Chapter 3

Now when I look about me, and see the great injustices of men, See Idleness and Greed waited upon by luxury and mirth, See prosperous Vice ride by in state, while footsore Virtue walks; Now when I hear the cry of need rise up from lands of shameful wealth— Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of rapture. It is like a Voice—it is a Voice—calling to me and saying: ‘Love rules triumphant.’

Now when each mile-post on the path of life seems marked by headstones, And one by one dear faces that I loved are hid away from sight; Now when in each familiar home I see a vacant chair, And in the throngs once formed of friends I meet unrecognising eyes— Yet down deep, deep in my heart there is an undertone of rapture. It is the Voice, it is the Voice for ever saying unto me: ‘Life is Eternal.’

GYPSYING

GYPSYING, gypsying, through the world together, Never mind the way we go, never mind what port. Follow trails, or fashion sails, start in any weather: While we journey hand in hand, everything is sport.

Gypsying, gypsying, leaving care and worry: Never mind the ‘if’ and ‘but’ (words for coward lips). Put them out with ‘fear’ and ‘doubt,’ in the pack with ‘hurry,’ While we stroll like vagabonds forth to trails, or ships.

Gypsying, gypsying, just where fancy calls us; Never mind what others say, or what others do. Everywhere or foul or fair, liking what befalls us: While you have me at your side, and while I have you.

Gypsying, gypsying, camp by hill or hollow; Never mind the why of it, since it suits our mood. Go or stay, and pay our way, and let those who follow Find, upspringing from the soil, some small seed of good.

Gypsying, gypsying, through the world we wander: Never mind the rushing years, that have come and gone. There must be for you and me, lying over Yonder, Other lands, where side by side we can gypsy on.

SONG OF THE ROAD

I AM a Road; a good road, fair and smooth and broad; And I link with my beautiful tether Town and Country together, Like a ribbon rolled on the earth, from the reel of God. Oh, great the life of a Road!

I am a Road; a long road, leading on and on; And I cry to the world to follow, Past meadow and hill and hollow, Through desolate night, to the open gates of dawn. Oh, bold the life of a Road!

I am a Road; a kind road, shaped by strong hands. I make strange cities neighbours; The poor grow rich with my labours, And beauty and comfort follow me through the lands. Oh, glad the life of a Road!

I am a Road; a wise road, knowing all men’s ways; And I know how each heart reaches For the things dear Nature teaches; And I am the path that leads into green young Mays. Oh, sweet the life of a Road!

I am a Road; and I speed away from the slums, Away from desolate places, Away from unused spaces; Wherever I go, there order from chaos comes. Oh, brave the life of a Road!

I am a Road; and I would make the whole world one. I would give hope to duty, And cover the earth with beauty. Do you not see, O men! how all this might be done? So vast the power of the Road!

THE FAITH WE NEED

TOO tall our structures, and too swift our pace; Not so we mount, not so we gain the race. Too loud the voice of commerce in the land; Not so truth speaks, not so we understand. Too vast our conquests, and too large our gains; Not so comes peace, not so the soul attains.

But the need of the world is a faith that will live anywhere; In the still dark depths of the woods, or out in the sun’s full glare. A faith that can hear God’s voice, alike in the quiet glen, Or in the roar of the street, and over the noises of men.

And the need of the world is a creed that is founded on joy; A creed with the turrets of hope and trust, no winds can destroy; A creed where the soul finds rest, whatever this life bestows, And dwells undoubting and unafraid, because it knows, it knows.

And the need of the world is love that burns in the heart like flame; A love for the Giver of Life, in sorrow or joy the same; A love that blazes a trail to Go through the dark and the cold, Or keeps the pathway that leads to Him clean, through glory and gold.

For the faith that can only thrive or grow in the solitude, And droops and dies in the marts of men, where sights and sounds are rude; That is not a faith at all, but a dream of a mystic’s heart; Our faith should point as the compass points, whatever be the chart.

Our faith must find its centre of peace in a babel of noise; In the changing ways of the world of men it must keep its poise; And over the sorrowing sounds of earth it must hear God’s call; And the faith that cannot do all this, that is not faith at all.

THE PRICE HE PAID

I SAID I would have my fling, And do what a young man may; And I didn’t believe a thing That the parsons have to say. I didn’t believe in a God That gives us blood like fire, Then flings us into hell because We answer the call of desire.

And I said: ‘Religion is rot, And the laws of the world are nil; For the bad man is he who is caught And cannot foot his bill. And there is no place called hell; And heaven is only a truth When a man has his way with a maid, In the fresh keen hour of youth.

‘And money can buy us grace, If it rings on the plate of the church: And money can neatly erase Each sign of a sinful smirch.’ For I saw men everywhere, Hotfooting the road of vice; And women and preachers smiled on them As long as they paid the price.

