Part 3

Here upon the road of Life Let us rest us; take our pleasure: Free from care and safe from strife, Count again our only treasure-- Love, that helped us on our way, Our companion night and day.

_RECONCILIATION_

Listen, dearest! you must love me more, More than you did before!-- Hark, what a beating here of wings! Never at rest, Dear, in your breast!-- Is it your heart with its flutterings, Making a music, love, for us both? Or merely a moth, a velvet-winged moth, Which out of the garden's fragrance swings, Weaving a spell, That holds the rose and the moon in thrall?-- I love you more than I can tell; And no recall How long ago Our quarrel and all!-- You say, you know, A perfect pearl grows out of--well, A little friction; tiny grain Of sand or shell-- So love grew out of that moment's pain, The heart's disdain-- Since then I have thought of no one but you, And how your heart would beat on mine, Like light on dew. And I thought how foolish to fret and pine! Better to claim the fault all mine! To go to you and tell you that: And how stale and flat All life without you was, and vain! And when I came, you turned and smiled, Like a darling child, And I knew from your look that, in your heart, You had followed the self-same train Of thought that made me yours again.--

Dearest! no more!-- We shall never part!-- So. Turn your face as you did before.--

I smooth your brow And kiss you.--Now.... Tell me true-- Did you miss me, dear, as I missed you?

_PORTENTS_

Above the world a glare Of sunset--guns and spears; An army, no one hears, Of mist and air: Long lines of bronze and gold, Huge helmets, each a cloud; And then a fortress old There in the night that phantoms seem to crowd.

A face of flame; a hand Of crimson alchemy Is waved: and, solemnly, At its command, Opens a fiery well, A burning hole, From which a stream of hell, A river of blood, in frenzy, seems to roll.

And there, upon a throne, Like some vast precipice, Above that River of Dis, Behold a King! alone! Around whom shapes of blood Take form: each one the peer Of those, who, in the wood Of Dante's Hell froze up the heart with fear.

Then shapes, that breast to breast Gallop to face a foe: And through the crimson glow Th' imperial crest Of him whose banner flies Above a world that burns, A raven in the skies, And as it flies into a Death's-Head turns. The wild trees writhe and twist Their gaunt limbs, wrung with fear: And now into my ear A word seems hissed; A message, filled with dread, A dark, foreboding word,-- "Behold! we are the dead, Who here on Earth lived only by the sword!"

_THE IRON CRAGS_

Upon the iron crags of War I heard his terrible daughters In battle speak while at their feet, In gulfs of human waters, A voice, intoning, "Where is God?" in ceaseless sorrow beat: And to my heart, in doubt, I said, "God?--God's above the storm! O heart, be brave, be comforted, And keep your hearth-stone warm For her who breasts the storm-- God's Peace, the fair of form." I heard the Battle Angels cry above the slain's red mountains, While from their wings the lightnings hurled Of Death's destroying fountains, And thunder of their revels rolled around the ruined world: Still to my heart, in fear, I cried, "God?--God is watching there! My heart,--oh, keep the doorway wide Here in your House of Care, For her who wanders there, God's Peace, with happy hair."

The darkness and the battle passed: and rushing on wild pinions The hosts of Havoc shrieked their hate And fled to Hell's dominions,-- And, lo! I heard, out in the night, a knocking at the gate: And one who cried aloud to me:-- "The night and storm are gone! Oh, open wide the door and see Who waits here in the dawn!-- Peace, with God's splendor on Back to the sad world drawn!"

_THE IRON CROSS_

They pass, with heavy eyes and hair, Before the Christ upon the Cross, The Nations, stricken with their loss, And lifting faces of despair.

What is the prayer they pray to Him, Christ Jesus on the Iron Cross? The Christ, neglected, dark with moss, Whose hands are pierced, whose face is grim.

Is it forgiveness for great sin They plead before the Iron Cross? Or for some gift of gold or dross? Or battle lost, that they would win?

With eyes where hate and horror meet, They pass before the Iron Cross, The Cross, that ancient words emboss, Where hangs the Christ with nail-pierced feet.

His hair is fallen on his face. His head hangs sidewise from the Cross-- The Crucified, who knows all loss, And had on Earth no resting place.

"O world of men," he seems to say, "Behold me on your Iron Cross! To me why kneel and tell your loss? Why kneel to me and weep and pray?

"Have I not taught you to forgive? And bade you from my Iron Cross Believe, and bear your grief and loss, That after death you too may live?

"You have not followed at my call! You keep me on this Iron Cross, And pray me keep you from all loss, And save and comfort you withal.--

"You ask for love, and hate the more!-- You keep me on this Iron Cross!-- Restore to me my greater loss, The brotherhood of rich and poor."

