Part 2

Thou that a brave, brief space didst keep the gate Against the German, saving all the West By the subjection of thy shielding breast To the brute blows and utmost shames of Fate; Thou that in bonds of iron dost expiate Thy nobleness as crime! Even thus oppressed, Is not thy spirit mystically blest, O little Belgium, marvellously great?

Thou that hast prized the soul above the flesh, Dost thou not, starving, eat of angels’ bread? With every sunrise crucified afresh, Has not this guerdon for all time sufficed-- That thou shouldst wear upon thy haggard head The awful honor of the Crown of Christ?

THE CREED OF AN AMERICAN

In God our Father, and in all men’s Sonship; In Brother-love and breaking down of barriers; In Law that is the just will of the People Shaped, and still shaping, to the People’s need; In equal Freedom and in equal Service, Duties and Rights: in all these I believe.

In these great States bound in a greater Union, Many in One, the framework of the Fathers, Nobly devised, a forecast of the future When all the Nations gather in God’s fold; The great Experiment, the high Adventure, The captain Hope: in all this I believe.

In this bright Flag of Liberty and Union: Its red, the symbol of the blood of brothers That flows through men of every race and nation; Its white, the symbol of the peace between them That shall be when God’s Will has wrought as leaven; Its stars, the symbol of many Powers that move Clustering together without clash or conflict, In the deep blue of the vast, tender sky That is the all-enfolding mantle of God-- With my whole soul in all these I believe. That I in peace must show my true allegiance To this bright Flag, this constellated Union, By square-done work and clean unselfish living; That I in war must show my true allegiance-- While war shall linger in this world to threaten Such Sanctities as these--even by my dying: In all this I believe. Amen. Amen.

THE ULTIMATE VICTORY

As men that labor in a mountain war-- Scaling sheer cliffs, hewing out stairs of stone, Trenching the ice, quenching the torrent’s roar With rolling thunders in the gorges lone-- Having seized a height, might stand with dazzled stare, Seeing, beyond, a highest heavenly peak Hung lucent as a cloud in the bright air, Still to be won: O thus, even thus, we seek Peace beyond War! and thus the Vision gleams Upon us battling, that snow-crest sublime, That holy mountain, that pure crown of dreams, Toward which Man’s soul has struggled up through Time. In blood and sweat we war that War may cease; And storming the last peak, we conquer Peace.

ROOSEVELT, 1919

How shall we say “God rest him!” Of him who loved not rest, But the pathless plunge in the forest And the pauseless quest, And the call of the billowing mountains, Crest beyond crest?

Hope rather, God will give him His spirit’s need-- Rapture of ceaseless motion That is rest indeed, As the cataract sleeps on the cliff-side White with speed.

So shall his soul go ranging Forever, swift and wide, With a strong man’s rejoicing, As he loved to ride; But all our days are poorer For the part of him that died.

THE QUIET DAYS

OLD BURYING HILL

This is a place that has forgotten tears. The scythe and hour-glass and the skull and bones Have lost their menace on the marred gray stones. The long grass flows, still as the stream of years. The goldenrod leans low her dreaming head. Under the loving sun and the warm sky These lichened letters tell an outworn lie, A slander of good Death, discredited. A drowsy cricket harps; and do but see! With mystic orbs upon his dusky wing, Here goes about his airy harvesting Our little Brother Immortality. Lost is their title, those gaunt Fears of yore: Beauty has made this crown-land evermore.

HEARTBREAK ROAD

As I went up by Heartbreak Road Before the dawn of day, The cold mist was all about, And the wet world was gray; It seemed that never another soul Had walked that weary way.

But when I came to Heartbreak Hill, Silver touched the sea; I knew that many and many a soul Was climbing close to me; I knew I walked that weary way In a great company.

ROMANCE

“Good cheap! Good cheap! Buy my golden ware! Sunny-afternoon-color, happy-harvest-moon-color, Burnished bright as Beauty’s golden hair! O come buy! Buy my rare golden ware!” (But they never came anigh him, they went trooping by him, To trade at the shop of Despair-- At the dark little shop of Despair!)