So I had my joy of life: I went the pace of the town; And then I took me a wife, And started to settle down. I had gold enough and to spare For all of the simple joys That belong with a house and a home And a brood of girls and boys.

I married a girl with health And virtue and spotless fame. I gave in exchange my wealth And a proud old family name. And I gave her the love of a heart Grown sated and sick of sin! My deal with the devil was all cleaned up, And the last bill handed in.

She was going to bring me a child, And when in labour she cried With love and fear I was wild— But now I wish she had died. For the son she bore me was blind And crippled and weak and sore! And his mother was left a wreck. It was so she settled my score.

I said I must have my fling, And they knew the path I would go; Yet no one told me a thing Of what I needed to know. Folks talk too much of a soul From heavenly joys debarred— And not enough of the babes unborn, By the sins of their fathers scarred.

DIVORCED

THINKING of one thing all day long, at night I fall asleep, brain weary and heart sore; But only for a little while. At three, Sometimes at two o’clock, I wake and lie, Staring out into darkness; while my thoughts Begin the weary treadmill-toil again, From that white marriage morning of our youth Down to this dreadful hour.

I see your face Lit with the lovelight of the honeymoon; I hear your voice, that lingered on my name As if it loved each letter; and I feel The clinging of your arms about my form, Your kisses on my cheek—and long to break The anguish of such memories with tears, But cannot weep; the fountain has run dry.

We were so young, so happy, and so full Of keen sweet joy of life. I had no wish Outside your pleasure; and you loved me so That when I sometimes felt a woman’s need For more serene expression of man’s love (The need to rest in calm affection’s bay And not sail ever on the stormy main), Yet would I rouse myself to your desire; Meet ardent kiss with kisses just as warm; So nothing I could give should be denied.

And then our children came. Deep in my soul, From the first hour of conscious motherhood, I knew I should conserve myself for this Most holy office; knew God meant it so. Yet even then, I held your wishes first; And by my double duties lost the bloom And freshness of my beauty; and beheld A look of disapproval in your eyes. But with the coming of our precious child, The lover’s smile, tinged with the father’s pride, Returned again; and helped to make me strong; And life was very sweet for both of us.

Another, and another birth, and twice The little white hearse paused beside our door And took away some portion of my youth With my sweet babies. At the first you seemed To suffer with me, standing very near; But when I wept too long, you turned away. And I was hurt, not realising then My grief was selfish. I could see the change Which motherhood and sorrow made in me; And when I saw the change that came to you, Saw how your eyes looked past me when you talked, And when I missed the love tone from your voice, I did that foolish thing weak women do, Complained and cried, accused you of neglect, And made myself obnoxious in your sight.

And often, after you had left my side, Alone I stood before my mirror, mad With anger at my pallid cheeks, my dull Unlighted eyes, my shrunken mother-breasts, And wept, and wept, and faded more and more. How could I hope to win back wandering love, And make new flames in dying embers leap, By such ungracious means?

And then She came, Firm-bosomed, round of cheek, with such young eyes, And all the ways of youth. I who had died A thousand deaths, in waiting the return Of that old love-look to your face once more, Died yet again and went straight into hell When I beheld it come at her approach.

My God, my God, how have I borne it all! Yet since she had the power to wake that look— The power to sweep the ashes from your heart Of burned-out love of me, and light new fires, One thing remained for me—to let you go. I had no wish to keep the empty frame From which the priceless picture had been wrenched. Nor do I blame you; it was not your fault: You gave me all that most men can give—love Of youth, of beauty, and of passion; and I gave you full return; my womanhood Matched well your manhood. Yet had you grown ill, Or old, and unattractive from some cause (Less close than was my service unto you), I should have clung the tighter to you, dear; And loved you, loved you, loved you more and more.

I grow so weary thinking of these things; Day in, day out; and half the awful nights.

THE REVEALING ANGELS

SUDDENLY and without warning they came— The Revealing Angels came. Suddenly and simultaneously, through city streets, Through quiet lanes and country roads they walked. They walked crying: ‘God has sent us to find The vilest sinners of earth. We are to bring them before Him, before the Lord of Life.’

Their voices were like bugles; And then all war, all strife, And all the noises of the world grew still; And no one talked; And no one toiled, but many strove to flee away. Robbers and thieves, and those sunk in drunkenness and crime, Men and women of evil repute, And mothers with fatherless children in their arms, all strove to hide. But the Revealing Angels passed them by, Saying: ‘Not you, not you. Another day, when we shall come again Unto the haunts of men, Then we will call your names; But God has asked us first to bring to him Those guilty of greater shames Than lust, or theft, or drunkenness, or vice— Yea, greater than murder done in passion, Or self-destruction done in dark despair. Now in His Holy Name we call: Come one and all Come forth; reveal your faces.’

