Weeds by the Wall Part 4

Within is emptiness: the sunlight falls On faded journals papering its walls; On advertis.e.m.e.nt chromos, torn with time, Around a hearth where wasps and spiders build.-- The house is dead; meseems that night of crime It, too, was shot and killed.

UNANOINTED.

I.

Upon the Siren-haunted seas, between Fate's mythic sh.o.r.es, Within a world of moon and mist, where dusk and daylight wed, I see a phantom galley and its hull is banked with oars, With ghostly oars that move to song, a song of dreams long dead:

"Oh, we are sick of rowing here!

With toil our arms are numb; With smiting year on weary year Salt-furrows of the foam: Our journey's end is never near, And will no nearer come-- Beyond our reach the sh.o.r.es appear Of far Elysium."

II.

Within a land of cataracts and mountains old and sand, Beneath whose heavens ruins rise, o'er which the stars burn red, I see a spectral cavalcade with crucifix in hand And shadowy armor march and sing, a song of dreams long dead:

"Oh, we are weary marching on!

Our limbs are travel-worn; With cross and sword from dawn to dawn We wend with raiment torn: The leagues to go, the leagues we've gone Are sand and rock and thorn-- The way is long to Avalon Beyond the deeps of morn."

III.

They are the curs'd! the souls who yearn and evermore pursue The vision of a vain desire, a splendor far ahead; To whom G.o.d gives the poet's dream without the grasp to do, The artist's hope without the scope between the quick and dead:

I, too, am weary toiling where The winds and waters beat; When shall I ease the oar I bear And rest my tired feet?

When will the white moons cease to glare, The red suns veil their heat?

And from the heights blow sweet the air Of Love's divine retreat?

THE END OF ALL.

I.

I do not love you now, O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!

You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still denied Food when mine hungered, and of which love died-- I do not love you now.

II.

I do not love you now, O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!

You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did give No drop to drink to help my love to live-- I do not love you now.

III.

I do not love you now!

But did I love you in the old, old way, And knew you loved me--'though the words should slay Me and your love forever, I would say, "I do not love you now!

I do not love you now!"

SUNSET AND STORM.

Deep with divine tautology, The sunset's mighty mystery Again has traced the scroll-like West With hieroglyphs of burning gold: Forever new, forever old, Its miracle is manifest.

Time lays the scroll away. And now Above the hills a giant brow Night lifts of cloud; and from her arm, Barbaric black, upon the world, With thunder, wind and fire, is hurled Her awful argument of storm.

What part, O man, is yours in such?

Whose awe and wonder are in touch With Nature,--speaking rapture to Your soul,--yet leaving in your reach No human word of thought or speech Expressive of the thing you view.

BEECH BLOOMS.

The wild oxalis Among the valleys Lifts up its chalice Of pink and pearl; And, balsam-breathing, From out their sheathing, The myriad wreathing Green leaves uncurl.

The whole world brightens With spring, that lightens The foot that frightens The building thrush; Where water tosses On ferns and mosses The squirrel crosses The beechen hush.

And vision on vision,-- Like ships elysian On some white mission,-- Sails cloud on cloud; With scents of clover The winds brim over, And in the cover The stream is loud.

'Twixt bloom that blanches The orchard branches Old farms and ranches Gleam in the gloam; 'Mid blossoms blowing, Through fields for sowing, The cows come lowing, The cows come home.

Where ways are narrow, A vesper-sparrow Flits like an arrow Of living rhyme; The red sun poises, And farmyard noises Mix with glad voices Of milking-time.

When dusk disposes Of all its roses, And darkness closes, And work is done, A moon's white feather In starry weather And two together Whose hearts are one.

WORSHIP.

I.

The mornings raise Voices of gold in the Almighty's praise; The sunsets soar In choral crimson from far sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e: Each is a blast, Reverberant, of color,--seen as vast Concussions,--that the vocal firmament In worship sounds o'er every continent.

II.