* * * *

They pass, with weary eyes and hair, Before the Christ upon the Cross-- The Nations, wailing of their loss, And lifting faces of despair.

_THE WANDERER_

Between the death of day and birth of night, By War's red light, I met with one in trailing sorrows clad, Whose features had The look of Him who died to set men right.

Around him many horrors, like great worms, Terrific forms, Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine,-- Gaunt and obscene, Urged on to battle with a thousand arms.

Columns of steel, and iron belching flame, Before them came: And cities crumbled; and amid them trod Havoc, their god, With Desolation that no tongue may name.

And out of Heaven came a burning breath, And on it Death, Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herds Of beasts, like birds, Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth.

Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies; And mouths, with cries Of famine; and the madness of Despair; And everywhere Curses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes.

And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name, That grew a flame Above the world, and said, "Give heed! give heed! See how they bleed! My wounds! my wounds!--Was it for this I came?

"Where is the love for which I shed my blood? And where the good I preached and died for?--Lo! ye have denied And crucified Me here again, who swore me brotherhood!"

Then overhead the vault of night was rent: The firmament Winged thunder over of aerial craft; And Battle laughed Titanic laughter as its way it went.

_THE END OF SUMMER_

The rose, that wrote its message on the noon's Bright manuscript, has turned her perfumed face Towards Fall, and waits, heart-heavy, for the moon's Pale flower to take her place.

With eyes distraught, and dark disheveled hair, The Season dons a tattered cloak of storm And waits with Night that, darkly, seems to share Her trouble and alarm.

It is the close of summer. In the sky The sunset lit a fire of drift and sat Watching the last Day, robed in empire, die Upon the burning ghat.

The first leaf crimsons and the last rose falls, And Night goes stalking on, her cloak of rain Dripping, and followed through her haunted halls By ail Death's phantom train.

The sorrow of the Earth and all that dies, And all that suffers, in her breast she bears; Outside the House of Life she stops and cries The burden of her cares.

Then on the window knocks with crooked hands, Her tree-like arms to Heaven wildly-hurled: Love hears her crying, "Who then understands?-- Has God forgot the world?"

_THE LUST OF THE WORLD_

Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hers And saw her vampire beauty, which is lust, All else is dust Within the compass of the universe.

With heart of Jael and with face of Ruth She sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffs Heart's blood and laughs At all Life calls most noble and the truth.

The fire of conquest and the wine of dreams Are in her veins; and in her eyes the lure Of things unsure, Urging the world forever to extremes.

Without her, Life would stagnate in a while.-- Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain.-- So Life attain Her end, she cares not if the means be vile.

She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse.-- Hers is to build and then exterminate: To slay, create, And twixt the two maintain an equal course.

_CHANT BEFORE BATTLE_

Ever since man was man a Fiend has stood Outside his House of Good,-- War, with his terrible toys, that win men's hearts To follow murderous arts.

His spurs, death-won, are but of little use, Except as old refuse Of Life; to hang and testify with rust Of deeds, long one with dust.

A rotting fungus on a log, a tree, A toiling worm, or bee, Serves God's high purpose here on Earth to build More than War's maimed and killed.

The Hebetude of asses, following still Some Emperor's will to kill, Is that of men who give their lives--for what?-- The privilege to be shot!

Grant men more vision, Lord! to read thy words, That are not guns and swords, But trees and flowers, lovely forms of Earth, And all fair things of worth.

So he may rise above the brute and snake, And of his reason make A world befitting, as thou hast designed, His greater soul and mind!

So he may rid himself of worm and beast, And sit with Love at feast, And make him worthy to be named thy son, As He, thy Holy One! Amen.

_NEARING CHRISTMAS_

The season of the rose and peace is past: It could not last. There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighs Of sorrow in the rain-lashed plains and skies, While Earth regards, aghast, The last red leaf that flies.

The world is cringing in the darkness where War left his lair, And everything takes on a lupine look, Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook, And shaking torrent hair At every little brook.

Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and--hark! There in the dark The ponderous stir of metal, iron feet; And with it, heard around the world, the beat Of Battle; sounds that mark His heart's advance, retreat.

With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways; And, screeching, plays The hell-born music Havoc dances to; And, following with his skeleton-headed crew Of ravening Nights and Days, Horror invades the blue.

Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fist And writes a list Of beautiful cities on the ghastly sky: And underneath them, with no reason why, In blood and tears and mist, The postscript, "These must die!"

Change is the portion and chief heritage Of every Age. The spirit of God still waits its time.--And War May blur His message for a while, and mar The writing on His page, To this our sorrowful star.

But there above the conflict, orbed in rays, Is drawn the face Of Peace; at last who comes into her own; Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone, And give her highest place In the human heart alone.

