Maurine and Other Poems Part 22

THROUGH TEARS.

An artist toiled over his pictures; He labored by night and by day.

He struggled for glory and honor, But the world, it had nothing to say.

His walls were ablaze with the splendors We see in the beautiful skies; But the world beheld only the colors That were made out of chemical dyes.

Time sped. And he lived, loved, and suffered; He pa.s.sed through the valley of grief.

Again he toiled over his canvas, Since in labor alone was relief.

It showed not the splendor of colors Of those of his earlier years, But the world? the world bowed down before it, Because it was painted with tears.

A poet was gifted with genius, And he sang, and he sang all the days.

He wrote for the praise of the people, But the people accorded no praise.

Oh, his songs were as blithe as the morning, As sweet as the music of birds; But the world had no homage to offer, Because they were nothing but words.

Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind.

Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind.

They were not so flowing and rhythmic As those of his earlier years, But the world? lo! it offered its homage Because they were written in tears.

So ever the price must be given By those seeking glory in art; So ever the world is repaying The grief-stricken, suffering heart.

The happy must ever be humble; Ambition must wait for the years, Ere hoping to win the approval Of a world that looks on through its tears.

INTO s.p.a.cE.

If the sad old world should jump a cog Sometime, in its dizzy spinning, And go off the track with a sudden jog, What an end would come to the sinning.

What a rest from strife and the burdens of life For the millions of people in it, What a way out of care, and worry and wear, All in a beautiful minute.

As 'round the sun with a curving sweep It hurries and runs and races, Should it lose its balance, and go with a leap Into the vast sea-s.p.a.ces, What a blest relief it would bring to the grief, And the trouble and toil about us, To be suddenly hurled from the solar world And let it go on without us.

With not a sigh or a sad good-by For loved ones left behind us, We would go with a lunge and a mighty plunge Where never a grave should find us.

What a wild mad thrill our veins would fill As the great earth, life a feather, Should float through the air to G.o.d knows where, And carry us all together.

No dark, damp tomb and no mourner's gloom, No tolling bell in the steeple, But in one swift breath a painless death For a million billion people.

What greater bliss could we ask than this, To sweep with a bird's free motion Through leagues of s.p.a.ce to a resting place, In a vast and vapory ocean-- To pa.s.s away from this life for aye With never a dear tie sundered, And a world on fire for a funeral pyre, While the stars looked on and wondered?

THROUGH DIM EYES.

Is it the world, or my eyes, that are sadder?

I see not the grace that I used to see In the meadow-brook whose song was so glad, or In the boughs of the willow tree.

The brook runs slower--its song seems lower, And not the song that it sang of old; And the tree I admired looks weary and tired Of the changeless story of heat and cold.

When the sun goes up, and the stars go under, In that supreme hour of the breaking day, Is it my eyes, or the dawn I wonder, That finds less of the gold, and more of the gray?

I see not the splendor, the tints so tender, The rose-hued glory I used to see; And I often borrow a vague half-sorrow That another morning has dawned for me.

When the royal smile of that welcome comer Beams on the meadow and burns in the sky, Is it my eyes, or does the Summer Bring less of bloom than in days gone by?

The beauty that thrilled me, the rapture that filled me, To an overflowing of happy tears, I pa.s.s unseeing, my sad eyes being Dimmed by the shadow of vanished years.

When the heart grows weary, all things seem dreary; When the burden grows heavy, the way seems long.

Thank G.o.d for sending kind death as an ending, Like a grand Amen to a minor song.

LA MORT D'AMOUR.

When was it that love died? We were so fond, So very fond, a little while ago.

With leaping pulses, and blood all aglow, We dreamed about a sweeter life beyond,

When we should dwell together as one heart, And scarce could wait that happy time to come.

Now side by side we sit with lips quite dumb, And feel ourselves a thousand miles apart.

How was it that love died! I do not know.

I only know that all its grace untold Has faded into gray! I miss the gold From our dull skies; but did not see it go.

Why should love die? We prized it, I am sure; We thought of nothing else when it was ours; We cherished it in smiling, sunlit bowers; It was our all; why could it not endure?

Alas, we know not how, or when or why This dear thing died. We only know it went, And left us dull, cold, and indifferent; We who found heaven once in each other's sigh.

How pitiful it is, and yet how true That half the lovers in the world, one day, Look questioning in each other's eyes this way And know love's gone forever, as we do.

Sometimes I cannot help but think, dear heart, As I look out o'er all the wide, sad earth And see love's flame gone out on many a hearth, That those who would keep love must dwell apart.

THE PUNISHED.

Not they who know the awful gibbet's anguish, Not they who, while sad years go by them, in The sunless cells of lonely prisons languish, Do suffer fullest penalty for sin.

'Tis they who walk the highways unsuspected Yet with grim fear forever at their side, Who hug the corpse of some sin undetected, A corpse no grave or coffin-lid can hide--

'Tis they who are in their own chambers haunted By thoughts that like unbidden guests intrude, And sit down, uninvited and unwanted, And make a nightmare of the solitude.

HALF FLEDGED.

I feel the stirrings in me of great things.

New half-fledged thoughts rise up and beat their wings, And tremble on the margin of their nest, Then flutter back, and hide within my breast.

Beholding s.p.a.ce, they doubt their untried strength.