General William Booth Enters into Heaven : and other poems Part 7

Would that such hills and cities round us sang, Such vistas of the actual earth and man As kindled t.i.tian when his life began; Would that this latter Greek could put his gold, Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun, Become our every-day, and we aspire To colors fairer far, and glories higher.

Lincoln

Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all, That which is gendered in the wilderness From lonely prairies and G.o.d's tenderness.

Imperial soul, star of a weedy stream, Born where the ghosts of buffaloes still dream, Whose spirit hoof-beats storm above his grave, Above that breast of earth and prairie-fire-- Fire that freed the slave.

The Cornfields

The cornfields rise above mankind, Lifting white torches to the blue, Each season not ashamed to be Magnificently decked for you.

What right have you to call them yours, And in brute l.u.s.t of riches burn Without some radiant penance wrought, Some beautiful, devout return?

Sweet Briars of the Stairways

We are happy all the time Even when we fight: Sweet briars of the stairways, Gay fairies of the grime; WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT.

"Our feet are in the gutters, Our eyes are sore with dust, But still our eyes are bright.

The wide street roars and mutters-- We know it works because it must-- WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT!

"Dirt is everlasting.-- We never, never fear it.

Toil is never ceasing.-- We will play until we near it.

Tears are never ending.-- When once real tears have come;

"When we see our people as they are-- Our fathers--broken, dumb-- Our mothers--broken, dumb-- The weariest of women and of men; Ah--then our eyes will lose their light-- Then we will never play again-- WE, WHO ARE PLAYING TO-NIGHT."

Fantasies and Whims:--

The Fairy Bridal Hymn

[This is the hymn to Eleanor, daughter of Mab and a golden drone, sung by the Locust choir when the fairy child marries her G.o.d, the yellow rose]

This is a song to the white-armed one Cold in the breast as the frost-wrapped Spring, Whose feet are slow on the hills of life, Whose round mouth rules by whispering.

This is a song to the white-armed one Whose breast shall burn as a Summer field, Whose wings shall rise to the doors of gold, Whose poppy lips to the G.o.d shall yield.

This is a song to the white-armed one When the closing rose shall bind her fast, And a song of the song their blood shall sing, When the Rose-G.o.d drinks her soul at last.

The Potato's Dance

"Down cellar," said the cricket, "I saw a ball last night In honor of a lady Whose wings were pearly-white.

The breath of bitter weather Had smashed the cellar pane: We entertained a drift of leaves And then of snow and rain.

But we were dressed for winter, And loved to hear it blow In honor of the lady Who makes potatoes grow-- Our guest, the Irish lady, The tiny Irish lady, The fairy Irish lady That makes potatoes grow.

"Potatoes were the waiters, Potatoes were the band, Potatoes were the dancers Kicking up the sand: Their legs were old burnt matches, Their arms were just the same, They jigged and whirled and scrambled In honor of the dame: The n.o.ble Irish lady Who makes potatoes dance, The witty Irish lady, The saucy Irish lady, The laughing Irish lady Who makes potatoes prance.

"There was just one sweet potato.

He was golden-brown and slim: The lady loved his figure.

She danced all night with him.

Alas, he wasn't Irish.

So when she flew away, They threw him in the coal-bin And there he is to-day, Where they cannot hear his sighs-- His weeping for the lady, The beauteous Irish lady, The radiant Irish lady Who gives potatoes eyes."

How a Little Girl Sang

Ah, she was music in herself, A symphony of joyousness.

She sang, she sang from finger tips, From every tremble of her dress.

I saw sweet haunting harmony, An ecstasy, an ecstasy, In that strange curling of her lips, That happy curling of her lips.

And quivering with melody Those eyes I saw, that tossing head.

And so I saw what music was, Tho' still accursed with ears of lead.

Ghosts in Love

"Tell me, where do ghosts in love Find their bridal veils?"

"If you and I were ghosts in love We'd climb the cliffs of Mystery, Above the sea of Wails.

I'd trim your gray and streaming hair With veils of Fantasy From the tree of Memory.