Then through the awful silence of the world, Where noise had ceased, they came— The sinful hosts. They came from lowly and from lofty places, Some poorly clad, but many clothed like queens; They came from scenes of revel and from toil; From haunts of sin, from palaces, from homes, From boudoirs, and from churches. They came like ghosts— _The vast brigades of women who had slain_ _Their helpless_, _unborn children_. With them trailed Lovers and husbands who had said, ‘Do this,’ And those who helped for hire. They stood before the Angels—before the Revealing Angels they stood. And they heard the Angels say, And all the listening world heard the Angels say: ‘These are the vilest sinners of all; For the Lord of Life made sex that birth might come; Made sex and its keen compelling desire To fashion bodies wherein souls might go From lower planes to higher, Until the end is reached (which is Beginning). They have stolen the costly pleasures of the senses And refused to pay God’s price. They have come together, these men and these women, As male and female they have come together In the great creative act. They have invited souls, and then flung them out into space; They have made a jest of God’s design. All other sins look white beside this sinning; All other sins may be condoned, forgiven; All other sinners may be cleansed and shriven; Not these, not these. Pass on, and meet God’s eyes.’

The vast brigade moved forward, and behind then walked the Angels, Walked the sorrowful Revealing Angels.

THE WELL-BORN

SO many people—people—in the world; So few great souls, love ordered, well begun, In answer to the fertile mother need! So few who seem The image of the Maker’s mortal dream; So many born of mere propinquity— Of lustful habit, or of accident. Their mothers felt No mighty, all-compelling wish to see Their bosoms garden-places Abloom with flower faces; No tidal wave swept o’er them with its flood; No thrill of flesh or heart; no leap of blood; No glowing fire, flaming to white desire For mating and for motherhood: Yet they bore children. God! how mankind misuses Thy command, To populate the earth! How low is brought high birth! How low the woman; when, inert as spawn Left on the sands to fertilise, She is the means through which the race goes on! Not so the first intent. Birth, as the Supreme Mind conceived it, meant The clear imperious call of mate to mate And the clear answer. Only thus and then Are fine, well-ordered, and potential lives Brought into being. Not by Church or State Can birth be made legitimate, Unless Love in its fulness bless. Creation so ordains its lofty laws That man, while greater in all other things, Is lesser in the generative cause. The father may be merely man, the male; Yet more than female must the mother be. The woman who would fashion Souls, for the use of earth and angels meet, Must entertain a high and holy passion. Not rank, or wealth, or influence of kings Can give a soul its dower Of majesty and power, Unless the mother brings Great love to that great hour.

SISTERS OF MINE

SISTERS, sisters of mine, have we done what we could In all the old ways, through all the new days, To better the race and to make life sweet and good? Have we played the full part that was ours in the start, Sisters of mine?

Sisters, sisters of mine, as we hurry along To a larger world, with our banners unfurled, The battle-cry on lips where once was Love’s old song, Are we leaving behind better things than we find, Sisters of mine?

Sisters, sisters of mine, through the march in the street, Through turmoil and din, without, and within, As we gain something big do we lose something sweet? In the growth of our might is our grace lost to sight? As new powers unfold do we _love_ as of old, Sisters of mine?

ANSWER

O WELL have we done the old tasks! in the old, old ways of earth. We have kept the house in order, we have given the children birth; And our sons went out with their fathers, and left us alone at the hearth!

We have cooked the meats for their table; we have woven their cloth at the loom; We have pulled the weeds from their gardens, and kept the flowers in bloom; And then we have sat and waited, alone in a silent room.

We have borne all the pains of travail in giving life to the race; We have toiled and saved, for the masters, and helped them to power and place; And when we asked for a pittance, they gave it with grudging grace.

On the bold, bright face of the dollar all the evils of earth are shown. We are weary of love that is barter, and of virtue that pines alone; We are out in the world with the masters: we are finding and claiming our own!

THE GRADUATES

I SAW them beautiful, in fair array upon Commencement Day; Lissome and lovely, radiant and sweet As cultured roses, brought to their estate By careful training. Finished and complete (As teachers calculate).

They passed in maiden grace along the aisle, Leaving the chaste white sunlight of a smile Upon the gazing throng. Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race.

