Challenge Part 6

Useless lie spades and rakes; Rust's on the garden-tools.

Yet, where the moonlight makes Nebulous silver pools, A ghostly shape is cast-- Something unseen has stirred.

Was it a breeze that pa.s.sed?

Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads Out of a gra.s.sy tomb; From ruined pansy-beds A thousand pansies bloom.

The gate is opened wide-- The garden that has been, Now blossoms like a bride...

_Who entered in?_

ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING

"IPHIGENIA IN AULIS"

1

Fling the stones and let them all Lie; Take a breath, and toss the ball High-- And before it strikes the floor Of the h.o.a.r and aged sh.o.r.e, Sweep them up, though there should be Even more than two or three.

Add a pebble, then once more Fling the stones and let them all Lie; Take a breath, and toss the ball High....

2

Rises now the sound of ancient chants And the circling figure moves more slowly.

Thus the stately G.o.ds themselves must dance While the world grows rapturous and holy.

Thus the G.o.ds might weave a great Romance Singing to the sighs of flute and psalter; Till the last of all the many chants, And the priestess sinks before the altar.

3

Cease, oh cease the murmured singing; Hush the numbers brave or blithe, For she enters gravely swinging, Lowering and lithe-- Dark and vengeful as the ringing Scythe meets scythe.

While the flame is fiercely sweeping All her virgin airs depart; She is, without smiles and weeping Or a maiden's art, Stern and savage as the leaping Heart meets heart!

4

Now the tune grows frantic, Now the torches flare-- Wild and corybantic Echoes fill the air.

With a sudden sally All the voices shout; And the bacchic rally Turns into a rout.

Here is life that surges Through each burning vein; Here is joy that purges Every creeping pain.

Even sober Sadness Casts aside her pall, Till with buoyant madness She must swoon and fall...

CHOPIN

Faint preludings on a flute And she swims before us; Shadows follow in pursuit, Like a phantom chorus.

Sense and sound are intertwined Through her necromancy, Till our dreaming souls are blind To all things but fancy.

Haunted woods and perfumed nights, Swift and soft desires, Roses, violet-colored lights, And the sound of lyres, Vague chromatics on a flute-- All are subtly blended, Till the instrument grows mute And the dance is ended.

SONGS AND THE POET

(_For Sara Teasdale_)

Sing of the rose or of the mire; sing strife Or rising moons; the silence or the throng...

Poet, it matters not, if Life Is in the song.

If Life rekindles it, and if the rhymes Bear Beauty as their eloquent refrain, Though it were sung a thousand times, Sing it again!

Thrill us with song--let others preach or rage; Make us so thirst for Beauty that we cease These struggles, and this strident age Grows sweet with peace.

THE HERETIC

I.

BLASPHEMY

I do not envy G.o.d-- There is no thing in all the skies or under To startle and awaken Him to wonder; No marvel can appear To stir His placid soul with terrible thunder-- He was not born with awe nor blessed with fear.

I do not envy G.o.d-- He is not burned with Spring and April madness; The rush of Life--its rash, impetuous gladness He cannot hope to know.

He cannot feel the fever and the sadness The leaping fire, the insupportable glow.

I do not envy G.o.d-- Forever He must watch the planets crawling To flaming goals where sun and star are falling; He cannot wander free.

For He must face, through centuries appalling, A vast and infinite monotony.

I do not envy G.o.d-- He cannot die, He dare not even slumber.

Though He be G.o.d and free from care and c.u.mber, I would not share His place; For He must live when years have lost their number And Time sinks crumbling into shattered s.p.a.ce.

I do not envy G.o.d-- Nay more, I pity Him His lonely heaven; I pity Him each lonely morn and even, His splendid lonely throne: For He must sit and wait till all is riven Alone--through all eternity--alone.

II.

IRONY

Why are the things that have no death The ones with neither sight nor breath.

Eternity is thrust upon A bit of earth, a senseless stone.

A grain of dust, a casual clod Receives the greatest gift of G.o.d.

A pebble in the roadway lies-- It never dies.