The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 25

Gra.s.s in the priceless weather Sucked from the paps of the Earth, And the hills that were lean it fleshed with green -- Oh, what is a lesson worth?

But still did the buyers barter And the sellers squint at the scales; And price was the stake of the martyr, And cost was the lock of the jails.

VII

Windflowers herald the Maytide, Rendering worth for worth; Ragweeds gladden the wayside, Biting the dugs of the Earth;

Violets, scattering glories, Feed from the dewy gem: But dreamers are fed by the living and dead -- And what is the gift from them?

VIII

Never a stalk of the Summer Dreams of its mission and doom: Only to hasten the Comer -- Martyrdom unto the Bloom.

Ever the Mighty Chooser Plucks when the fruit is ripe, Scorning the ma.s.s and letting it pa.s.s, Keen for the cryptic type.

Greece in her growing season Troubled the lands and seas, Plotted and fought and suffered and wrought -- Building a Sophocles!

Only a faultless temple Stands for the va.s.sal's groan; The harlot's strife and the faith of the wife Blend in a graven stone.

Ne'er do the stern G.o.ds cherish The hope of the million lives; Always the Fact shall perish And only the Truth survives.

Gardens of roses wither, Shaping the perfect rose: And the poet's song shall live for the long, Dumb, aching years of prose.

IX

King of a Realm of Magic, He was the fool of the town, Hiding the ache of the tragic Under the grin of the clown.

Worn with the vain endeavor To fit in the sordid plan; Doomed to be poet forever, He longed to be only a man;

To be freed from the G.o.d's enthralling, Back with the reeds of the stream; Deaf to the Vision calling, And dead to the lash of the Dream.

X

But still did the Mighty Makers Stir in the common sod; The corn through its awful acres Trembled and thrilled with G.o.d!

More than a man was the sower, Lured by a man's desire, For a triune Bride walked close at his side -- Dew and Dust and Fire!

More than a man was the plowman, Shouting his gee and haw; For a something dim kept pace with him, And ever the poet saw;

Till the winds of the cosmic struggle Made of his flesh a flute, To echo the tune of a whirlwind rune Unto the million mute.

XI

Son of the Mother of mothers, The womb and the tomb of Life, With Fire and Air for brothers And a clinging Dream for a wife;

Ever the soul of the dreamer Strove with its mortal mesh, And the lean flame grew till it fretted through The last thin links of flesh.

Oh, rending the veil asunder, He fled to mingle again With the dred Orestean thunder, The Lear of the driven rain!

XII

Once in a cycle the comet Doubles its lonesome track.

Enriched with the tears of a thousand years, Aeschylus wanders back.

Ever inweaving, returning, The near grows out of the far; And Homer shall sing once more in a swing Of the austere Polar Star.

Then what of the lonesome dreamer With the lean blue flame in his breast?

And who was your clown for a day, O Town, The strange, unbidden guest?

XIII

~'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze; A prosy little village, You drowse away the days.

And yet -- a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living, lyric story Makes music of your prose!~

The New Life. [Witter Bynner]

Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth, Told him that truth Had unappealably been said In the great masterpieces of the dead: -- Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head In acquiescent honour, while his heart Held natal tidings, -- that a new life is the part Of every man that's born, A new life never lived before, And a new expectant art; It is the variations of the morn That are forever, more and more, The single dawning of the single truth.

So answers Dante to the heart of youth!

Martin. [Joyce Kilmer]

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.

He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty.

How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth.

Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?

Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory.