The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 9

The Tears of Harlequin. [Theodosia Garrison]

To you he gave his laughter and his jest, His words that of all words were merriest, His glad, mad moments when the lights flared high And his wild song outshrilled the plaudits' din.

For you that memory, but happier I -- I, who have known the tears of Harlequin.

Not mine those moments when the roses lay Like red spilled wine on his triumphant way, And shouts acclaimed him through the music's beat, Above the voice of flute and violin.

But I have known his hour of sore defeat -- I -- I have known the tears of Harlequin.

Light kisses and light words, they were not mine -- Poor perquisites of many a Columbine Bought with his laughter, flattered by his jest; But when despair broke through the painted grin, His tortured face has fallen on my breast -- I -- I have known the tears of Harlequin.

You weep for him, who look upon him dead, That joy and jest and merriment are fled; You weep for him, what time my eyes are dry, Knowing what peace a weary soul may win Stifled by too much masking -- even I -- I, who have known the tears of Harlequin.

The Buried City. [George Sylvester Viereck]

My heart is like a city of the gay Reared on the ruins of a perished one Wherein my dead loves cower from the sun, White-swathed like kings, the Pharaohs of a day.

Within the buried city stirs no sound, Save for the bat, forgetful of the rod, Perched on the knee of some deserted G.o.d, And for the groan of rivers underground.

Stray not, my Love, 'mid the sarcophagi -- Tempt not the silence, for the fates are deep, Lest all the dreamers, deeming doomsday nigh, Leap forth in terror from their haunted sleep; And like the peal of an accursed bell Thy voice call ghosts of dead things back from h.e.l.l.

The Ride to the Lady. [Helen Gray Cone]

"Now since mine even is come at last, -- For I have been the sport of steel, And hot life ebbeth from me fast, And I in saddle roll and reel, -- Come bind me, bind me on my steed!

Of fingering leech I have no need!"

The chaplain clasped his mailed knee.

"Nor need I more thy whine and thee!

No time is left my sins to tell; But look ye bind me, bind me well!"

They bound him strong with leathern thong, For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled, Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red; Out of the sky the fierce hue fell, And made the streams as the streams of h.e.l.l.

All his thoughts as a river flowed, Flowed aflame as fleet he rode, Onward flowed to her abode, Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.

(Viewless Death apace, apace, Rode behind him in that race.)

"Face, mine own, mine alone, Trembling lips my lips have known, Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne Under the kisses that make them mine!

Only of thee, of thee, my need!

Only to thee, to thee, I speed!"

The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn; In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.

Far behind had the fight's din died; The shuddering stars in the welkin wide Crowded, crowded, to see him ride.

The beating hearts of the stars aloof Kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof.

"What is the throb that thrills so sweet?

Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"

But his own strong pulse the fainter fell, Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell.

The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet Not alone with the started sweat.

Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood; Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein, -- But the viewless rider rode to win.

Out of the wood to the highway's light Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright; The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried, And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.

Fast, and fast, by the road he knew; And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew; And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue, As a garment worn of a wizard grim.

He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.

She heard no sound before her gate, Though very quiet was her bower.

All was as her hand had left it late: The needle slept on the broidered vine, Where the hammer and spikes of the pa.s.sion-flower Her fashioning did wait.

On the couch lay something fair, With steadfast lips and veiled eyne; But the lady was not there.

On the wings of shrift and prayer, Pure as winds that winnow snow, Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.

The burdened steed at the barred gate stood, No whit the nearer to his goal.

Now G.o.d's great grace a.s.soil the soul That went out in the wood!

Evensong. [Ridgely Torrence]

Beauty calls and gives no warning, Shadows rise and wander on the day.

In the twilight, in the quiet evening, We shall rise and smile and go away.

Over the flaming leaves Freezes the sky.

It is the season grieves, Not you, not I.

All our spring-times, all our summers, We have kept the longing warm within.

Now we leave the after-comers To attain the dreams we did not win.

O we have wakened, Sweet, and had our birth, And that's the end of earth; And we have toiled and smiled and kept the light, And that's the end of night.

Witchery. [Frank Dempster Sherman]

Out of the purple drifts, From the shadow sea of night, On tides of musk a moth uplifts Its weary wings of white.

Is it a dream or ghost Of a dream that comes to me, Here in the twilight on the coast, Blue cinctured by the sea?

Fashioned of foam and froth -- And the dream is ended soon, And lo, whence came the moon-white moth Comes now the moth-white moon!