Song-Surf Part 13

AUTUMN AT THE BRIDGE

Brown dropping of leaves, Soft rush of the wind, Slow searing of sheaves On the hill; Green plunging of frogs, Cool lisp of the brook, Far barking of dogs At the mill; Hot hanging of clouds, High poise of the hawk, Flush laughter of crowds From the Ridge; Nut-falling, quail-calling, Wheel-rumbling, bee-mumbling-- Oh, sadness, gladness, madness, Of an autumn day at the bridge!

TEARLESS

Do women weep when men have died?

It cannot be!

For I have sat here by his side, Breathing dear names against his face, That he must list to, were his place Over G.o.d's throne-- Yet have I wept no tear and made no moan.

Do women weep--not gaze stone-eyed?

Grief seems in vain.

Do women weep?--I was his bride-- They brought him to me cold and pale-- Upon his lids I saw the trail Of deathly pain.

They said, "Her tears will fall like autumn rain."

I cannot weep! Not if hot tears, Dropped on his lids, Might burn him back to life and years Of yearning love, would any rise To flood the anguish from my eyes-- And I'm his bride!

Ah me, do women weep when men have died?

SUNSET-LOVERS

Upon how many a hill, Across how many a field, Beside how many a river's restful flowing, They stand, with eyes a-thrill, And hearts of day-rue healed, Gazing, O wistful sun, upon thy going!

They have forgotten life, Forgotten sunless death; Desire is gone--is it not gone for ever?

No memory of strife Have they, or pain-sick breath.

No hopes to fear or fears hope cannot sever.

Silent the gold steals down The west, and mystery Moves deeper in their hearts and settles darker.

'Tis faded--the day's crown; But strange and shadowy They see the Unseen as night falls stark and starker.

Like priests whose altar fires Are spent, immovable They stand, in awful ecstasy uplifted.

Zephyrs awake tree-lyres, The starry deeps are full, Earth with a mystic majesty is gifted.

Ah, sunset-lovers, though Time were but pulsing pain, And death no more than its eternal ceasing, Would you not choose the throe, Hold the oblivion vain, To have beheld so many a day's releasing?

THE EMPTY CROSS

The eve of Golgotha had come, And Christ lay shrouded in the garden Tomb: Among the olives, Oh, how dumb, How sad the sun incarnadined the gloom!

The hill grew dim--the pleading cross Reached empty arms toward the closing gate.

Jerusalem, oh, count thy loss!

Oh, hear ye! hear ye! ere it be too late!

Reached bleeding arms--but how in vain!

The murmurous mult.i.tude within the wall Already had forgot His pain-- To-morrow would forget the cross--and all!

They knew not Rome, before its sign, Bending her brow bound with the nations' threne, Would sweep all lands from Nile to Rhine In servitude unto the Nazarene.

Nor knew that millions would forsake Ancestral shrines great with the glow of time, And lifting up its token shake Aeons with thrill of love or battle's crime.

With empty arms aloft it stood: Ah, Scribe and Pharisee, ye builded well!

The cross emblotted with His blood Mounts, highest Hope of men, against earth's h.e.l.l!

UNBURTHENED

Not grief nor the sunny wine Of gladness steeps my spirit as I gaze Over these meads that lie engarmented In stubble robes of winter-weary brown.

For, as those solitary trees afar Have reached unbudding boughs to the dim day And melted on the infinite calm of s.p.a.ce, So have I reached, and am no more distraught With the quivering pangs of memory's yesterday.

But the boon of blue skies deeper than despair, Of rest that rises as a tide of sleep, Of care borne on the plumes of swan-swift clouds Away to the sullen shades of the low west, Have lulled my soul with soft infinitude-- And lent it faith's illimitable Peace.

SONG

Her voice is vibrant beauty dipt In dreams of infinite sorrow and delight.

Thro' an awaiting soul 'tis slipt And lo, words spring that breathe immortal.

TO HER WHO SHALL COME

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Out of the night of lovelessness I call Thee, as, in a chill chamber where no rays Of unbelievable light and freedom fall, Might cry one manacled! And tho' the ways Thou'lt come I cannot see; tho' my heart's sore With emptiness when morning's silent grays Wake me to long aloneness; yet I know Thou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt go Beside me, when I have found thee, evermore!

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