Eight Harvard Poets Part 6

Up from the vineyard comes Music of laughter; Far through the valleys they Gather the harvest.

Westward the evening star Sinks in the mountains; Pale 'neath the rising moon Lies Mytilene.

Here where the headland looks Wide o'er the water, I have brought laurel leaves, Decking your barrow.

Why do I linger now Vainly lamenting?

O it is lonely, love,-- Lonely in Lesbos!

HELEN

Again the voices of the hunting horns And the new moon, low lying on the hills, Tell that the summer night is on its way.-- O languid heart, shalt thou much longer watch This pale procession of the silent hours Melt into shadows of unending years?

Much longer feed on yearning and despair And all the anguish of departed time?

Tomorrow is as yesterday; today No nearer than the morning when there stood In Leda's palace, asking for my hand, Tall Menelaus with his yellow hair; No nearer now than the first time these hands Dared linger in caress upon the curls Of him whose dark eyes laughed their love to mine.

'Tis only as if one short, restless sleep Lay over the wide chasm of the years Beyond which loom lost faith and ruined Troy.

The night wind brings, as twenty summers since, The silver-breasted swallows from the Nile To quiet Sparta, nestled in her hills, Locked inland from the voices of the sea; And far across the porticos I hear The ivory shuttle singing in the loom 'Midst maidens' chatter, as in olden days; And men still murmur as they pa.s.s me by: "Lo, look on her, the wonder of the world, Beauteous Helen, Lacedaemon's Queen!"

I watch them gaze intently on my face As they would keep it in their memory Forever, and the very while they gaze I see the flame of Troy gleam in their eyes.

I think sometimes I have already pa.s.sed Into the kingdom of untroubled death, And wandering lonely amongst them I knew In h.e.l.las or that land beyond the seas, Behold each shadow as it pa.s.ses by Shrink half involuntarily, and turn, And veil its face and vanish in the gloom.

Whilst out of that dim distance whence my steps Are moving and to which they shall return After an interval of endless years, There comes a voice that calls me from afar: "Art thou not Helen, dowered of the G.o.ds With all that man can covet? Wert thou not Created the most beautiful of earth, And is not beauty wisdom, wisdom power?

What hast thou done with their almighty gift?"

And then, ere I would answer, silence falls Around me, and the dark divides, and I See the blue twilight on the Spartan hills.

LARGO

Thou only from this sorrow wert relief, Inviolate death, grave deity of rest, Wherein all things past somehow seem the best That ever could have come to be. Proud grief Her l.u.s.trous torch hath lighted in this brief Dim time before the dark, when the wide west Fades where illimitable skies suggest Days vanished in the beauty of belief.

As one unto a battle come, that stands Aloof awhile, beholding friend and foe Clashing in conflict, till his soul commands He, too, prest on whither the bugles blow, Lifting his eyes sees over wasted lands Life's dust and shadow drifting to and fro.

LAZARUS

At morn we pa.s.sed a hall where song And dance had been and wine flowed free, And where, 'mid wrecks of revelry, Had lain the feasters all night long.

They saw us through the mist of dawn, And, turning, called us to their feast-- The sound of lutes and cymbals ceased-- But one He fixed His gaze upon.

In whose wide eyes there seemed to be-- Behind the laughing, wine-flushed face And tilted ivy-crown's gay grace-- Faint glimpses of Eternity.

Then sad, the Master bowed His head, And, through the rosy twilight, dim, Walked up and softly spake to him: "Art thou not he that late was dead?"

The drinker raised his cup on high, And murmured: "Priest of Nazareth, I am he thou didst raise from death-- Lo, thus I wait again to die!"

A CRUCIFIX

This was the cross of G.o.d on which men's eyes Dwelt with the love of dead divinity, As they who by the desolate orient sea In battle made their sainted sacrifice, Dreaming their boundless striving should devise A symbol whereby men might know that he Who wins his way on earth to victory, Thus in his consummated sorrow dies.

All things are sacred to that tender sight: Time's ancient altars whence strange incense curled Innocent to the unknown G.o.ds; the light Of love is thine; faith's banner is unfurled, Even where the farthest watchmen, through the night, Call on the cloud-wrapped ramparts of the world.

NEITH

Somehow the spirit of that day-- Rain-clouded streets and brooding air-- Determined me to live and dare, Living, to laugh the world away.

As in a crystal dreamers see Out of unwinding mists arise The splendors of some paradise Woven of gold and ivory;

Deep in the globe of thought I saw Dawn from tempestuous dust that form Toward which the endless ages storm Uproarious--to break with awe.

Of all things ignorant, yet wise, Sitting enthroned at life's last goal, Dividing body from the soul, Looking at each with flameless eyes.

Immutable, unknown, unsung, Through triumph and delight unearned, Through sorrow undeserved, I learned Salvation from thy wordless tongue.

Then flying the embracing gloom Of burnt-out days and parched desire, I built my soul an altar fire Of laughter in the face of doom.

A FAREWELL

Nay: by this desolate sea our troubled ways Shall separate forever; swift hath sped The hour of youth, and yet to hang the head, Lamenting lost things of departed days, Were only from that shadowland to raise A wraith, that whispering of the quiet dead, Would mimic the strange life of love; instead, Let us relent and hail the past with praise.

Go, then; and should inevitable fate Lead us at last beyond the world of men Where laurel and applause content no more, Whither the soul takes silence for its mate, There might we meet, and, smiling, once again Clasp hands and part upon some windy sh.o.r.e.

WILLIAM A. NORRIS