leaves behind it gloom and blight; Like ghosts of time the pallid hours drag by, And grief’s one happy thought is that we die. Ah, what can recompense us for its flight When love is lost?

OCCUPATION

THERE must in heaven be many industries And occupations, varied, infinite; Or heaven could not be heaven. What gracious tasks The Mighty Maker of the universe Can offer souls that have prepared on earth By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!

Art thou a poet to whom words come not? A dumb composer of unuttered sounds, Ignored by fame and to the world unknown? Thine may be, then, the mission to create Immortal lyrics and immortal strains, For stars to chant together as they swing About the holy centre where God dwells.

Hast thou the artist instinct with no skill To give it form or colour? Unto thee It may be given to paint upon the skies Astounding dawns and sunsets, framed by seas And mountains; or to fashion and adorn New faces for sweet pansies and new dyes To tint their velvet garments. Oftentimes Methinks behind a beauteous flower I see, Or in the tender glory of a dawn, The presence of some spirit who has gone Into the place of mystery, whose call, Imperious and compelling, sounds for all Or soon or late. So many have passed on— So many with ambitions, hopes, and aims Unrealised, who could not be content As idle angels even in paradise. The unknown Michelangelos who lived With thoughts on beauty bent while chained to toil That gave them only bread and burial— These must find waiting in the world of space The shining timbers of their splendid dreams, Ready for shaping temples, shrines, and towers, Where radiant hosts may congregate to raise Their glad hosannas to the God Supreme. And will there not be gardens glorious, And mansions all embosomed among blooms, Where heavenly children reach out loving arms To lonely women who have been denied On earth the longed-for boon of motherhood?

Surely God has provided work to do For souls like these, and for the weary, rest.

THE VALLEY OF FEAR

IN the journey of life, as we travel along To the mystical goal that is hidden from sight, You may stumble at times into Roadways of Wrong, Not seeing the sign-board that points to the right. Through caverns of sorrow your feet may be led, Where the noon of the day will like midnight appear. But no matter whither you wander or tread, Keep out of the Valley of Fear.

The Roadways of Wrong will wind out into light If you sit in the silence and ask for a Guide; In the caverns of sorrow your soul gains its sight Of beautiful vistas, ascending and wide. In by-paths of worry and trouble and strife Full many a bloom grows bedewed by a tear, But wretched and arid and void of all life Is the desolate Valley of Fear.

The Valley of Fear is a maddening maze Of paths that wind on without exit or end, From nowhere to nowhere lead all of its ways, And shadows with shadows in more shadows blend. Each guide-post is lettered, ‘This way to Despair,’ And the River of Death in the darkness flows near, But there is a beautiful Roadway of Prayer This side of the Valley of Fear.

This beautiful Roadway is narrow and steep, And it runs up the side of the Mountain of Faith. You may not perceive it at first if you weep, But it rises high over the River of Death. Though the Roadway is narrow and dark at the base, It widens ascending, and ever grows clear, Till it shines at the top with the Light of God’s face, Far, far from the Valley of Fear.

When close to that Valley your footsteps shall fare, Turn, turn to the Roadway of Prayer— The beautiful Roadway of Prayer.

WHAT WOULD IT BE?

NOW what were the words of Jesus, And what would He pause and say, If we were to meet in home or street, The Lord of the world to-day? Oh, I think He would pause and say: ‘Go on with your chosen labour; Speak only good of your neighbour; Widen your farms, and lay down your arms, Or dig up the soil with each sabre.’

Now what were the answer of Jesus If we should ask for a creed, To carry us straight to the wonderful gate When soul from body is freed? Oh, I think He would give us this creed: ‘Praise God whatever betide you; Cast joy on the lives beside you; Better the earth, by growing in worth, With love as the law to guide you.’

Now what were the answer of Jesus If we should ask Him to tell Of the last great goal of the homing soul Where each of us hopes to dwell? Oh, I think it is this He would tell: ‘The soul is the builder—then wake it; The mind is the kingdom—then take it; And thought upon thought let Eden be wrought, For heaven will be what you make it.’

AMERICA

I AM the refuge of all the oppressed, I am the boast of the free, I am the harbour where ships may rest Safely ’twixt sea and sea. I hold up a torch to a darkened world, I lighten the path with its ray. Let my hand keep steady And let me be ready For whatever comes my way— Let me be ready.

Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns, Better than lance or spear, Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons, Faithful and without fear. But my daughters and sons must understand _That Attila did not die_. And they must be ready, Their hands must be steady, If the hosts of hell come nigh— They must be ready.

If Jesus were back on the earth with men, He would not preach to-day Until He had made Him a scourge, and again He would drive the defilers away. He would throw down the tables of lust and greed And scatter the changers’ gold. He would be ready, His hand would be steady, As it was in that temple of old— He would be ready.

I am the cradle of God’s new world, From me shall the new race rise, And my glorious banner must float unfurled, Unsullied against the skies. My sons and daughters must be my strength, With courage to do and to dare, With hearts that are ready, With hands that are steady, And their slogan must be, PREPARE!— They must be ready!

With a prayer on the lip they must shoulder arms, For after all has been said, We must muster guns, If we master Huns— _And Attila is not dead_— We must be ready!

WAR MOTHERS

_There is something in the sound of drum and fife_ _That stirs all the savage instincts into life_.

IN the old times of peace we went our ways, Through proper days Of little joys and tasks. Lonely at times, When from the steeple sounded wedding chimes, Telling to all the world some maid was wife— But taking patiently our part in life As it was portioned us by Church and State, Believing it our fate. Our thoughts all chaste Held yet a secret wish to love and mate Ere youth and virtue should go quite to waste. But men we criticised for lack of strength, And kept them at arm’s length. Then the war came— The world was all aflame! The men we had thought dull and void of power Were heroes in an hour. He who had seemed a slave to petty greed Showed masterful in that great time of need. He who had plotted for his neighbour’s pelf, Now for his fellows offers up himself. And we were only women, forced by war To sacrifice the things worth living for.

_Something within us broke_, _Something within us woke_, _The wild cave-woman spoke_.

_When we heard the sound of drumming_, _As our soldiers went to camp_, _Heard them tramp_, _tramp_, _tramp_; _As we watched to see them coming_, _And they looked at us and smiled_ (_Yes_, _looked back at us and smiled_), _As they filed along by hillock and by hollow_, _Then our hearts were so beguiled_ _That_, _for many and many a day_, _We dreamed we heard them say_, ‘_Oh_, _follow_, _follow_, _follow_!’ _And the distant_, _rolling drum_ _Called us_ ‘_Come_, _come_, _come_!’ _Till our virtue seemed a thing to give away_.

War had swept ten thousand years away from earth. We were primal once again. There were males, not modern men; We were females meant to bring their sons to birth. And we could not wait for any formal rite, We could hear them calling to us, ‘Come to-night; For to-morrow, at the dawn, We move on!’ And the drum Bellowed, ‘Come, come, come!’ And the fife Whistled, ‘Life, life, life!’

So they moved on and fought and bled and died; Honoured and mourned, they are the nation’s pride. We fought our battles, too, but with the tide Of our red blood, we gave the world new lives. Because we were not wives We are dishonoured. Is it noble, then, To break God’s laws only by killing men To save one’s country from destruction? We took no man’s life but gave our chastity, And sinned the ancient sin To plant young trees and fill felled forests in.

Oh, clergy of the land, Bible in hand, All reverently you stand, On holy thoughts intent While barren wives receive the sacrament! Had you the open visions you could see Phantoms of infants murdered in the womb, Who never knew a cradle or a tomb, Hovering about these wives accusingly.

Bestow the sacrament! Their sins are not well known— Ours to the four winds of the earth are blown.

A HOLIDAY

Berlin, Germany, gave the school children a half holiday to celebrate the sinking of the _Lusitania_.

WAR declares a holiday; Little children, run and play. Ring-a-rosy round the earth With the garland of your mirth.

Shrill a song brim full of glee Of a great ship sunk at sea. Tell with pleasure and with pride How a hundred children died.

Sing of orphan babes, whose cries Beat against unanswering skies; Let a mother’s mad despair Lend staccato to your air.

Sing of babes who drowned alone; Sing of headstones, marked ‘Unknown’; Sing of homes made desolate Where the stricken mourners wait.

Sing of battered corpses tossed By the heedless waves, and lost. Run, sweet children, sing and play; War declares a holiday.

THE UNDERTONE

WHEN I was very young I used to feel the dark despairs of youth; Out of my little griefs I would invent great tragedies and woes; Not only for myself, but for all those I held most dear I would invent vast sorrows in my melancholy moods of thought. Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of rapture. It was like a voice from some other world calling softly to me, Saying things joyful.

As I grew older, and Life offered bitter gall for me to drink, Forcing it through clenched teeth when I refused to take it willingly; When Pain prepared some special anguish for my heart to bear, And all the things I longed for seemed to be wholly beyond my reach— Yet down deep, deep in my heart there was an undertone of rapture. It was like a Voice, a Voice from some other world calling to me, Bringing glad tidings.