# The poems of Richard Watson Gilder/Two Worlds and Other Poems

TWO WORLDS
AND OTHER POEMS
TWO WORLDS
AND OTHER POEMS
PART I
TWO WORLDS
I—THE VENUS OF MILO
Grace, majesty, and the calm bliss of life; No conscious war 'twixt human will and duty; Here breathes, forever free from pain and strife, The old, untroubled pagan world of beauty.
II—MICHAEL ANGELO'S SLAVE
Of life, of death the mystery and woe, Witness in this mute, carven stone the whole. That suffering smile were never fashioned so Before the world had wakened to a soul.
PART II
THE STAR IN THE CITY
As down the city street I pass at the twilight hour, 'Mid the noise of wheels and hoofs That grind on the stones, and beat;— Upward, by spire and tower, Over the chimneys and roofs Climbs my glance to the skies, ​And I see, with a glad surprise, A mist with a core of light. Slowly, as grows the night,— As the sky turns blue from gray,— Slowly it beams more bright, And keeps with me on my way. Soul of the twilight star That leads me from afar, Spirit that keener glows As the daylight darker grows; That leaps the chasm of blue Where the cross-street thunders through, And follows o'er roof and spire, In the night-time soaring higher; I know thee, and only I, Thou comrade of the sky— Star of the poet's heart, The light and soul of his art.
MOONLIGHT
I
'T is twelve o' the clock. The town is still; As gray as a rock From gable to sill Each cottage is standing. The narrow street (Where the tree-tops meet), From the woods to the landing, Is black with shadows; The roofs are white, And white are the meadows; The harbor is bright. Can this be night?
II
'T is twelve o' the clock. The town is still; As still as a stock From harbor to hill. The moon's broad marge Has no stars near, Far off how clear They shine, how large! Something is strange In the air, in the light; Come forth! Let us range In the black, in the white, Through the day-like night.
III
In the elm-trees all No flutter, no twitter; From the granite wall The small stars glitter. A filmy thread My forehead brushes; A meteor rushes From green to red. Naught is but the bliss Of this dark, of this white, Of these stars—of this kiss, O my Love and my Light In the day and the night.
"I CARE NOT IF THE SKIES ARE WHITE"
I care not if the skies are white, Nor if the fields are gold; ​I care not whether 't is black or bright, Or winds blow soft or cold; But O the dark, dark woods, For thee, and me—and love.
Let all but us at last depart, The great world say farewell! This is the kingdom of the heart, Where only two may dwell; And O the dark, dark woods, For thee, and me—and love.
CONTRASTS
Thunder in the north sky, Sunshine in the south; Frowning eyes and forehead And a smiling mouth.
Maiden in the morning— Love her? Yes, but fear her! In the moony shadows— Nearer, nearer, nearer!
SERENADE
(FOR MUSIC)
Deep in the ocean of night A pearl through the darkness shines; Asleep in the garden of night A lily's head reclines; Afar in the forest of night Dreams the nightingale; Clouds in the sky of night Make one bright star grow pale.
​O thou, sweet soul of my love, Art my pearl, my lily-flower; Thou, hiding heart of my love, Art my bird, in thy maiden bower; Heart of my only love That shin'st in the heavens afar— Thou, in the night of love, Art my one, dear, trembling star.
Let me draw thee to the light, Pearl of the shadowy sea! Awake, thou lily of light, Turn thy face divine on me! Arouse thee, bird of the night, Let thy voice to my voice reply! Star of thy lover's night, Shine forth or I die—I die!
LARGESS
Sweet mouth, dark eyes, deep heart— All of beauty, all of glamor heaven could fashion With its divinest art; A woman's life and love, a woman's passion:
But these, at last, to win, Land, or sea, or hell, or heaven might well be ravished At price of any sin— Yet freely all she on her lover lavished.
INDOORS, AT NIGHT
The window's white, the candle's red, Show evening falleth overhead; The candle's red, the window's black, And earth is close in midnight's sack; ​The candle fades, The midnight shades Turn suddenly a starry blue— And now to dreams, my soul, of you!
