Revelation
We make ourselves a place
apart
Behind light words that tease
and flout,
But oh, the agitated heart
Till someone find us really
out.
’Tis pity if the case
require
(Or so we say) that in the
end
We speak the literal to inspire
The understanding of a friend.
But so with all, from babes
that play
At hide-and-seek to God afar,
So all who hide too well
away
Must speak and tell us where
they are.
The Trial by Existence
Even the bravest that
are slain
Shall not dissemble their
surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without
the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still
to dare.
The light of heaven falls
whole and white
And is not shattered into
dyes,
The light for ever is morning
light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness
go,
And seek with laughter what
to brave;—
And binding all is the hushed
snow
Of the far-distant breaking
wave.
And from a cliff-top is proclaimed
The gathering of the souls
for birth,
The trial by existence named,
The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping
by
In streams and cross- and
counter-streams
Can but give ear to that
sweet cry
For its suggestion of what
dreams!
And the more loitering are
turned
To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good
discerned
Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse
rolls
Toward the throne to witness
there
The speeding of devoted souls
Which God makes his especial
care.
And none are taken but who
will,
Having first heard the life
read out
That opens earthward, good
and ill,
Beyond the shadow of a doubt;
And very beautifully God
limns,
And tenderly, life’s
little dream,
But naught extenuates or
dims,
Setting the thing that is
supreme.
Nor is there wanting in the
press
Some spirit to stand simply
forth,
Heroic in its nakedness,
Against the uttermost of
earth.
The tale of earth’s
unhonored things
Sounds nobler there than
’neath the sun;
And the mind whirls and the
heart sings,
And a shout greets the daring
one.
But always God speaks at
the end:
’One thought in agony
of strife
The bravest would have by
for friend,
The memory that he chose
the life;
But the pure fate to which
you go
Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe were not earthly
woe
To which you give the assenting
voice.’
And so the choice must be
again,
But the last choice is still
the same;
And the awe passes wonder
then,
And a hush falls for all
acclaim.
And God has taken a flower
of gold
And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and
hold
Spirit to matter till death
come.
’Tis of the essence
of life here,
Though we choose greatly,
still to lack
The lasting memory at all
clear,
That life has for us on the
wrack
Nothing but what we somehow
chose;
Thus are we wholly stripped
of pride
In the pain that has but
one close,
Bearing it crushed and mystified.
In Equal Sacrifice
Thus of old the Douglas
did:
He left his land as he was
bid
With the royal heart of Robert
the Bruce
In a golden case with a golden
lid,
To carry the same to the
Holy Land;
By which we see and understand
That that was the place to
carry a heart
At loyalty and love’s
command,
And that was the case to
carry it in.
The Douglas had not far to
win
Before he came to the land
of Spain,
Where long a holy war had
been
Against the too-victorious
Moor;
And there his courage could
not endure
Not to strike a blow for
God
Before he made his errand
sure.
And ever it was intended
so,
That a man for God should
strike a blow,
No matter the heart he has
in charge
For the Holy Land where hearts
should go.
But when in battle the foe
were met,
The Douglas found him sore
beset,
With only strength of the
fighting arm
For one more battle passage
yet—
And that as vain to save
the day
As bring his body safe away—
Only a signal deed to do
And a last sounding word
to say.
The heart he wore in a golden
chain
He swung and flung forth
into the plain,
And followed it crying ‘Heart
or death!’
And fighting over it perished
fain.
So may another do of right,
Give a heart to the hopeless
fight,
The more of right the more
he loves;
So may another redouble might
For a few swift gleams of
the angry brand,
Scorning greatly not to demand
In equal sacrifice with his
The heart he bore to the
Holy Land.
The Tuft of Flowers
I went to turn the grass
once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before
the sun.
The dew was gone that made
his blade so keen
Before I came to view the
leveled scene.
I looked for him behind an
isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone
on the breeze.
But he had gone his way,
the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had
been,—alone,
‘As all must be,’
I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work
together or apart.’
But as I said it, swift there
passed me by
On noiseless wing a ’wildered
butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown
dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s
delight.
And once I marked his flight
go round and round,
As where some flower lay
withering on the ground.
And then he flew as far as
eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing
came back to me.
I thought of questions that
have no reply,
And would have turned to
toss the grass to dry;
But he turned first, and
led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers
beside a brook,
A leaping tongue of bloom
the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the
scythe had bared.
I left my place to know them
by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed
when I came.
The mower in the dew had
loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish,
not for us,
Nor yet to draw one thought
of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness
at the brim.
The butterfly and I had lit
upon,
Nevertheless, a message from
the dawn,
That made me hear the wakening
birds around,
And hear his long scythe
whispering to the ground,
And feel a spirit kindred
to my own;
So that henceforth I worked
no more alone;
But glad with him, I worked
as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon
with him the shade;
And dreaming, as it were,
held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I
had not hoped to reach.
‘Men work together,’
I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work
together or apart.’
Spoils of the Dead
Two fairies it was
On a still summer day
Came forth in the woods
With the flowers to play.
The flowers they plucked
They cast on the ground
For others, and those
For still others they found.
Flower-guided it was
That they came as they ran
On something that lay
In the shape of a man.
The snow must have made
The feathery bed
When this one fell
On the sleep of the dead.
But the snow was gone
A long time ago,
And the body he wore
Nigh gone with the snow.
The fairies drew near
And keenly espied
A ring on his hand
And a chain at his side.
They knelt in the leaves
And eerily played
With the glittering things,
And were not afraid.
And when they went home
To hide in their burrow,
They took them along
To play with to-morrow.
When you came on death,
Did you not come flower-guided
Like the elves in the wood?
I remember that I did.
But I recognised death
With sorrow and dread,
And I hated and hate
The spoils of the dead.
Pan with Us
Pan came out of the woods
one day,—
His skin and his hair and
his eyes were gray,
The gray of the moss of walls
were they,—
And stood in the sun and
looked his fill
At wooded valley and wooded
hill.
He stood in the zephyr, pipes
in hand,
On a height of naked pasture
land;
In all the country he did
command
He saw no smoke and he saw
no roof.
That was well! and he stamped
a hoof.
His heart knew peace, for
none came here
To this lean feeding save
once a year
Someone to salt the half-wild
steer,
Or homespun children with
clicking pails
Who see no little they tell
no tales.
He tossed his pipes, too
hard to teach
A new-world song, far out
of reach,
For a sylvan sign that the
blue jay’s screech
And the whimper of hawks
beside the sun
Were music enough for him,
for one.
Times were changed from what
they were:
Such pipes kept less of power
to stir
The fruited bough of the
juniper
And the fragile bluets clustered
there
Than the merest aimless breath
of air.
They were pipes of pagan
mirth,
And the world had found new
terms of worth.
He laid him down on the sun-burned
earth
And ravelled a flower and
looked away—
Play? Play?—What
should he play?
The Demiurge’s Laugh
It was far in the sameness
of the wood;
I was running with joy on
the Demon’s trail,
Though I knew what I hunted
was no true god.
It was just as the light
was beginning to fail
That I suddenly heard—all
I needed to hear:
It has lasted me many and
many a year.
The sound was behind me instead
of before,
A sleepy sound, but mocking
half,
As of one who utterly couldn’t
care.
The Demon arose from his
wallow to laugh,
Brushing the dirt from his
eye as he went;
And well I knew what the
Demon meant.
I shall not forget how his
laugh rang out.
I felt as a fool to have
been so caught,
And checked my steps to make
pretence
It was something among the
leaves I sought
(Though doubtful whether
he stayed to see).
Thereafter I sat me against
a tree.
