The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 7

Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than naught!

What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, The cynic rending of the wings, Known to that froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast?

O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just!

See, I was yours and I am in the dust.

Then look not so, as if all things were well!

Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of h.e.l.l Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust!

Nothing dismayed?

By all I say and all I hint not made Afraid?

O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet, Brave eyes and true!

See how the shrivelled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard The quick, sweet-spoken bird.

Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save!

Tears. [Lizette Woodworth Reese]

When I consider Life and its few years -- A wisp of fog betwixt us and the sun; A call to battle, and the battle done Ere the last echo dies within our ears; A rose choked in the gra.s.s; an hour of fears; The gusts that past a darkening sh.o.r.e do beat; The burst of music down an unlistening street, -- I wonder at the idleness of tears.

Ye old, old dead, and ye of yesternight, Chieftains, and bards, and keepers of the sheep, By every cup of sorrow that you had, Loose me from tears, and make me see aright How each hath back what once he stayed to weep: Homer his sight, David his little lad!

The Sea-Lands. [Orrick Johns]

Would I were on the sea-lands, Where winds know how to sting; And in the rocks at midnight The lost long murmurs sing.

Would I were with my first love To hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

My first love was a fair girl With ways forever new; And hair a sunlight yellow, And eyes a morning blue.

The roses, have they tarried Or are they dun and frayed?

If we had stayed together, Would love, indeed, have stayed?

Ah, years are filled with learning, And days are leaves of change!

And I have met so many I knew . . . and found them strange.

But on the sea-lands tumbled By winds that sting and blind, The nights we watched, so silent, Come back, come back to mind.

I mind about my first love, And hear the rush and roar Of spume below the doorstep And winds upon the door.

Bag-Pipes at Sea. [Clinton Scollard]

Above the shouting of the gale, The whipping sheet, the dashing spray, I heard, with notes of joy and wail, A piper play.

Along the dipping deck he trod, The dusk about his shadowy form; He seemed like some strange ancient G.o.d Of song and storm.

He gave his dim-seen pipes a skirl And war went down the darkling air; Then came a sudden subtle swirl, And love was there.

What were the winds that flailed and flayed The sea to him, the night obscure?

In dreams he strayed some brackened glade, Some heathery moor.

And if he saw the slanting spars, And if he watched the shifting track, He marked, too, the eternal stars Shine through the wrack.

And so amid the deep sea din, And so amid the wastes of foam, Afar his heart was happy in His highland home!

The Heart's Country. [Florence Wilkinson]

Hill people turn to their hills; Sea-folk are sick for the sea: Thou art my land and my country, And my heart calls out for thee.

The bird beats his wings for the open, The captive burns to be free; But I -- I cry at thy window, For thou art my liberty.

Joyous-Gard. [Thomas S. Jones, Jr.]

Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave, By tang of surf and thunder of the gale, Wild be the ride yet safe the barque will sail And past the plunging seas her harbor brave; Nor care have I that storms and waters rave, I cannot fear since you can never fail -- Once have I looked upon the burning grail, And through your eyes have seen beyond the grave.

I know at last -- the strange, sweet mystery, The nameless joy that trembled into tears, The hush of wings when you were at my side -- For now the veil is rent and I can see, See the true vision of the future years, As in your face the love of Him who died!

The Secret. [George Edward Woodberry]

Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle crieth afar; The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover he shall be it If one sweet maid is true.