THE ABSENT LOVER
The purple of the summer fields, the dark Of forests, and the upward mountain sweep— Broken by crag, and scar of avalanche; The trembling of the tops of million trees; A world of sunlight thrilled with winds of dawn; All these I feel, I breathe, all these I am When with closed eyes I bring thy presence near, And touch thy spirit with my spirit's love.
"TO-NIGHT THE MUSIC DOTH A BURDEN BEAR"
To-night the music doth a burden bear— One word that moans and murmurs; doth exhale Tremulously as perfume on the air From out a rose blood-red, or lily pale. The burden is thy name, dear soul of me, Which the rapt melodist unknowing all Still doth repeat through fugue and reverie; Thy name, to him unknown, to me doth call, And weeps my heart at every music-fall.
SANCTUM SANCTORUM
I
I thought I knew the mountain's every mood, Gray, black with storms, or lit by lightening dawn; But once in evening twilight came a spell ​Upon its brow, that held me with new power; A look of unknown beauty, a deep mood Touched with a sorrow as of human kind.
II
I thought I knew full well my comrade's face, But a new face it was to me this day. She sat among the worshipers and heard The preacher's voice, yet listened not, but leaned Her head unto a tone whose accents fell On her sweet spirit only. Deep the awe Struck then upon me, for my friend no more Seemed to be near, as with forgetting gaze, And piteous features steeped in tenderness, She thought on things unspeakable—unknown To all the world beside.
III
When forth doth pass, In holy pilgrimage and awful quest, The soul of thy soul's comrade, thou must stand In silence by, and let it move alone And unattended far to the inner shrine; Thou canst but wait, and bow thine head, and pray; And well for thee if thou may'st prove so pure,— Ended that hour,—thy comrade thou regain'st, Thine as before, or even more deeply thine.
THE GIFT
I
Life came to me and spoke: "A palace for thee I have built Wherein to take thy pleasure; I have filled it with priceless treasure; ​Seven days shalt thou dwell therein; Thy joy shall be keener than sin, Without the stain of guilt— Enter the door of oak!"
II
I entered the oaken door; Within, no ray of light, I saw no golden store, My heart stood still with fright; To curse Life was I fain; Then one unseen before Laid in my own her hand, And said: "Come thou and know This is the House of Woe; I am Life's sister, Pain."
III
Through many a breathless way, In dark, on dizzying hight, She led me through the day And into the dreadful night. My soul was sore distrest And wildly I longed for rest; Till a chamber met my sight, Far off, and hid, and still, With diamonds all bedight And every precious thing; Not even a god might will More beauty there to bring.
IV
Then spoke Life's sister, Pain: "Here thou as a king shalt reign, Here shalt thou take thy pleasure, This is the priceless treasure, ​The chamber of thy delight Through endless day and night; Rejoice, this is the end— Thou hast found the heart of a friend."
"AH, TIME, GO NOT SO SOON"
Ah, Time, go not so soon; I would not thus be used, I would forego that boon; Turn back, swift Time, and let Me many a year forget; Let her be strange once more—an unfamiliar tune, An unimagined flower, Not known till that mute, wondrous hour When first we met!
"THE YEARS ARE ANGELS"
The years are angels that bring down from Heaven Gifts of the gods. What has the angel given Who last night vanished up the heavenly wall? He gave a friend—the gods' best gift of all.
"IN HER YOUNG EYES"
In her young eyes the children looked and found Their happy comrade. Summer souls false-bound In age's frosty winter,—without ruth,— Lived once again in her their long-lost youth.
"YESTERDAY, WHEN WE WERE FRIENDS"
I
Yesterday, when we were friends, We were scarcely friends at all; Now we have been friends so long, Now our love has grown so strong.
II
When to-morrow's eve shall fall We shall say, as night descends, Again shall say: Ah, yesterday Scarcely were we friends at all— Now we have been friends so long; Our love has grown so deep, so strong.
A NIGHT SONG
(FOR THE GUITAR)
The leaves are dark and large, Love, 'T is blue at every marge, Love;
The stars hang in the tree, Love, I'll pluck them all for thee, Love;
The crescent moon is curled, Love, Down at the edge of the world, Love;
I'll run and bring it now, Love, To crown thy gentle brow, Love;
For in my song. The summer long,
The stars, and moon, and night, Love, Are but for thy delight, Love!