Oh there are many actors who can play Greatly, great parts; but rare indeed the soul Who can be great when cast for some small rôle; Yet that is what the world most needs; big hearts That will shine forth and glorify poor parts In this strange drama, Life! Do they, Who in full dress-rehearsal pass to-day Before admiring eyes, hold in their store Those fine high principles which keep old Earth From being only earth; and make men more Than just mere men? How will they prove their worth Of years of study? Will they walk abroad Decked with the plumage of dead bards of God, The glorious birds? And shall the lamb unborn Be slain on altars of their vanity? To some frail sister who has missed the way Will they give Christ’s compassion, or man’s scorn; And will clean manhood, linked with honest love, The victor prove, When riches, gained by greed, dispute the claim? Will they guard well a husband’s home and name. Or lean down from their altitudes to hear The voice of flattery speak in the ear Those lying platitudes which men repeat To listening Self-Conceit? Musing I thought upon their place as mothers of the race, As beautiful they passed in maiden grace.

THE SILENT TRAGEDY

THE deepest tragedies of life are not Put into books, or acted on the stage. Nay, they are lived in silence, by tense hearts In homes, among dull unperceiving kin, And thoughtless friends, who make a whip of words Wherewith to lash these hearts, and call it wit.

There is a tragedy lived everywhere In Christian lands, by an increasing horde Of women martyrs to our social laws. Women whose hearts cry out for motherhood; Women whose bosoms ache for little heads; Women God meant for mothers, but whose lives Have been restrained, restricted, and denied Their natural channels, till at last they stand Unmated and alone, by that sad sea Whose slow receding tide returns no more. Men meet great sorrows; but no man can grasp The depth, and height, of such a grief as this.

The call of Fatherhood is from man’s brain. Man cannot know the answer to that call Save as a woman tells him. But to her The call of Motherhood is from the soul, The brain, the body. She is like a plant Which buds and blossoms only to bear fruit. Man is the pollen, carried by the wind Of accident, or impulse, or desire; And then his rôle of fatherhood is played. Her threefold knowledge of maternity, Through three times three great months, is hers alone.

Man as an egotist is wounded when He is not father. Woman when denied The all-embracing rôle of motherhood Rebels with her whole being. Oftentimes Rebellion finds its only utterance In shattered nerves, and lack of self-control; Which gives the merry world its chance to cry ‘Old maids are queer.’ In far off Eastern lands

They think of God as Mother to the race; Father and Mother of the Universe. And mayhap this is why they make their girls Wives prematurely, mothers over young, Hoping to please their Mother God this way. Since everywhere in Nature sex is shown For procreative uses, they contend Sterility is sinful. (Save when one Chooses a life of Saintship here on earth, And so conserves all forces to that end.)

Here in the West, our God is Masculine; And while we say He bade a Virgin bring His Son to birth, we think of Him as One Placing false values on forced continence— Preparing heavens for those who live that life— And hells for those who stray by thought or act From the unnatural path our laws have made.

Mother of Christ, thou being woman, thou Knowing all depths within the woman heart, All joy, all pain, oh send the world more light. Enlarge our sympathies; and let our minds Turn from achievements of material things To contemplation of Eternal truths. Space throbs with egos, waiting for rebirth; And mother-hearted women fill the earth. Mother of Christ, show us the way to thin The ranks of childless women, without sin.

THE TRINITY

MUCH may be done with the world we are in, Much with the race to better it; We can unfetter it, Free it from chains of the old traditions; Broaden its viewpoint of virtue and sin; Change its conditions Of labour and wealth; And open new roadways to knowledge and health. _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_ _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_. A man and a woman with love between, Loyal and tender and true and clean, Nothing better has been or can be Than just those three.

Woman may alter the first great plan. Daughters and sisters and mothers May stalk with their brothers Forth from their homes into noisy places Fit (and fit only) for masculine man. Marring their graces With conflict and strife To widen the outlook of all human life. _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_ _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_. A man and a woman with love that strengthens And gathers new force as its earth way lengthens; Nothing better by God is given This side of heaven.

Science may show us a wonderful vast Secret of life and of breeding it; Man by the heeding it Out of earth’s chaos may bring a new order. Off with old systems, old laws may be cast. What now seems the border Of licence in creeds, May then be the centre of thoughts and of deeds. _Yet some things ever must stay as they are_ _While the sea has its tide and the sky has its star_. A man and a woman and love undefiled And the look of the two in the face of a child,— Oh, the joys of this world have their changing ways, But this joy stays. Nothing better on earth can be Than just those three.

THE UNWED MOTHER TO THE WIFE

I HAD been almost happy for an hour, Lost to the world that knew me in the park Among strange faces; while my little girl Leaped with the squirrels, chirruped with the birds And with the sunlight glowed. She was so dear, So beautiful, so sweet; and for the time The rose of love, shorn of its thorn of shame, Bloomed in my heart. Then suddenly you passed. I sat alone upon the public bench; You, with your lawful husband, rode in state; And when your eyes fell on me and my child, They were not eyes, but daggers, poison tipped.

God! how good women slaughter with a look! And, like cold steel, your glance cut through my heart, Struck every petal from the rose of love And left the ragged stalk alive with thorns.