Chapter 6

Life's venerable rhythms like a flood Beat in my brain and blood, Crying from all the generations past, "Is this the last?"

And I make answer to my haughty dead, Who made me, heart and head, "Even the sunbeams falter, flicker and bend -- I am the end."

The Hill Wife. [Robert Frost]

Loneliness

(Her Word)

One ought not to have to care So much as you and I Care when the birds come round the house To seem to say good-bye;

Or care so much when they come back With whatever it is they sing; The truth being we are as much Too glad for the one thing

As we are too sad for the other here -- With birds that fill their breasts But with each other and themselves And their built or driven nests.

House Fear

Always -- I tell you this they learned -- Always at night when they returned To the lonely house from far away, To lamps unlighted and fire gone gray, They learned to rattle the lock and key To give whatever might chance to be Warning and time to be off in flight: And preferring the out- to the in-door night, They learned to leave the house-door wide Until they had lit the lamp inside.

The Oft-Repeated Dream

She had no saying dark enough For the dark pine that kept Forever trying the window-latch Of the room where they slept.

The tireless but ineffectual hands That with every futile pass Made the great tree seem as a little bird Before the mystery of glass!

It never had been inside the room, And only one of the two Was afraid in an oft-repeated dream Of what the tree might do.

The Impulse

It was too lonely for her there, And too wild, And since there were but two of them, And no child,

And work was little in the house, She was free, And followed where he furrowed field, Or felled tree.

She rested on a log and tossed The fresh chips, With a song only to herself On her lips.

And once she went to break a bough Of black alder. She strayed so far she scarcely heard When he called her --

And didn't answer -- didn't speak -- Or return. She stood, and then she ran and hid In the fern.

He never found her, though he looked Everywhere, And he asked at her mother's house Was she there.

Sudden and swift and light as that The ties gave, And he learned of finalities Besides the grave.

A Love Song. [Theodosia Garrison]

My love it should be silent, being deep -- And being very peaceful should be still -- Still as the utmost depths of ocean keep -- Serenely silent as some mighty hill.

Yet is my love so great it needs must fill With very joy the inmost heart of me, The joy of dancing branches on the hill The joy of leaping waves upon the sea.

Envoi. [Josephine Preston Peabody]

Beloved, till the day break, Leave wide the little door; And bless, to lack and longing, Our brimming more-and-more.

Is love a scanted portion, That we should hoard thereof? -- Oh, call unto the deserts, Beloved and my Love!

Our Little House. [Thomas Walsh]

Our little house upon the hill In winter time is strangely still; The roof tree, bare of leaves, stands high, A candelabrum for the sky, And down below the lamplights glow, And ours makes answer o'er the snow.

Our little house upon the hill In summer time strange voices fill; With ceaseless rustle of the leaves, And birds that twitter in the eaves, And all the vines entangled so The village lights no longer show.

Our little house upon the hill Is just the house of Jack and Jill, And whether showing or unseen, Hid behind its leafy screen; There's a star that points it out When the lamp lights are in doubt.

The Homeland. [Dana Burnet]

My land was the west land; my home was on the hill, I never think of my land but it makes my heart to thrill; I never smell the west wind that blows the golden skies, But old desire is in my feet and dreams are in my eyes.

My home crowned the high land; it had a stately grace. I never think of my land but I see my mother's face; I never smell the west wind that blows the silver ships But old delight is in my heart and mirth is on my lips.

My land was a high land; my home was near the skies. I never think of my land but a light is in my eyes; I never smell the west wind that blows the summer rain -- But I am at my mother's knee, a little lad again.

Cradle Song. [Josephine Preston Peabody]

I

Lord Gabriel, wilt thou not rejoice When at last a little boy's Cheek lies heavy as a rose And his eyelids close?

Gabriel, when that hush may be, This sweet hand all heedfully I'll undo for thee alone, From his mother's own.

Then the far blue highway paven With the burning stars of heaven, He shall gladden with the sweet Hasting of his feet: --

Feet so brightly bare and cool, Leaping, as from pool to pool; From a little laughing boy Splashing rainbow joy!

Gabriel, wilt thou understand How to keep this hovering hand? -- Never shut, as in a bond, From the bright beyond? --

Nay, but though it cling and close Tightly as a climbing rose, Clasp it only so, -- aright, Lest his heart take fright.