LEO
I
Over the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo— Leo the shaggy, the lustrous, the giant, the gentle Newfoundland. Dark are his eyes as the night, and black is his hair as the midnight; ​Large and slow is his tread till he sees his master returning, Then how he leaps in the air, with motion ponderous, frightening! Now, as I pass to my work, I hear o'er the roar of the city— Far over the roofs of the houses, I hear the barking of Leo; For me he is moaning and crying, for me in measure sonorous He raises his marvelous voice, for me he is wailing and calling.
II
None can assuage his grief, tho' but for a day is the parting, Tho' morn after morn 't is the same, tho' home every night comes his master, Still will he grieve when we sever, and wild will be his rejoicing When at night his master returns and lays but a hand on his forehead. No lack will there be in the world of faith, of love, and devotion, No lack for me and for mine, while Leo alone is living— While over the roofs of the houses I hear the barking of Leo.
PART III
BROTHERS
Passion is a wayward child, Art his brother firm and mild. Lonely each Doth fail to reach Hight of music, song, or speech. ​If hand in hand they sally forth, East or west, or south or north, Naught can stay them Nor delay them. Slaves not they of space or time In their journeyings sublime.
LOVE, ART, AND TIME
ON A PICTURE ENTITLED "THE PORTRAIT," BY WILL H. LOW
Sweet Grecian girl who on the sunbright wall Tracest the outline of thy lover's shade, While, on the dial near, Time's hand is laid With silent motion—fearest thou, then, all? How that one day the light shall cease to fall On him who is thy light; how lost, dismayed,— By Time, and Time's pale comrade Death, betrayed,— Thou shalt breathe on beneath the all-shadowing pall! Love, Art, and Time, these are the triple powers That rule the world, and shall for many a morrow— Love that beseecheth Art to conquer Time! Bright is the picture, but, O fading flowers! O youth that passes! love that bringeth sorrow!— Bright is the picture; sad the poet's rhyme.
THE DANCERS
ON A PICTURE ENTITLED "SUMMER," BY T. W. DEWING
Behold these maidens in a row Against the birches' freshening green; Their lines like music sway and flow; They move before the emerald screen ​Like broidered figures dimly seen On woven cloths, in moony glow— Gracious, and graceful, and serene. They hear the harp; its lovely tones Each maiden in each motion owns, As if she were a living note Which from that curvèd harp doth float.
THE TWENTY-THIRD OF APRIL
A little English earth and breathèd air Made Shakespeare, the divine; so is his verse The broidered soil of every blossom fair; So doth his song all sweet bird-songs rehearse. But tell me, then, what wondrous stuff did fashion That part of him which took those wilding flights Among imagined worlds; whence the white passion That burned three centuries through the days and nights! Not heaven's four winds could make, nor the round earth, The soul wherefrom the soul of Hamlet flamed; Nor anything of merely mortal birth Could lighten as when Shakespeare's name is named. How was his body bred we know full well, But that high soul's engendering who may tell!
EMMA LAZARUS
When on thy bed of pain thou layest low, Daily we saw thy body fade away, Nor could the love wherewith we loved thee stay For one dear hour the flesh borne down by woe; But as the mortal sank, with what white glow Flamed thy eternal spirit, night and day; ​Untouched, unwasted, tho' the crumbling clay Lay wreckt and ruined! Ah, is it not so, Dear poet-comrade, who from sight hast gone; Is it not so that spirit hath a life Death may not conquer? But, O dauntless one! Still must we sorrow. Heavy is the strife And thou not with us; thou of the old race That with Jehovah parleyed, face to face.
THE TWELFTH OF DECEMBER
On this day Browning died? Say, rather: On the tide That throbs against those glorious palace walls; That rises—pauses—falls With melody and myriad-tinted gleams; On that enchanted tide, Half real, and half poured from lovely dreams, A soul of Beauty,—a white, rhythmic flame,— Past singing forth into the Eternal Beauty whence it came.
PART IV
SHERIDAN
I
Quietly, like a child That sinks in slumber mild, No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar, Sank into endless rest our thunderbolt of war.
II
Tho' his the power to smite Quick as the lightning's light,— His single arm an army, his very name a host,— Not his the love of blood, the warrior's cruel boast.