_A BELGIAN CHRISTMAS_

_The "happy year" of 1914_

An hour from dawn: The snow sweeps on As it swept with sleet last night: The Earth around Breathes never a sound, Wrapped in its shroud of white.

A waked cock crows Under the snows; Then silence.--After while The sky grows blue, And a star looks through With a kind o' bitter smile.

A whining dog; An axe on a log, And a muffled voice that calls: A cow's long low; Then footsteps slow Stamping into the stalls.

A bed of straw Where the wind blows raw Through cracks of the stable door: A child's small cry, A voice nearby, That says, "One mouth the more."

A different note In a man's rough throat As he turns at an entering tread-- Satyrs! see! "My woman--she Was brought last night to bed!"

A cry of "Halt!"-- "Ach! ich bin kalt!" "A spy!"--"No."--"That is clear! There's a good shake-down I' the jail in town-- For her!"--And then, "My orders here."

A shot, sharp-rolled As the clouds unfold: A scream; and a cry forlorn.... Clothed red with fire, Like the Heart's Desire, Look down the Christmas Morn.

The babe with light Is haloed bright, And it is Christmas Day: A cry of woe; Then footsteps slow, And the wild guns, far away.

_THE FESTIVAL OF THE AISNE_

Imperial Madness, will of hand, Builds vast an altar here, and rears Before the world, on godly land, A Moloch form of blood and tears.

And far as eye can see, behold, Priests plunge into its brazen arms Men, that its iron maw of mold Mangles, returning horrible forms.

Its Priests are armies, moving slow, And crowned like kings, in human-guise: And theirs it is to make it flow-- The crimson stream of sacrifice.

_THE CRY OF EARTH_

The Season speaks this year of life Confusing words of strife, Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers In all Earth's bowers.

With heart of Jael, face of Ruth, She goes her way uncouth Through hills and fields, where fog and sunset seem Wild smoke and steam.

Around her, spotted as a leopard skin, She draws her cloak of whin, And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glare Wild on her hair.

Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burn With frost; her moony urn She lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm, Rears his gaunt form.

And all night long she seems to say "Come forth, my Winds, and slay!--" And everywhere is heard the wailing cry Of dreams that die.

_CHILD AND FATHER_

A little child, one night, awoke and cried, "Oh, help me, father! there is something wild Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side I answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."

"A dream?--" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see! It was so dark!--Take me into your bed!"-- And I, who loved him, held him soothingly, And smiling on his terror, comforted.

He nestled in my arms. I held him fast; And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears, Until he smiled again, asleep at last, Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....

How like a child the world! who, in this night Of strife, beholds strange monsters threatening And with black fear, having so little light, Cries to its Father, God, for comforting.

And well for it, if, answering the call, The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!-- How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall, Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.

_THE RISING OF THE MOON_

The Day brims high its ewer Of blue with starry light, And crowns as King that hewer Of clouds (which take their flight Across the sky) old Night.

And Tempest there, who houses Within them, like a cave, Lies down and dreams and drowses Upon the Earth's huge grave, With wandering wind and wave.

The storm moves on; and winging From out the east--a bird, The moon drifts, calmly bringing A message and a word Of peace, in Heaven it heard.

Of peace and times called golden, Whose beauty makes it glow With love, like that of olden, Which mortals used to know There in the long-ago.

_WHERE THE BATTLE PASSED_

One blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thought Nursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes, Survives, though shattered, and about it caught, The strangling dodder streams.

Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or pouch, Rusty and rotting where men fought and slew: Bald, trampled paths that seem with fear to crouch, Feeling a bloody dew.

Here nothing that was beauty's once remains. War left the garden to its dead alone: And Life and Love, who toiled here, for their pains Have nothing once their own.

Death leans upon the battered door, at gaze-- The house is silent where there once was stir Of husbandry, that led laborious days, With Love for comforter.

Now in Love's place, Death, old and halt and blind, Gropes, searching everywhere for what may live.-- War left it empty as his vacant mind; It has no more to give.

_THE IRON AGE_

And these are Christians!--God! the horror of it-- How long, O Lord! how long, O Lord! how long Wilt Thou endure this crime? and there, above it, Look down on Earth nor sweep away the wrong!

Are these Thy teachings?--Where is then that pity, Which bade the weary, suffering come to Thee?-- War takes its toll of life in field and City, And Thou must see!--O Christianity!

And then the children!--Oh, Thou art another! Not God! but Fiend, whom God has given release!-- Will prayer avail naught? tears of father, mother? To give at last the weary world surcease

From butchery? that back again hath brought her Into that age barbarian that priced Hate above Love; and, shod with steel and slaughter, Stamped on the Cross and on the face of Christ.

