Part 7

To-night the little girl-nun died. Her hands were laid Across her breast; the last sun tried To kiss her quiet braid; And where the little river cried, Her grave was made.

The little girl-nun’s soul, in awe, Went silently To where her brother Christ she saw, Under the Living Tree; He sighed, and his face seemed to draw Her tears, to see.

He laid his hands on her hands mild, And gravely blessed; “Blind, they that kept you so,” he smiled, With tears unguessed. “Saw they not Mary held a child Upon her breast?”

SONGS OF A GIRL

I

Perhaps, God, planting Eden, Dropped, by mistake, a seed In Time’s neighbor-plot, That grew to be This hour?

II

You and I picked up Life and looked at it curiously; We did not know whether to keep it for a plaything or not. It was beautiful to see, like a red firecracker, And we knew, too, that it was lighted. We dropped it while the fuse was still burning....

III

I am going to die too, flower, in a little while— Do not be so proud.

IV

The sun is dying Alone On an island In the bay.

Close your eyes, poppies— I would not have you see death, You are so young!

V

The sun falls Like a drop of blood From some hero.

We, Who love pain, Delight in this.

Fannie Stearns Davis

PROFITS

Yes, stars were with me formerly. (I also knew the wind and sea; And hill-tops had my feet by heart. Their shagged heights would sting and start When I came leaping on their backs. I knew the earth’s queer crooked cracks, Where hidden waters weave a low And druid chant of joy and woe.)

But stars were with me most of all. I heard them flame and break and fall. Their excellent array, their free Encounter with Eternity, I learned. And it was good to know That where God walked, I too might go.

Now, all these things are passed. For I Grow very old and glad to die. What did they profit me, say you, These distant bloodless things I knew?

Profit? What profit hath the sea Of her deep-throated threnody? What profit hath the sun, who stands Staring on space with idle hands? And what should God Himself acquire From all the aeons’ blood and fire?

My profit is as theirs: to be Made proof against mortality: To know that I have companied With all that shines and lives, amid So much the years sift through their hands, Most mortal, windy, worthless sands.

This day I have great peace. With me Shall stars abide eternally!

SOULS

My soul goes clad in gorgeous things, Scarlet and gold and blue. And at her shoulder sudden wings Like long flames flicker through.

And she is swallow-fleet, and free From mortal bonds and bars. She laughs, because eternity Blossoms for her with stars!

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, My dull and foolish face, Can ye not see my soul flash down, A singing flame through space?

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate, Why may I not divine Your souls, that must be passionate, Shining and swift, as mine?

Walter de la Mare

THE LISTENERS

“Is there anybody there?” said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grasses Of the forest’s ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller’s head; And he smote upon the door again a second time; “Is there anybody there?” he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller’s call. And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:— “Tell them I came, and no one answered That I kept my word,” he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

AN EPITAPH

Here lies a most beautiful lady: Light of step and heart was she; I think she was the most beautiful lady That ever was in the West Country. But beauty vanishes; beauty passes; However rare—rare it be; And when I crumble, who will remember This lady of the West Country?

Lee Wilson Dodd

THE TEMPLE

Hear me, brother! Boldly I stepped into the Temple, Into the Temple where the God dwells Veiled with Seven Veils, Into the Temple of Unbroken Silence: And my joyous feet shod with crimson sandals Rang out on the tesselated pavement, Rang out fearlessly Like a challenge and a cry! And there—in that shrouded solitude, There—before the Seven Veils, There—because of youth and youth’s madness, Because of love and love’s unresting heart, There did I sing three songs! And my first song praised the eyes of a wanton; And my second song praised the lips of a wanton; And my third song praised the feet of a dancing girl!

Thus did I desecrate the Temple, Thus did I stand before the Seven Veils, Proudly! Thus did I wait upon the God’s Voice— Proudly!— And the sudden shaft of death....

But no Voice stirred the Seven Veils, Though I stood long....

And my knees shook, My bones were afraid....

Swiftly I loosed the crimson sandals, And, tearing them from off my feet, Crept shuddering forth!

Hear me, brother! Now am I as one stricken with palsy, Now am I sick with the close ache of terror, Now am I as one who, having tasted poison, Cowers, waiting for the pang!

_For the God spake not...._

And the sense of my littleness is upon me: And I am a worm in my own sight, Trodden and helpless; A casual grain of sand Indistinguishable amid a million grains: And I take no pleasure now in youth Nor in youth’s madness, In love Nor in love’s unresting heart; And I praise no longer the eyes of a wanton, Nor the lips of a wanton, Nor the light feet of a dancing girl.

THE COMRADE

Call me friend or foe, Little I care! I go with all who go Daring to dare.

I am the force, I am the fire, I am the secret source Of desire.