III
But in the battle's flame How glorious he came!— Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore, While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.
IV
'T was he,—his voice, his might,— Could stay the panic-flight, Alone shame back the headlong, many leagued retreat, And turn to evening triumph morning's foul defeat.
V
He was our modern Mars; Yet firm his faith that wars Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth, And peace forever reign, as at Christ's holy birth.
VI
Blest land, in whose dark hour Arise to loftiest power No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant's part, But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!
VII
Of such our chief of all; And he who broke the wall Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend; And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.
VIII
And now above his tomb From out the eternal gloom "Welcome!" his chieftain's voice sounds o'er the cannon's knell; And of the three one only stays to say "Farewell!"
SHERMAN
I
Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of the nation; Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not peace; Who fought for freedom, not glory; made war that war might cease.
II
Glory and honor and fame; the beating of muffled drums; The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapt coffin comes. Fame and honor and glory, and joy for a noble soul; For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the goal.
III
Glory and honor and fame; the pomp that a soldier prizes; The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises; Rumbling of caissons and guns; the clatter of horses' feet, And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street.
IV
But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow; Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow; Better than honor and glory, and History's iron pen, Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men.
PRO PATRIA
IN MEMORY OF A FAITHFUL CHAPLAIN
I
Erewhile I sang the praise of them whose lustrous names Flashed in war's dreadful flames; Who rose in glory, and in splendor, and in might To fame's sequestered hight.
II
Honor to all, for each his honors meekly carried, Nor e'er the conquered harried; All honor, for they sought alone to serve the state— Not merely to be great.
III
Yes, while the glorious past our grateful memory craves, And while yon bright flag waves, Lincoln, Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, the peerless four, Shall live for evermore;
IV
Shall shine the eternal stars of stern and loyal love, All other stars above; The imperial nation they made one, at last, and free, Their monument shall be.
V
Ah, yes! but ne'er may we forget the praise to sound Of the brave souls that found Death in the myriad ranks, 'mid blood, and groans, and stenches— Tombs in the abhorrèd trenches.
VI
Comrades! To-day a tear-wet garland I would bring— But one song let me sing, For one sole hero of my heart and desolate home; Come with me, Comrades, come!
VII
Bring your glad flowers, your flags, for this one humble grave; For, Soldiers, he was brave! Tho fell not he before the cannon's thunderous breath, Yet noble was his death.
VIII
True soldier of his country and the sacred cross— He counted gain, not loss, Perils and nameless horrors of the embattled field, While he had help to yield.
IX
But not where 'mid wild cheers the awful battle broke,— A hell of fire and smoke,— He to heroic death went forth with soul elate; Harder his lonely fate.
XI
There in the pest-house died he; stricken he fearless fell, Knowing that all was well; The high, mysterious Power whereof mankind has dreamed To him not distant seemed.
XI
Yet life to him was O, most dear,—home, children, wife,— But, dearer still than life, ​Duty—that passion of the soul which from the sod Alone lifts man to God.
XII
So nobly past this unknown hero of the war; And heroes, near and far, Sleep now in graves like his unfamed in song or story— But theirs is more than glory!
TO THE SPIRIT OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN
(REUNION AT GETTYSBURG TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AFTER THE BATTLE)
Shade of our greatest, O look down to-day! Here the long, dread midsummer battle roared, And brother in brother plunged the accursèd sword;— Here foe meets foe once more in proud array, Yet not as once to harry and to slay, But to strike hands, and with sublime accord Weep tears heroic for the souls that soared Quick from earth's carnage to the starry way. Each fought for what he deemed the people's good, And proved his bravery by his offered life, And sealed his honor with his outpoured blood; But the Eternal did direct the strife, And on this sacred field one patriot host Now calls thee father—dear, majestic ghost!
FAILURE AND SUCCESS
(G. C., 1888)
He fails who climbs to power and place Up the pathway of disgrace. He fails not who makes truth his cause, Nor bends to win the crowd's applause. ​He fails not, he who stakes his all Upon the right, and dares to fall;— What tho' the living bless or blame, For him the long success of fame.