(~Dormi, dormi, tu. The dusk is hung with blue.~)

II

Lord Michael, wilt not thou rejoice When at last a little boy's Heart, a shut-in murmuring bee, Turns him unto thee?

Wilt thou heed thine armor well, -- To take his hand from Gabriel, So his radiant cup of dream May not spill a gleam?

He will take thy heart in thrall, Telling o'er thy breastplate, all Colors, in his bubbling speech, With his hand to each.

(~Dormi, dormi, tu. Sapphire is the blue, Pearl and beryl, they are called, Crysoprase and emerald, Sard and amethyst Numbered so, and kissed.~)

Ah, but find some angel-word For thy sharp, subduing sword! Yea, Lord Michael, make no doubt He will find it out:

(~Dormi, dormi, tu! His eyes will look at you.~)

III

Last, a little morning space, Lead him to that leafy place Where Our Lady sits awake, For all mothers' sake.

Bosomed with the Blessed One, He shall mind her of her Son, Once so folded from all harms In her shrining arms.

(~In her veil of blue, Dormi, dormi, tu.~)

So; -- and fare thee well. Softly, -- Gabriel . . . When the first faint red shall come, Bid the Day-star lead him home, For the bright world's sake, To my heart, awake.

Slumber Song. [Louis V. Ledoux]

Drowsily come the sheep From the place where the pastures be, By a dusty lane To the fold again, First one, and then two, and three: First one, then two, by the paths of sleep Drowsily come the sheep.

Drowsily come the sheep, And the shepherd is singing low: After eight comes nine In the endless line, They come, and then in they go. First eight, then nine, by the paths of sleep Drowsily come the sheep.

Drowsily come the sheep And they pass through the sheepfold door; After one comes two, After one comes two, Comes two and then three and four. First one, then two, by the paths of sleep, Drowsily come the sheep.

Ballad of a Child. [John G. Neihardt]

Yearly thrilled the plum tree With the mother-mood; Every June the rose stock Bore her wonder-child: Every year the wheatlands Reared a golden brood: World of praying Rachaels, Heard and reconciled!

"Poet," said the plum tree's Singing white and green, "What avails your mooning, Can you fashion plums?" "Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's Rippling vocal sheen, "See my golden children Marching as with drums!"

"By a god begotten," Hymned the sunning vine, "In my lyric children Purple music flows!" "Singer," breathed the rose bush, "Are they not divine?" "Have you any daughters Mighty as a rose?"

~Happy, happy mothers! Cruel, cruel words! Mine are ghostly children, Haunting all the ways; Latent in the plum bloom, Calling through the birds, Romping with the wheat brood In their shadow plays!

Gotten out of star-glint, Mothered of the Moon; Nurtured with the rose scent, Wild elusive throng! Something of the vine's dream Crept into a tune; Something of the wheat-drone Echoed in a song.~

Once again the white fires Smoked among the plums; Once again the world-joy Burst the crimson bud; Golden-bannered wheat broods Marched to fairy drums; Once again the vineyard Felt the Bacchic blood.

"Lo, he comes, -- the dreamer" -- Crooned the whitened boughs, "Quick with vernal love-fires -- Oh, at last he knows! See the bursting plum bloom There above his brows!" "Boaster!" breathed the rose bush, "'Tis a budding rose!"

Droned the glinting acres, "In his soul, mayhap, Something like a wheat-dream Quickens into shape!" Sang the sunning vineyard, "Lo, the lyric sap Sets his heart a-throbbing Like a purple grape!"

~Mother of the wheatlands, Mother of the plums, Mother of the vineyard -- All that loves and grows -- Such a living glory To the dreamer comes, Mystic as a wheat-song, Mighty as a rose!

Star-glint, moon-glow, Gathered in a mesh! Spring-hope, white fire By a kiss beguiled! Something of the world-joy Dreaming into flesh! Bird-song, vine-thrill Quickened to a child!~

Ambition. [Aline Kilmer]

Kenton and Deborah, Michael and Rose, These are fine children as all the world knows, But into my arms in my dreams every night Come Peter and Christopher, Faith and Delight.