I am the urge, The spur and thong: Moon of the tides that surge Into song!

Call me friend or foe, Little care I, I go with all who go Singing to die.

Call me friend or foe.... Taking to give, I go with all who go Dying to live.

John Drinkwater

SUNRISE ON RYDAL WATER

_To E. de S._

Come down at dawn from windless hills Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island boughs One silence and one element, Where wonder goes surely as once It went By Galilean prows.

Moveless the water and the mist, Moveless the secret air above, Hushed, as upon some happy tryst The poised expectancy of love; What spirit is it that adores What mighty presence yet unseen? What consummation works apace Between These rapt enchanted shores?

Never did virgin beauty wake Devouter to the bridal feast Than moves this hour upon the lake In adoration to the east. Here is the bride a god may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The god shall leap—and, lo,

Over the lake’s end strikes the sun— White, flameless fire; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world’s heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires.

So the old mating goes apace, Wind with the sea, and blood with thought, Lover with lover; and the grace Of understanding comes unsought When stars into the twilight steer, Or thrushes build among the may, Or wonder moves between the hills, And day Comes up on Rydal mere.

Louise Driscoll

THE METAL CHECKS

[_The scene is a bare room, with two shaded windows at the back, and a fireplace between them with a fire burning low. The room contains a few plain chairs, and a rough wooden table on which are piled many small wooden trays. THE COUNTER, who is Death, sits at the table. He wears a loose gray robe, and his face is partly concealed by a gray veil. THE BEARER is the World, that bears the burden of War. He wears a soiled robe of brown and green and he carries on his back a gunny-bag filled with the little metal disks that have been used for the identification of the slain common soldiers._]

_The Bearer_

Here is a sack, a gunny sack, A heavy sack I bring. Here is toll of many a soul— But not the soul of a king.

This is the toll of common men, Who lived in the common way; Lived upon bread and wine and love, In the light of the common day.

This is the toll of working men, Blood and brawn and brain. Who shall render us again The worth of all the slain?

_The Counter_ Pour them out on the table here. _Clickety_—_clickety_—_clack_! For every button a man went out, And who shall call him back? _Clickety_—_clickety_—_clack_!

One—two—three—four— Every disk a soul! Three score—four score— So many boys went out to war. Pick up that one that fell on the floor— Didn’t you see it roll? That was a man a month ago. This was a man. Row upon row— Pile them in tens and count them so.

_The Bearer_

I have an empty sack. It is not large. Would you have said That I could carry on my back So great an army—and all dead?

[_As THE COUNTER speaks THE BEARER lays the sack over his arm and helps count._]

_The Counter_ Put a hundred in each tray— We can tally them best that way. Careful—do you understand You have ten men in your hand? There’s another fallen—there— Under that chair.

[_THE BEARER finds it and restores it._]

That was a man a month ago; He could see and feel and know.

Then, into his throat there sped A bit of lead. Blood was salt in his mouth; he fell And lay amid the battle wreck. Nothing was left but this metal check— And a wife and child, perhaps.

[_THE BEARER finds the bag on his arm troublesome. He holds it up, inspecting it._]

_The Bearer_ What can one do with a thing like this? Neither of life nor death it is! For the dead serve not, though it served the dead. The wounds it carried were wide and red, Yet they stained it not. Can a man put food, Potatoes or wheat, or even wood That is kind and burns with a flame to warm Living men who are comforted— In a thing that has served so many dead? There is no thrift in a graveyard dress, It’s been shroud for too many men. I’ll burn it and let the dead bless.

[_He crosses himself and throws it into the fire. He watches it burn. THE COUNTER continues to pile up the metal checks, and drop them by hundreds into the trays which he piles one upon another. THE BEARER turns from the fire and speaks more slowly than before. He indicates the metal checks._]

Would not the blood of these make a great sea For men to sail their ships on? It may be No fish would swim in it, and the foul smell Would make the sailors sick. Perhaps in Hell There’s some such lake for men who rush to war Prating of glory, and upon the shore Will stand the wives and children and old men Bereft, to drive them back again

When they seek haven. Some such thing I thought the while I bore it on my back And heard the metal pieces clattering.

_The Counter_ Four score—five score— These and as many more. Forward—march!—into the tray! No bugles blow today, No captains lead the way; But mothers and wives, Fathers, sisters, little sons, Count the cost Of the lost; And we count the unlived lives, The forever unborn ones Who might have been your sons.

_The Bearer_ Could not the hands of these rebuild That which has been destroyed? Oh, the poor hands! that once were strong and filled With implements of labor whereby they Served home and country through the peaceful day. When those who made the war stand face to face With these slain soldiers in that unknown place Whither the dead go, what will be the word By dead lips spoken and by dead ears heard? Will souls say King or Kaiser? Will souls prate Of earthly glory in that new estate?

_The Counter_ One hundred thousand— One hundred and fifty thousand— Two hundred—

_The Bearer_ Can this check plough? Can it sow? can it reap? Can we arouse it? Is it asleep?

Can it hear when a child cries?— Comfort a wife? This little metal disk Stands for a life.

Can this check build, Laying stone upon stone? Once it was warm flesh Folded on bone.

Sinew and muscle firm, Look at it—can This little metal check Stand for a man?

_The Counter_ One—two—three—four—

Dorothy Dudley

LA RUE DE LA MONTAGNE SAINTE-GÈNEVIÈVE

I have seen an old street weeping— Narrow, dark, ascending; Water o’er the spires Of a church descending; The church thrice veiled—in rain, In the shadow of the years, In the grace of old design; Dim dwellings, blind with tears, Rotting either side The winding passage way, To where the river crosses Weeping, under gray And limpid heavens weeping. Gardens I have seen Through archèd doors, whose gratings Ever cry the keen Dim melodies of lace Long used and rare, gardens With an old-time grace Vibrating, dimly trembling In the music of the rain. Roses I have seen drip a faint Perfume, and lilacs train A quivering loveliness From door to archèd door, Passing by in flower carts; While waters ever pour O’er the white stones of the fountain, Melting icily away Half way up the mountain; Where to mingle tears with tears, Their clothes misshapen, sobbing, Two or three old women, In wooden sabots hobbling, Meet to fill their pitchers, From the stream of water leaping Through the lips, a long time parted, Of a face grotesquely weeping— A carven face forever weeping.

Helen Dudley

TO ONE UNKNOWN

I have seen the proudest stars That wander on through space, Even the sun and moon, But not your face.

I have heard the violin, The winds and waves rejoice In endless minstrelsy, Yet not your voice.

I have touched the trillium, Pale flower of the land, Coral, anemone, And not your hand.

I have kissed the shining feet Of Twilight lover-wise, Opened the gates of Dawn— Oh, not your eyes!

I have dreamed unwonted things, Visions that witches brew, Spoken with images, Never with you.

SONG

A few more windy days Must come and go their ways, And we will walk My love and I Beneath the amber-dripping boughs.

Then on the stars we’ll tread, On purple stars and red, And wonder why The while we talk Men sing so much of broken vows.

Max Eastman

DIOGENES

A hut, and a tree, And a hill for me, And a piece of a weedy meadow. I’ll ask no thing, Of God or king, But to clear away his shadow.

IN MARCH

On a soaked fence-post a little blue-backed bird, Opening her sweet throat, has stirred A million music-ripples in the air That curl and circle everywhere. They break not shallow at my ear, But quiver far within. Warm days are near!

AT THE AQUARIUM

Serene the silver fishes glide, Stern-lipped, and pale, and wonder-eyed! As through the aged deeps of ocean, They glide with wan and wavy motion! They have no pathway where they go, They flow like water to and fro. They watch with never winking eyes, They watch with staring, cold surprise, The level people in the air, The people peering, peering there: Who wander also to and fro, And know not why or where they go, Yet have a wonder in their eyes, Sometimes a pale and cold surprise.

T. S. Eliot

PORTRAIT OF A LADY

I

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do— With “I have saved this afternoon for you”; And four wax candles in the darkened room, Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead: An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.

We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips. “So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul Should be resurrected only among friends— Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.”

And so the conversation slips Among velleities and carefully caught regrets, Through attenuated tones of violins Mingled with remote cornets, And begins: “You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends; And how, how rare and strange it is, to find, In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends— (For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind! How keen you are!) To find a friend who has these qualities, Who has, and gives Those qualities upon which friendship lives: How much it means that I say this to you— Without these friendships—life, what _cauchemar_!”

Among the windings of the violins, And the ariettes Of cracked cornets, Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own— Capricious monotone That is at least one definite “false note.” Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance, Admire the monuments, Discuss the late events, Correct our watches by the public clocks; Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

II

Now that lilacs are in bloom She has a bowl of lilacs in her room And twists one in her fingers while she talks. “Ah my friend, you do not know, you do not know What life is, you who hold it in your hands—” (Slowly twisting the lilac stalks); “You let it flow from you, you let it flow, And youth is cruel, and has no remorse, And smiles at situations which it cannot see.” I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea. “Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world To be wonderful and youthful, after all.”

The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune Of a broken violin on an August afternoon: “I am always sure that you understand My feelings, always sure that you feel, Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.

“You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel. You will go on, and when you have prevailed You can say: ‘At this point many a one has failed.’ But what have I, but what have I, my friend, To give you, what can you receive from me? Only the friendship and the sympathy Of one about to reach her journey’s end.

“I shall sit here, serving tea to friends....”

I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends For what she has said to me?