_THE BATTLE_

Black clouds hung low and heavy, Above the sunset glare; And in the garden dimly We wandered here and there.

So full of strife, of trouble The night was dark, afraid, Like our own love, so merely For tears and sighings made.

That when it came to parting, And I must mount and go, With all my soul I wished it-- That God would lay me low.

_ON RE-READING CERTAIN GERMAN POETS_

They hold their own, they have no peers In gloom and glow, in hopes and fears, In love and terror, hovering round The lore of that enchanted ground!-- That mystic region, where one hears, By bandit towers, the hunt that nears Wild through the Hartz; the demon cheers Of Hackelnberg; his horn and hound-- They hold their own.

Dark Wallenstein; and, down the years, The Lorelei; and, creased with sneers, Faust, Margaret;--the Sabboth sound, Witch-whirling, of the Brocken, drowned In storm, through which Mephisto leers,-- They hold their own.

_ON OPENING AN OLD SCHOOL VOLUME OF HORACE_

I had forgot how, in my day The Sabine fields around me lay In amaranth and asphodel, With many a cold Bandusian well Bright-bubbling by the mountain-way. In forest dells of Faun and Fay How, lounging in the fountain's spray, I talked with Horace; felt his spell, I had forgot.

With Pyrrha and with Lydia How oft I sat, while Lalaga Sang, and the fine Falerian fell, Sparkling, and heard the poet tell Of loves whose beauty lasts for aye, I had forgot.

_LAUS DEO_

In her vast church of glimmering blue, Gray-stoled from feet to chin, Her dark locks beaded with the dew, The nun-like dawn comes in: At once the hills put on their spencers Of purple, swinging streaming censers Of mist before the God of Day Who goes with pomp his way.

With sapphire draperies of light Is hung the sombre pines; Filling each valley, every height With sacerdotal lines-- Shrines, where, like priests with worship vestured, The forests bow and, heavenly gestured, Lift high the chalice of the sun, Intoning, "Night is done!"

_THE NEW YORK SKYSCRAPER_

_The Woolworth Building_

Enormously it lifts Its tower against the splendor of the west; Like some wild dream that drifts Before the mind, and at the will's behest,-- Enchantment-based, gigantic steel and stone,-- Is given permanence; A concrete fact, Complete, alone, Glorious, immense, Such as no nation here on Earth has known: Epitomizing all That is American, that stands for youth, And strength and truth; That's individual, And beautiful and free,-- Resistless strength and tireless energy.

Even as a cataract, Its superb fact Suggests vast forces Nature builds with--Joy, And Power and Thought, She to her aid has brought For eons past, will bring for eons yet to be, Shaping the world to her desire: the three Her counsellors constantly, Her architects, through whom her dreams come true,-- Her workmen, bringing forth, With toil that shall not cease, Mountains and plains and seas, That make the Earth The glory that it is: And, one with these, Such works of man as this, This building, towering into the blue, A beacon, round which like an ocean wide, Circles and flows the restless human tide.

_ROBERT BROWNING_

Master of human harmonics, where gong And harp and violin and flute accord; Each instrument confessing you its lord, Within the deathless orchestra of Song. Albeit at times your music may sound wrong To our dulled senses, and its meaning barred To Earth's slow understanding, never marred Your message brave: clear, and of trumpet tongue. Poet-revealer, who, both soon and late, Within an age of doubt kept clean your faith, Crying your cry of "With the world all's well!" How shall we greet you from our low estate, Keys in the keyboard that is life and death, The organ whence we hear your music swell?

_RILEY_

_His Birthday, October the 7th, 1912_

Riley, whose pen has made the world your debtor, Whose Art has kept you young through sixty years, Brimming our hearts with laughter and with tears, Holding her faith pure to the very letter: We come to you to-day, both man and woman, And happy little children, girl and boy,-- To laurel you with all our love and joy, And crown you for the dreams your pen made human: For Orphant Annie and for Old Aunt Mary, The Raggedty Man, who never will grow older, And all the kindly folks from Griggsby's Station, Immortal throngs, with Spirk and Wunk and Faery, Who swarm behind you, peering o'er your shoulder, Sharing with you the blessings of a Nation.

_DON QUIXOTE_

_On receiving a bottle of Sherry Wine of the same name_

What "blushing Hippocrene" is here! what fire Of the "warm South" with magic of old Spain!-- Through which again I seem to view the train Of all Cervantes' dreams, his heart's desire: The melancholy Knight, in gaunt attire Of steel rides by upon the windmill-plain With Sancho Panza by his side again, While, heard afar, a swineherd from a byre Winds a hoarse horn.