Kenton is tropical, Rose is pure white, Deborah shines like a star in the night; Michael's round eyes are as blue as the sea, And nothing on earth could be dearer to me.

But where is the baby with Faith can compare? What is the colour of Peterkin's hair? Who can make Christopher clear to my sight, Or show me the eyes of my daughter Delight?

When people inquire I always just state: "I have four nice children and hope to have eight. Though the first four are pretty and certain to please, Who knows but the rest may be nicer than these?"

The Gift. [Louis V. Ledoux]

Let others give you wealth and love, And guard you while you live; I cannot set my gift above The gifts that others give.

And yet the gift I give is good: In one man's eyes to see The worship of your maidenhood While children climb your knee.

The Ancient Beautiful Things. [Fannie Stearns Davis]

I am all alone in the room. The evening stretches before me Like a road all delicate gloom Till it reaches the midnight's gate. And I hear his step on the path, And his questioning whistle, low At the door as I hurry to meet him.

He will ask, "Are the doors all locked? Is the fire made safe on the hearth? And she -- is she sound asleep?"

I shall say, "Yes, the doors are locked, And the ashes are white as the frost: Only a few red eyes To stare at the empty room. And she is all sound asleep, Up there where the silence sings, And the curtains stir in the cold."

He will ask, "And what did you do While I have been gone so long? So long! Four hours or five!"

I shall say, "There was nothing I did. -- I mended that sleeve of your coat. And I made her a little white hood Of the furry pieces I found Up in the garret to-day. She shall wear it to play in the snow, Like a little white bear, -- and shall laugh, And tumble, and crystals of stars Shall shine on her cheeks and hair. -- It was nothing I did. -- I thought You would never come home again!"

Then he will laugh out, low, Being fond of my folly, perhaps; And softly and hand in hand We shall creep upstairs in the dusk To look at her, lying asleep: Our little gold bird in her nest: The wonderful bird who flew in At the window our Life flung wide. (How should we have chosen her, Had we seen them all in a row, The unborn vague little souls, All wings and tremulous hands? How should we have chosen her, Made like a star to shine, Made like a bird to fly, Out of a drop of our blood, And earth, and fire, and God?)

Then we shall go to sleep, Glad. -- O God, did you know When you moulded men out of clay, Urging them up and up Through the endless circles of change, Travail and turmoil and death, Many would curse you down, Many would live all gray With their faces flat like a mask: But there would be some, O God, Crying to you each night, "I am so glad! so glad! I am so rich and gay! How shall I thank you, God?"

Was that one thing you knew When you smiled and found it was good: The curious teeming earth That grew like a child at your hand? Ah, you might smile, for that! -- -- I am all alone in the room. The books and the pictures peer, Dumb old friends, from the dark. The wind goes high on the hills, And my fire leaps out, being proud. The terrier, down on the hearth, Twitches and barks in his sleep, Soft little foolish barks, More like a dream than a dog . . .

I will mend the sleeve of that coat, All ragged, -- and make her the hood Furry, and white, for the snow. She shall tumble and laugh . . . Oh, I think Though a thousand rivers of grief Flood over my head, -- though a hill Of horror lie on my breast, -- Something will sing, "Be glad! You have had all your heart's desire: The unknown things that you asked When you lay awake in the nights, Alone, and searching the dark For the secret wonder of life. You have had them (can you forget?): The ancient beautiful things!" . . .

How long he is gone. And yet It is only an hour or two. . . .

Oh, I am so happy. My eyes Are troubled with tears. Did you know, O God, they would be like this, Your ancient beautiful things? ~Are there more? Are there more, -- out there? -- O God, are there always more?~

Mater Dolorosa. [Louis V. Ledoux]

O clinging hands, and eyes where sleep has set Her seal of peace, go not from me so soon. O little feet, take not the pathway yet, The dust of other feet with tears is wet, And sorrow wanders there with slow regret; O eager feet, take not the path so soon.

Take it not yet, for death is at the end, And kingly death will wait until you come. Full soon the feet of youth will turn the bend, The eyes will see where followed footsteps wend. Go not so soon, though death be found a friend; For kingly death will wait until you come.

Prevision. [Aline Kilmer]

I know you are too dear to stay; You are so exquisitely sweet: My lonely house will thrill some day To echoes of your eager feet.

