Two Fishers, and Other Poems Part 4

TALKING WATER

Last night I walked in the fern lands And heard the words of the brooks.

What need has a weary man's spirit With phrases from books!

The timid fish splashed in the shallows, The sad wind sobbed in the reeds; And I soothed with the whispering water A wound that bleeds.

THE END

A poet lay dead where two red frontiers meet; And many birds fluttered about his feet.

He had unfurled his last wild madrigal, And winds had borne it where the dead leaves fall.

The thrush, May's mottled elf, the minstrel, sang More harsh than was his wont. The blackbird rang Strange sobbing woodland bells. The finch so sweet Lay with glazed eye, and raised each shattered wing, And cried in sudden pain, but could not sing.

The sparrow twittered, "'Tis dark under the eaves, And sad-eyed Margot sits at home and grieves."

The lark said, "G.o.d is angry in bright Heaven.

I saw Him once,--a great white fluttering bird With beautiful broad wings that oft are heard When the wind beats the blue nave of the skies.

I saw Him perching high upon the moon With the most dreadful anguish in His eyes.

He flaps His wings, and tries, and wildly tries; But _He_ can sing no longer.

It is still in Heaven.

It is still in forest and on hill.

The green leaves wither, and the world grows chill."

A SINN FEINER

I once had the trustiest comrade-- G.o.d grant he thinks kindly of me-- And we always stood shoulder to shoulder When a tossing wind troubled Life's sea.

He was like the marsh fire in fair weather; Though in foul, we made merry together.

But his soul was knit to the whirlwind-- The fen mists but shrouded the flame-- And I knew not our friendship's attachment Till the day that the whirlwind came, For I saw our lives broken asunder And watched him away with the thunder.

Men said he consorted with traitors And marshalled the beasts of the sty.

But I know that mere mischief makers Don't joyfully go forth to die.

And I've lost a friend like a brother, And never I'll know such another.

THE FOREIGN LEGIONARY, 1911

He had just come out of prison, and he stood and scowled apart, The old l.u.s.t 'neath his ragged coat, and the cold hate in his heart; And he peered to right and left through the cruel sleet and rain, Then dived into the nearest street to rob and steal again.

He lay wounded in the desert where the thirsty sand gleamed red, Arab spearmen thrusting at the dying and the dead; He had left the shrunken ranks to save a comrade in the rear; And he raised himself and cursed them; and went down beneath a spear.

He lies and stares at Heaven through a cloud of crows and kites; While round him prowl the jackals in the lurid tropic nights.

And he'll slowly bleach to powder 'neath the sunlight's livid scroll, --The man they chased from Europe whom the world denied a soul.

THE MISSIONARY

(_Freely adapted from a Foreign Tongue_)

You speak of worlds with rainbow prospects vaulted.

But not for these the service that I h.o.a.rd.

You know the sweet; but I--the pure, exalted: My soul spreads wings to her exalted Lord.

My sphere of lowly service is more s.p.a.cious Than earthly masters and their tasks afford; For gentle is my Lord, and very gracious: I serve with willing hands my gracious Lord.

I know dark realms where no glad light is burning, Where Life meets Death, and bows beneath his sword; But yet I fear not; for He is discerning: I lean upon my wise, discerning Lord.

And when I'm stripped of all, requited latest, His kind "Well Done" my guerdon, my reward: Though yours be richer, yet my Lord's the greatest.

I follow Him--the mightiest, greatest Lord.