“Good cheap! Good cheap! Buy my magic ware! All your meat shall savor of it, all your drink take flavor of it, Yea, ’twill warm ye when the hearth is bare! O come buy! Buy my fair golden ware!” (But they hurried past the turning, with their fixed eyes burning, Making haste to be cheated by Despair-- Buying dear at the counter of Despair!)

FAITH

Before the rose and violet had begun On sky and sea, while all the world was still, Colorless, lifeless, unconsoled, and chill, One little bird sang out about the Sun.

INTIMATIONS

“Who has seen the Wind?”--CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

I have seen the Wind, I have seen him plain-- The silver feet of the Wind Racing on the rain.

I have seen Time pass: Viewless as he sped, The red sand in the glass Was shaken by his tread.

Far, far the goal, And hearts must part awhile-- But I have seen the Soul Shining through a smile.

Dim, dim the plan, And dumb is the clod: But in the eyes of Man I have seen--God.

ON THE SINGING OF “GAUDEAMUS IGITUR”

Hark, how Youth, a scholar gowned, With the cap of Wisdom crowned, Carols like the reckless lark, Forgetful of the dark!

What is toil, oh, what are tears? Time turns pale when thus he hears Angelic insolence of sound Scorning the beaten ground.

In the face of Fate is flung This gage-gauntlet of the young-- Innocent brave challenge, hurled In the teeth of the world!

Graybeard Years file solemn past; Yet this rebel glee shall last Long as souls at morning rise, New larks, to the old skies.

THE COUNTERSIGN

On guard my heavy Heart did stand, And sleep had conquered her, Had not one cold and rigid hand Gripped honor like a spur.

It was the starkest watch of all, The hour before the end. Out rang the startled challenge-call: “Halt! Who goes there?” “A Friend.”

“The countersign?” my spent Heart cried, And forward-peering stood. A Voice as strange as sweet replied: “The word is BROTHERHOOD.”

FAILURE TRIUMPHANT

How many a captain wave, since sea began, Has lordly led the charge against the shore, Whose crest a jewelled plume of rainbow bore, As iris Hope arches the march of Man: How many a wave, brave-glittering in the van, Has melted as a cloud in spray and roar-- A flashing column prone, and next, no more! So runs the tale, since Time’s first sand outran. So ends the antique tale. Stay! ends it so? Though every billow faint into a ghost, The all-embracing ocean--that gives birth, Receives, and recreates--in ebb and flow, A vast sky-coupled Mystery round the coast, Works out its will upon the face of earth.

THE SPARK

_Readers of riddles dark, Solve me the mystery of the Spark!_

My good dog died yesternight. His heart of love through his eyes of light Had looked out kind his whole life long. In all his days he had done no wrong. Like a knight’s was his noble face. What shall I name the inward grace That leashed and barred him from all things base? Selfless trust and courage high-- Dust to dust, but are these to die? (Hate and lust and greed and lies-- Dust to dust, and are these to rise?)

_When ’tis kindled, whither it goes, Whether it fades, or glows and grows-- Readers of riddles dark, Solve me the mystery of the Spark!_

FOXGLOVES

Pink-purple foxgloves Leaning to the breeze-- And all the sweet of Devon Sweeps back across the seas:

The deep coombs of Devon Where the tiny hamlets nest, The golden sea of Devon That glimmers toward the west:

The thatched roofs of Devon To which the soft skies bend-- Now the dear God keep Devon The same to His world’s end!

THE CHRISTMAS BAGPIPES

I heard on Christmas Eve the bonny bagpipes play; The thin silver skirling, it sounded far away; The yellow mellow light shone through my neighbor’s panes, And on the starry night came the shrill dear strains.

Despite the welter of the wide cold sea, They brought bonny Scotland across the world to me; And my heart knew the heather that my sense had never smelt, And my spirit drank the hill wind my brows had never felt.