I hold your words within my heart, So few, so infinitely dear; Watching your fluttering hands I start At the corroding touch of fear.

A faint, unearthly music rings From you to Heaven -- it is not far! A mist about your beauty clings Like a thin cloud before a star.

My heart shall keep the child I knew, When you are really gone from me, And spend its life remembering you As shells remember the lost sea.

"A Wind Rose in the Night". [Aline Kilmer]

A wind rose in the night, (She had always feared it so!) Sorrow plucked at my heart And I could not help but go.

Softly I went and stood By her door at the end of the hall. Dazed with grief I watched The candles flaring and tall.

The wind was wailing aloud: I thought how she would have cried For my warm familiar arms And the sense of me by her side.

The candles flickered and leapt, The shadows jumped on the wall. She lay before me small and still And did not care at all.

How much of Godhood. [Louis Untermeyer]

How much of Godhood did it take -- What purging epochs had to pass, Ere I was fit for leaf and lake And worthy of the patient grass?

What mighty travails must have been, What ages must have moulded me, Ere I was raised and made akin To dawn, the daisy and the sea.

In what great struggles was I felled, In what old lives I labored long, Ere I was given a world that held A meadow, butterflies and Song?

But oh, what cleansings and what fears, What countless raisings from the dead, Ere I could see Her, touched with tears, Pillow the little weary head.

The First Food. [George Sterling]

Mother, in some sad evening long ago, From thy young breast my groping lips were taken, Their hunger stilled, so soon again to waken, But nevermore that holy food to know.

Ah! nevermore! for all the child might crave! Ah! nevermore! through years unkind and dreary! Often of other fare my lips are weary, Unwearied once of what thy bosom gave.

(Poor wordless mouth that could not speak thy name! At what unhappy revels has it eaten The viands that no memory can sweeten, -- The banquet found eternally the same!)

Then fell a shadow first on thee and me, And tendrils broke that held us two how dearly! Once infinitely thine, then hourly, yearly, Less thine, as less the worthy thine to be.

(O mouth that yet should kiss the mouth of Sin! Were lies so sweet, now bitter to remember? Slow sinks the flame unfaithful to an ember; New beauty fades and passion's wine is thin.)

How poor an end of that solicitude And all the love I had not from another! Peace to thine unforgetting heart, O Mother, Who gav'st the dear and unremembered food!

The Monk in the Kitchen. [Anna Hempstead Branch]

I

Order is a lovely thing; On disarray it lays its wing, Teaching simplicity to sing. It has a meek and lowly grace, Quiet as a nun's face. Lo -- I will have thee in this place! Tranquil well of deep delight, Transparent as the water, bright -- All things that shine through thee appear As stones through water, sweetly clear. Thou clarity, That with angelic charity Revealest beauty where thou art, Spread thyself like a clean pool. Then all the things that in thee are Shall seem more spiritual and fair, Reflections from serener air -- Sunken shapes of many a star In the high heavens set afar.

II

Ye stolid, homely, visible things, Above you all brood glorious wings Of your deep entities, set high, Like slow moons in a hidden sky. But you, their likenesses, are spent Upon another element. Truly ye are but seemings -- The shadowy cast-off gleamings Of bright solidities. Ye seem Soft as water, vague as dream; Image, cast in a shifting stream.

III

What are ye? I know not. Brazen pan and iron pot, Yellow brick and grey flag-stone That my feet have trod upon -- Ye seem to me Vessels of bright mystery. For ye do bear a shape, and so Though ye were made by man, I know An inner Spirit also made And ye his breathings have obeyed.

IV

Shape the strong and awful Spirit, Laid his ancient hand on you. He waste chaos doth inherit; He can alter and subdue. Verily, he doth lift up Matter, like a sacred cup. Into deep substance he reached, and lo Where ye were not, ye were; and so Out of useless nothing, ye Groaned and laughed and came to be. And I use you, as I can, Wonderful uses, made for man, Iron pot and brazen pan.

V

What are ye? I know not; Nor what I really do When I move and govern you. There is no small work unto God. He requires of us greatness; Of his least creature A high angelic nature, Stature superb and bright completeness. He sets to us no humble duty. Each act that he would have us do Is haloed round with strangest beauty. Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks Of his plainest child he asks. When I polish the brazen pan I hear a creature laugh afar In the gardens of a star, And from his burning presence run Flaming wheels of many a sun. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. When I cleanse this earthen floor My spirit leaps to see Bright garments trailing over it. Wonderful lustres cover it, A cleanness made by me. Purger of all men's thoughts and ways, With labor do I sound Thy praise, My work is done for Thee. Whoever makes a thing more bright, He is an angel of all light. Therefore let me spread abroad The beautiful cleanness of my God.

VI

One time in the cool of dawn Angels came and worked with me. The air was soft with many a wing. They laughed amid my solitude And cast bright looks on everything. Sweetly of me did they ask That they might do my common task. And all were beautiful -- but one With garments whiter than the sun Had such a face Of deep, remembered grace, That when I saw I cried -- "Thou art The great Blood-Brother of my heart. Where have I seen thee?" -- And he said, "When we are dancing 'round God's throne, How often thou art there. Beauties from thy hands have flown Like white doves wheeling in mid-air. Nay -- thy soul remembers not? Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot."

VII

What are we? I know not.

A Saint's Hours. [Sarah N. Cleghorn]

In the still cold before the sun (Her Matins) Her brothers and her sisters small She woke, and washed and dressed each one.

And through the morning hours all (Prime) Singing above her broom she stood And swept the house from hall to hall.

Then out she ran with tidings good (Tierce) Across the field and down the lane, To share them with the neighborhood.

Four miles she walked, and home again, (Sexts) To sit through half the afternoon And hear a feeble crone complain.

But when she saw the frosty moon (Nones) And lakes of shadow on the hill, Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon.

She threw her pitying apron frill (Vespers) Over a little trembling mouse When the sleek cat yawned on the sill.

In the late hours and drowsy house, (Evensong) At last, too tired, beside her bed She fell asleep -- her prayers half said.

A Lady. [Amy Lowell]

You are beautiful and faded Like an old opera tune Played upon a harpsichord; Or like the sun-flooded silks Of an eighteenth-century boudoir. In your eyes Smoulder the fallen roses of out-lived minutes, And the perfume of your soul Is vague and suffusing, With the pungence of sealed spice-jars. Your half-tones delight me, And I grow mad with gazing At your blent colours.

My vigour is a new-minted penny, Which I cast at your feet. Gather it up from the dust, That its sparkle may amuse you.

The Child in Me. [May Riley Smith]

She follows me about my House of Life (This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!) She has no part in Time's relentless strife She keeps her old simplicity and truth -- And laughs at grim Mortality, This deathless Child that stays with me -- (This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!)

My House of Life is weather-stained with years -- (O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay.) Its windows are bedimmed with rain of tears, The walls have lost their rose, its thatch is gray. One after one its guests depart, So dull a host is my old heart. (O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay!)

For jealous Age, whose face I would forget, Pulls the bright flowers you bring me from my hair And powders it with snow; and yet -- and yet I love your dancing feet and jocund air. I have no taste for caps of lace To tie about my faded face -- I love to wear your flowers in my hair.

O Child in Me, leave not my House of Clay Until we pass together through the Door, When lights are out, and Life has gone away And we depart to come again no more. We comrades who have travelled far Will hail the Twilight and the Star, And smiling, pass together through the Door!

The Son. [Ridgely Torrence]

I heard an old farm-wife, Selling some barley, Mingle her life with life And the name "Charley".

Saying, "The crop's all in, We're about through now; Long nights will soon begin, We're just us two now.

Twelve bushels at sixty cents, It's all I carried -- He sickened making fence; He was to be married --

It feels like frost was near -- His hair was curly. The spring was late that year, But the harvest early."

Muy Vieja Mexicana. [Alice Corbin]

I've seen her pass with eyes upon the road -- An old bent woman in a bronze-black shawl, With skin as dried and wrinkled as a mummy's, As brown as a cigar-box, and her voice Like the low vibrant strings of a guitar. And I have fancied from the girls about What she was at their age, what they will be When they are old as she. But now she sits And smokes away each night till dawn comes round, Thinking, beside the pinyons' flame, of days Long past and gone, when she was young -- content To be no longer young, her epic done: