The coat without a seam, and other poems
Part 1
THE COAT WITHOUT A SEAM _And Other Poems_
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND AND OTHER POEMS
A volume of miscellaneous poems containing as its title poem a reply to the German “Hymn of Hate.”
“Firmly and finely fashioned, and unaffectedly sincere.”--_The New York Times._
“Miss Cone’s verse shows a delicacy of imagination which is deserving of high praise.”--_The Outlook._
_$1.50 net_
NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE
THE COAT WITHOUT A SEAM _And Other Poems_
BY HELEN GRAY CONE AUTHOR OF “A CHANT OF LOVE FOR ENGLAND, AND OTHER POEMS”
NEW YORK E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 681 FIFTH AVENUE
COPYRIGHT 1919, BY E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
Grateful acknowledgment is made, for permission to reprint some of the poems in this book, to Scribner’s Magazine, The Outlook, The Sonnet, The New York Evening Post, The New York Times, The Boston Evening Transcript, and The Association Monthly.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE COAT WITHOUT A SEAM 1
SONNETS OF THE GREAT PEACE 9
MOODS OF WAR:
THE SWORD 21
ALIGNED 23
EARTH-BROWN ARMIES 26
THE IMPERATIVE 27
WAR-SACRIFICE 29
THE YOUTH AND WAR 31
MOTHERS OF SOLDIERS 33
A REPRISAL 35
ON THE DEATH OF AN UNTRIED SOLDIER 39
THE AIRMAN 41
TO FRANCIS LEDWIDGE 42
THE WAY OF THE WHITE SOULS 44
RESPITE 47
HAPPY COUNTRY 49
TO FRANCE 51
TO BELGIUM 53
THE CREED OF AN AMERICAN 55
THE ULTIMATE VICTORY 58
ROOSEVELT, 1919 60
THE QUIET DAYS:
OLD BURYING HILL 65
HEARTBREAK ROAD 66
ROMANCE 67
FAITH 69
INTIMATIONS 70
ON THE SINGING OF “GAUDEAMUS IGITUR” 72
THE COUNTERSIGN 74
FAILURE TRIUMPHANT 75
THE SPARK 77
FOXGLOVES 79
THE CHRISTMAS BAGPIPES 80
WHEN ROSES GO DOWN TO THE SEA 82
RITUAL FOR SUMMER DEAD 85
RED OCTOBER 87
THE SINGER CHOOSES THE SONGS OF THE WIND 89
THE GLEAM TRAVELS 91
THE GRAY VICTORY 93
FLAGS AND THE SKY 96
THE COAT WITHOUT A SEAM
THE COAT WITHOUT A SEAM
There was a web, ere Time began, Woven on the loom of God, Woven for the need of Man. Through the web two colors ran, Blue that is the sky of God, Red that is the blood of Man. The web was woven, the web was one: The stars sang when the work was done.
God had willed it to be worn-- Fit garment for the heavenly feast-- By Man, that was to be His son. Only God could dream that dream! When Time began, and Man was born, He clothed himself in the skin of the beast, And under it beat the heart of the beast. Not till Man be born God’s son Shall he wear the Coat without a Seam!
(Ah, the dream, the wondrous dream Of a World without a Seam, Man being one, as God is one, Brother’s brother and Father’s son, All earth, all Heaven, without a seam!)
The Roman strode through field and flood, Blind as Fate with battle-blood; Victory glittered in his hand; And when he laid him down at night Under the stars of some strange land, Weary of the march or fight, He wrapped his heart in the vast dream Of a World without a Seam; Yet the dream was not divine; The fierce heart beat like marching feet: “The World is one--the World is mine!” That was the dream of states foregone, Of Babylon, of Macedon; Sleeked by whatsoever art, It is the dream of the beast’s heart. Massive-treading Rome paced on (As Macedon, as Babylon,) Into the dusk of states foregone: She left her mantle still astream Along the wind, her purple dream-- Not the Coat without a Seam! The eyes of emperors see it float, They hail it for the sacred Coat: Men follow on through field and flood, Blind as Fate with battle-blood. See the sworded sceptred train, Out of the dusk they all advance: Iron-crownéd Charlemagne, Barbarossa flaming past, Sombre majesties of Spain, Pomps of old monarchic France-- Supreme Napoleon last, Sweeping his ermine-bordered robe And gripping fast the globe. (Nay, who is this that follows him, A vision helmeted and grim, A countenance pallid and aghast?) --Into the dusk they all are gone, As Babylon, as Macedon. Not till Man shall dream God’s dream Shall he wear the Coat without a Seam!
(Ah, the dream, the wondrous dream Of a World without a Seam! Man being one, as God is one, Brother’s brother and Father’s son, All earth, all Heaven without a seam!)
“What shall we do, we simple folk Who walk as cattle in the yoke? Surely the vision of this Coat-- Fit garment for the heavenly feast-- Is for prophet and for priest, Not for men of little note! Surely the quest to find this Coat-- Woven of empyrean thread Heaven-blue and heart-red-- This is for Kings and Chancellors, Parliaments and Emperors, Not for men of little note!” --Nay, this do ye every one: All your days to dream God’s dream, That Man, who is to be His son, Shall wear the Coat without a Seam!
SONNETS OF THE GREAT PEACE
“Incertainties now crown themselves assured And peace proclaims olives of endless age.”
--SHAKESPEARE’S _Sonnet CVII_.
I
What boon is this, this fresh and crystal thing, Perfect as snow, dropped from the deep of the sky-- This healing, shed as from the soft swift wing Of some great mystical bird low-sweeping by? This music suddenly thrilling through the mind Angelic unimagined ecstasy, As when warm fingers of the Spring unbind Young brooks that laugh and leap, at last being free? By what white magic, what unfathomed art, Was this best gift secretly perfected, This amulet, that laid against the heart Melts all the icy weight that held it dead? _This is that Peace we had and did not know; This is that Peace we lost--how long ago!_
II
Shall we not now work wonders with this charm, To the vext heart of the world benignly laid, Fending all future golden lads from harm, And all gray mothers, and every starry maid? Yea, all kind beasts that ask with patient eyes Our wisdom to forestall bewildering pain: Yea, all kind fields, trees rippling to the skies, Brown earth sweet-breathing under natural rain. Shall we not now, being freed, being healed of Peace, Retrieve all days to be from blot and blight, Give to the chained goodwill of Man release, And a new deed of manumission write On a new page, made by this marvellous boon Pure as unfooted snow under the moon?
III
How did we cast away our careless days In that old time before we knew their worth, Wandering with chance, even as a child that strays, Spilling their unprized splendors on the earth! But now we have eaten War as daily bread, Borne it upon our souls a weary weight, Made it the pillow to a restless head, Breathed it as air, sick with the reek of hate: And Peace is come a stranger, and grave-eyed, Like a young maid turned woman; on our knees We do her reverence as a spirit enskyed; How should we spend such shining days as these? They have cost great pain: needs must we hold them dear, Counting our jewels with a heavenly fear.
IV
Ghosts of great flags that billowed in the sun With glorious colors above the crowded street, Lifting our hearts to know the rent world one, Teaching the march of Man to hurrying feet, Shall ye not haunt those skyward spaces still With memory of your sun-illumined streaming, Bright brother-angels heralding goodwill, Beckoners of sordid spirits to noble dreaming? Or shall your many beauteous blazonries Fade out from the dulled sense and be forgot, And intimations so august as these Lapse into silence even as they were not, Comrades turn rivals, and heart-fast allies Weavers of schemes, peering with insect eyes?
V
What shame were this to those who lie asleep Under the scarlet poppies, having bought A clean new world with blood! Shall we not keep Faith with our dead, and give them what they sought? Is not a world the measure of our debt To those whose young lives sadly we inherit, Living them out, making them fruitful yet? What lesser meed fits their transcendent merit? The future was their sacrificial gift, And joy unborn, and beauty uncreate, And little children that should racing lift Their torch of life, laughing at death and fate: Shall we not make, mindful of all they gave, A star of this old earth which is their grave?
MOODS OF WAR
THE SWORD
One of the seventy had a sword The day that Christ was crucified: He followed where they led his Lord, The man that could not stand aside.
When that first hammer-stroke rang loud, And left and right the rabble swayed, He flashed from out the staring crowd, He died upon the Roman blade.
His fruitless deed, his noteless name, By careless Rome were never told. Now shall we give him praise or blame? Account him base, acclaim him bold?
Was he the traitor to his Lord, Deeper than Peter that denied, The loving soul that took the sword, The man that would not stand aside?
Or did the glorious company Of Michael’s sworded seraphim With chivalrous high courtesy Rise up to make a place for him?
ALIGNED
Why do you leap in the wind so wild, O Star-Flag, O Sky-Flag? And why do you ripple as if you smiled, Flag of my heart’s delight? “I laugh because I am loosed at last, Free of the cords that bound me fast Mute as a mummy, furled on the mast, Far from the beckoning fight!
“I joy because I am aligned-- The Star-Flag, the Sky-Flag-- With these the noblest of my kind, Flags of the soul’s desire! And where the blended Crosses blaze, And where the Tricolor lifts and sways To the marching pulse of the Marseillaise, I may be tried in the fire!”
Yea, not for gold and not for ease, My Star-Flag, my Sky-Flag, The Fathers launched you on the breeze, Flag of man’s best emprise! Yea, not for power and not for greed, But to fly forever, follow or lead, For the world’s hope and the world’s need, Flower of all seas and all skies!
And better you were a riddled rag, My Star-Flag, my Sky-Flag, The faded ghost of a fighting-flag, Shredded, and scorched with flame, Than that you should now be satisfied Over splendid cities and waters wide To flutter and float in an idle pride, To flaunt in a silken shame!
Then well may you leap in the wind so wild, O Star-Flag, O Sky-Flag! And well may you ripple as if you smiled, Flag of our hearts’ delight! We joy because you are aligned With these the noblest of your kind: We are yours and theirs with a single mind-- Let us on to the beckoning fight!
EARTH-BROWN ARMIES
Earth-brown armies, on the brown earth whither, Ant-like swarming, rush ye in your wrath? --We wrestle and we tug and we pull all together To shift the giant Dead Thing that lies across the path.
Earth-brown armies, but should it roll and smother, Log-like topple, and crush you in the clod? --Earth would pour new armies, one behind another, To shift the giant Dead Thing that blocks the way of God!
THE IMPERATIVE
Whether we lose the light Of love or of the sun, With body and blood and mind and might Must this sole thing be done:
The world is a broken ball, Stained red because it fell Out of bounds, in a game of kings, Over the wall of hell:
And now must the spirit of man Arise and adventure all-- Leap the wall sheer down into hell And bring up the broken ball.
Worth well, to lose the light Of love or of the sun, Worth endless fire or endless night, So this sole thing were done!
WAR-SACRIFICE
On a rock-altar stern In sacrificial fires, A man goes up to burn His memories and desires.
Sweet savors of the earth, All innocence and ease, All pleasantness and mirth, He offers on his knees.
His trembling, star-white dreams; His body’s secret fear; His life--how dear it seems, How knit with lives more dear!
Last offering, and most dread-- With blind arms thrust above His bowed and suffering head, He burns his brother-love:
Yet from that altar springs, Magnificently bright, A Love with fiery wings To fill the world with light.
THE YOUTH AND WAR
She said, “I will hide all the brave books away from him, With their scarlet letters that burn into the heart; I will lock their spell and their sovereign sway from him; I will rear him tenderly, a life apart.” But the day came and the hour came, And the foul deed struck him like a spur; And he felt the shame and the swift flame, And his eyes were strange to her.
In the dreams of the night had the old Captains come to him, And the staunch old Admirals that died long ago; From the old fields of fight came the roll of the drum to him, With a call that his mother could not know; It seemed that a Sword gleamed blinding-bright At the dawn-edge of the sky; And he said, “O Mother, the Right is the Right: I must fight for it now though I die!”
MOTHERS OF SOLDIERS
What should we say to you, O glorious Mothers Sacred and full of sorrows, we childless ones? We kneel to you as haloed women, we others, The slighter lives that could not give their sons. Not ours the exquisite anguish of surrender, The deep, still courage that day by day endures, The rosary of memories piercing-tender, The travail and the triumph that are yours.
The agony and the glory of creation You have partaken; in that steep way you trod You have made yourselves part of the world’s salvation, You have shared the passion and the joy of God. With splendor of sunrise and the surging morn, Out of your pain shall Man be newly born.
A REPRISAL
At the deep midnight hour Sleep, that makes all things whole, Indulged my tortured soul. In the jewel-chest of dreams He stirred the elusive gleams, And found the gift of power, Round, pure, and perfect power, And laid it in my hand.
I said: “I have command Of the Prince of the Power of the Air; His own wings will I wear! I will soar as a great hell-kite To be named The Terror-by-Night, Over mine enemy’s land.”
At the thought, I rode the sky, High over the sea, and high Over field and city and spire; I laughed; I had my desire. For I came to mine enemy’s roof, Safe in a valley aloof, And I knew, as I poised above, There lay his Hope and his Love, The twain that he held most dear, Nestled with cheeks together, Roses in summer weather, Sleeping without a fear. Gray Memory, close beside, Couched her old, kindly head. It was mine to strike them dead, Even as mine own had died.
I cried with a great voice, To mine enemy I cried: “Come forth, come forth, to hear! Look up, look up, to see! Lo, what is in my choice! This deed of black disgrace, This have you done to me; This might I do to you; Yet this I would not do, Yea, this I could not do! Let the knowledge smite your pride Like a gauntlet in the face!”
Mine enemy stood in his gate: He was sadder than I had thought. I hated what he had wrought, But him I could not hate. His eyes were startled wide. What would he have replied? I know not. Ere he spoke, The merciless morning broke. Hawkers in sunny streets Shrilled triumphs and defeats, Sold horrors and despairs. Bells called the world to prayers.
ON THE DEATH OF AN UNTRIED SOLDIER
“_He was likely, had he been put on, To have proved most royally; and for his passing The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him._”--HAMLET.
He died in armor, died with lance in rest. The trumpet had not sounded for the charge; Yet shall his guerdon of golden fame be large, For he was ready; he had met his test.
No sacrifice is more complete and clean Than that in the locked soul, secret and still. Take for a visible deed the perfect will; Crown with sad pride the accomplishment unseen.
Hang his bright arms undinted on the wall. In all brave colors whereto his dreams aspired Blazon his blank shield as his heart desired, And write above: “_The readiness is all._”
THE AIRMAN
Splendor of chivalrous Youth, swift-soaring far In valorous venture of eagle-battle on high Fate of a falling star-- Nay! a new Star in the sky!
TO FRANCIS LEDWIDGE
(Killed in action, July 31, 1917)
Beauty’s boy-servant, far in Flanders dead, There shoots across the sea a shaft of pain To think you are gone--a memory garlanded With wilding flowers plucked in an Irish lane. Your songs were like sweet waters to the throat, Or tenderness and freshness of young leaves; Surely the blackbird checks his laughing note, And for your loss the dripping rainbow grieves. With Brooke you are gone, with Grenfell, on high ways Lost to our sense, beyond the chance of wrong; Singers fall silent in these thunderous days, But their bright death is radiance and a song. --God send kind sleep to those clear Irish eyes That saw the old earth still dewy with surprise!
THE WAY OF THE WHITE SOULS
(To the Memory of JOYCE KILMER, killed in action, July 30, 1918)
I stood in the summer night, when the hosts of heaven seemed nigh, And I saw the powdery swirl of stars, where it swept across the sky, The wide way of the white stars, where it ran up and down, And my heart was sad for the man who said _It was Main Street, Heaventown_.
He chose to walk in the Main Street, in the wide ways of men; He set wings to the common things with the kind touch of his pen; He caught the lilt of the old tune that the hearts of the plain folk beat; He might have dreamed on the far faint hills--but he walked in the Main Street.
He knelt down with his fellows, in the warm faith of the throng; He went forth with his fellows to fight a monstrous Wrong; He marched away to the true tune that the hearts of brave men beat, Shoulder to brown shoulder, with the men in the Main Street.
A road runs bright through the night of Time, since ever the world began, The wide Way of the White Souls, the Main Street of Man, The sky-road of the star-souls, beyond all wars and scars; And there the singing soul of him goes on with the marching stars.
So, as I stand in the summer night, when the hosts of heaven seem nigh, And look at the powdery swirl of stars, where it sweeps across the sky, The wide way of the white stars, where it runs up and down, My heart shall be glad for the friend who said _It was Main Street, Heaventown_.
RESPITE
O Beauty, heal my heart! I lean to thee, Faint, having supped with horrors: give me drink! --Red slopes beneath tall pines, ranged tree on tree; Long cool gray lakes, with iris round the brink In knightly companies purple and proud; Birches as altar-candles slender and white; A late gold sun, traced curiously with cloud; The spacious splendors of the moon-filled night; Among the wild-rose crowds, the perfect one; White sea-gulls like white lilies, on brown bars That slant athwart blue bays; gulls in the sun Rising as galaxies of trembling stars: Lull me awhile, O Beauty, drug my dread! --To-morrow morn War stands beside my bed.
HAPPY COUNTRY
Here by the bright blue creek the good ships lie A-building, and the hammers beat and beat, And the wood-smell is pleasant in the heat; The strong ribs curve against the marsh and sky. Here the old men are mowing in the sun, And the hay-sweetness blends with the wild-rose; At the field’s edge the scarlet lily glows; The great clouds sail, and the swift shadows run, And the broad undulant meadows gloom and smile; Over the russet red-top warm winds pass, The swallow swoops and swerves, the cattle stand In the cool of shallow brooks--and all the while Peace basks asleep, she dreams of some sad land Leagues over sea, where youth is mown as grass.
TO FRANCE
Sweet France, we greet thee with our cheers, our tears, Our tardy swords! O sternly, wanly fair In that red martyr-aureole thou dost wear! Even for the sake of our bright pioneers, Chapman, and Seeger, and such dear dead peers Of thy dead sons, joyous and swift to dare All fiery danger of the earth and air, Forgive us, France, our hesitating years!
Quenchless as thine own spirit is our trust That thou shalt spring resurgent, like the brave Pure plume of Bayard, from the blood and dust Of this grim combat-to-the-utterance, Fresh as the foambow of the charging wave, O plume of Europe, proud and delicate France!
TO BELGIUM
CROWNED WITH THORNS