From the old kind books came the old friends trooping, And the old songs called, like the curlew swooping; And like a sudden sup that was hot and strong and sweet, The love of bonny Scotland, it ran from head to feet.

O blessings on the heather hills, in white mist or sun! O blessings on the kind books that make the clans as one! And blessings on the bagpipes whose magic spanned the sea, And brought bonny Scotland across the world to me!

WHEN THE ROSES GO DOWN TO THE SEA

On Gloucester moors the roses Bloom haunted of the bee; But there comes an hour of the summer With the ebb-tide running free, In a blue day of the summer, When the roses go down to the sea.

The hands of the little children Carry them to the shore; The folk of the City of Fishers Come out from every door; They remember the lost captains That shall come to the port no more.

They remember the lost seamen Whose names the chaplain reads; Old English names of Gloucester Are told like slipping beads, And the names of the fearless Irish lads, And Portuguese and Swedes.

They remember the lost fishers Who shall come no more to the land, Nor look on the broad blue harbor, Nor see the Virgin stand, Our Lady of Good Voyage, With the sailing-ship in her hand.

They pray to the Friend of fishers On the Sea of Galilee For the souls and bodies of seamen Wherever their voyages be; And singing they send the roses On the ebb-tide down to the sea.

And the lost seamen and captains, Wherever their bodies be, If ever the sight of a mortal rite Can move a soul set free, Are glad of the kindness of Gloucester, Their old sea-city of Gloucester, Are moved with the memory of Gloucester, When the roses go down to the sea.

RITUAL FOR SUMMER DEAD

August turns autumnal now: Scarlet the sudden maple-bough At the turn of the wood-road gleams; On the hearth the gray log sings Sleepy songs of vanished things-- Babbling, bubbling John-a-Dreams. August is autumn now.

Find the field where, dead and dry, Under the broad still noontide sky, Bleached in the flow of the bright-blue weather, Stalks of the milkweed stand together. Take the pale-brown pod in hand, Packed with seeds of silvery feather; Wander dreaming through the land. Let each silken plumelet sift Through the fingers, drift and drift, Touched with the sun to rainbow light-- Float--and float--and out of sight!

So might incense drift away. Golden Summer is dead to-day. As a pious thurifer Swing the censer meet for her.

RED OCTOBER

Red October, and the slow leaf sailing; All the maples flaring scarlet splendor, All the dogwoods glowing crimson glory, All the oak-leaves bronze, the beech-leaves golden:

Blue, ah blue! the reaches of the river, Blue the sky above the russet mountain, Blue the creek among the tawny marshes, Blue the tart wild-grape beside the hill-road:

At our feet the burnished chestnut shining; Scent of autumn, and the brown leaves’ rustle; Cloudy clematis among the brambles, Orange bittersweet along the wayside.

Days too-perfect, priceless for their passing, Colored with the light of evanescence, Fragrant with the breath of frailest beauty-- Days ineffable of red October!

THE SINGER CHOOSES THE SONGS OF THE WIND

Henceforth I will sing no songs But the songs that are fluent, irregular, swift, unguided: I will turn no tunes but the tunes of the winds and the waters. I know that the song of the bird is remembered, it changes not; And I know that the song of the wind is unremembered; But it stirs the ground of the heart while the song is a-singing, And it flows from a vaster source than the song of the bird. So I will sing the song of the wind in the long grass, by the river, And the song of the wind in the dry and copper-brown oak-leaves, In the autumnal season, so beautiful and sad, And the song of the wind in the green cool ranks of the corn As it stirs very lightly in the summer, And the song of the wind in the pines, when the shadows are blue on the snow, And the song, song, song, of the wind in the flapping flag, And the winter-night song of the wind in the chimney, And the swelling, lulling song of the swirling wind of the sea That is blent with the plunge of the sea.

THE GLEAM TRAVELS

It is morning, and April. (They sleep, but I am alive and awake-- the soft warm lucent blue of the spring heaven bathes my soul.) There, and again there, the willow-veils hanging, golden-green, tremulous, Near by, the bright red-bronze of the lifted cherry-boughs, flashing in the sun, Far off, gray-purple of the woods warming to life; The clouds floating--O so full of light and blessing, that I think they live and love, Or truly that they are beautiful veils, not all hiding that which lives and loves!

Morning, and April, And on the far-away road, hither leading, the road but now gray with the cloud-shadow, The gleam travels. Hitherward the gleam travels; Behind it lies the gray shadow on the hill.

O life immense! O love unspeakable! O large To-day! O moment of utterance given to me (the shadow too travels), O moment of joy, of trust, of song for my soul, and for those who sleep, and for those who shall by and by wake! Life, Morning, and April-- Hitherward the gleam travels!

THE GRAY VICTORY

On the top of a great rock, A rounded boulder with rust-colored stains, Set high over the blue-green of the bay, Braced strong with iron against the strong salt wind, The old, gray figurehead is left.

Does any one know who set it there, so high? Some sailor-fisherman Who lived in a little hut beside the rock. The hut is gone, there are the bricks of its foundation, The old, gray figurehead is left.

A carving crude yet noble, Of silvery, weathered wood: A hero-woman, Large, simple, bold and calm. One hand is on her breast, her throat curves proudly, Her head is thrown back proudly, she seems exulting; There is also in her look something strangely devout, Patient, and nobly meek.

What far-away workman made her, and what was his meaning? Was she a Victory? or Hope, or Faith?

She looks upon the sea: The bitter sea that cast upon these rocks Her ship of long ago.

Who knows what agony, who knows what loss Is in her memory? What struggle of sailors In wild cold waves, at night?

With head thrown back She looks upon the sea. In every large curve of her broken body Is trust, is triumph. Against the sky she rises, The light-filled, pure, ineffable azure sky; Serene, unshaken, Rises the Victory.

FLAGS AND THE SKY

I looked from my window: I heard a whisper without from the rippling poplar, I heard the wash of the river, its waves are never still; I looked, and over the water the flag, Alive as the river, alive as the rippling poplar, Rippled too in the wind. The sun was upon it. It had the beauty of flowers.

O flag, though you were not my own, I know I should love you: I love all flowers, all flags: Their colors in the wind flowing, in the sun brightening: Deep blue of the night sky, or the splendor of flame, Or green of spring, or the daring imperious scarlet, The color of men’s blood: Their curious blazonry I love, heraldic, historic, Leopard or eagle, stripe or star or raying sun, Or the Cross of St. George and the Cross of St. Andrew, Or whatsoever sign men have loved and followed.

For surely a flag has a soul. It is a thing sacred as sunrise, It is sacred as the stars. The spirit of Man lifts it up into the sky That holds all stars, all flags.

I believe that a flag cannot be dishonored forever By any deed of men. Let it but fly awhile, and the wind will winnow it, And the fierce pure sun will purge it, will wash it clean; For the souls of races and nations live in the sky, And are forever better than the deeds men do.

There was a man who burned with fire The flag that he loved best, Because he thought that out of its dead ashes Might rise the Flag of Man.

He would have to wait a long time for that rising, He would have to wait forever; For live things do not rise out of ashes, They rise out of live loves.

That man never knew that his flag had a soul, He never knew that the world needed the soul in his flag, And the souls in all flags.

The Flag of Man! What should be its colors, in the wind flowing, in the sun brightening? And what should be its curious blazonry?

The upper field should be blue as the sky of God: The lower field, should be red as the blood of Man: And there should fly forever beside it-- Always beside it, and neither above nor below it-- The one flag that a man is born to, Born of his mother to love and not to leave, As he loves his mother and will not leave her.

The Flag of Man! It is long a-weaving. God speed the weaving, and Man speed the weaving! Let every one of us go on weaving that flag in his heart; Perhaps, when the grass is rippling over the grave of him, It may ripple in the sky that holds all stars, all flags, The Flag of All Souls.

Transcriber’s Note

Page 67: “wen trooping by” changed to “went trooping by”