J. R. L.
ON HIS BIRTHDAY
Navies nor armies can exalt the state; Millions of men, nor coinèd wealth untold; Down to the pit may sink a land of gold; But one great name can make a country great.
NAPOLEON
A soul inhuman? No, but human all, If human is each passion man has known: Scorn, hate, and love; the lust of empire, grown To such a hight as did the world appall;— If the same human soul may soar and crawl As soared his and as crawled; if to be shown The utmost heaven and hell; if to atone For power consummate by colossal fall;— If human 't is to see friend, partizan, Turn, dastardly, the imperial hand to tear That fed them; if through gnawing years to plan Vengeance, and space to breathe the unfettered air— No alien from his kind but very man Slow perished on that island of despair.
THE WHITE CZAR'S PEOPLE
PART I
The White Czar's people cry: "Thou God of the heat and the cold, Of storm and of lightning, ​Of darkness, and dawn's red brightening; Hold, Lord God, hold, Hold Thy hand lest we curse Thee and die."
The White Czar's people pray: "Thou God of the South and the North, We are crusht, we are bleeding; 'T is Christ, 't is Thy Son interceding; Forth, Lord, come forth! Bid the slayer no longer slay."
The White Czar's people call Aloud to the skies of lead: "We are slaves, not freemen; Ourselves, our children, our women— Dead, we are dead, Tho' we breathe, we are dead men all.
"Blame not if we misprize Thee Who can, but will not draw near. 'T is Thou who hast made us— Not Thou, dread God, to upbraid us. Hear, Lord God, hear! Lest we whom Thou madest despise Thee."
PART II
Then answered the Most High God, Lord of the heat and the cold, Of storm and of lightning, Of darkness, and dawn's red brightening: "Bold, yea, too bold, Whom I wrought from the air and the clod!
"Hast thou forgotten from me Are those ears so quick to hear ​The passion and anguish Of your sisters, your children who languish Near? Ah, not near— Far off by the uttermost sea!
"Who gave ye your brains to plan— Your hearts to suffer and bleed? Why call ye on heaven— 'T is the earth that to you is given! Plead, ye may plead, But for man I work through man.
"Who gave ye a voice to utter Your tale to the wind and the sea? One word well spoken And the iron gates are broken! From me, yea, from me The word that ye will not mutter.
"I love not murder but ruth. Begone from my sight ye who take The knife of the coward— Even ye who by heaven were dowered! Wake ye, O wake, And strike with the sword of Truth!
"Fear ye lest I misprize ye— I who fashioned not brutes, but men. After the lightning And darkness—the dawn's red brightening! Men! Be ye men! Lest I who made ye despise ye!"
PART III
(January 22, 1905)
The great word is uttered, at last! White Czar! O, where hast thou fled? Thy children, heart-broken, To thee their sorrows have spoken! To thee it is said— That Word on the wings of the blast!
For the word is their fearful cry, And the word is their innocent blood. O, red is the chalice Lifted up to thy empty palace! Blood, crimson blood, On the snows where the murdered lie!
Their shed blood is the word! It is winning Its way swift from zone unto zone; Through the world it has thrilled And the heart of the nations stilled. Alone, thou alone! Art thou deaf to the voice and the meaning?
Lo, it swells like the sound of the sea. Dull monarch! yet, yet, shalt thou hear it. For, once 'neath the sun By the brave it is spoken—all's done! Hear it—and fear it; For "Freedom" it cries, "We are free!"
CHARLESTON
1886
Is this the price of beauty! Fairest, thou, Of all the cities of the sunrise sea, ​Yet thrice art stricken. First, war harried thee; Then the dread circling tempest drove its plow Right through thy palaces; and now, O now! A sound of terror, and thy children flee Into the night and death. O Deity! Thou God of war and whirlwind, whose dark brow, Frowning, makes tremble sea and solid land! These are Thy creatures who to heaven cry While hell roars 'neath them, and its portals ope; To Thee they call,—O Thou who bidst them die, Who hast forgotten to withhold Thy hand,— For thou, Destroyer, art man's only Hope!
PART V
HIDE NOT THY HEART
I
This is my creed, This be my deed: "Hide not thy heart!" Soon we depart; Mortals are all; A breath, then the pall; A flash on the dark— All's done—stiff and stark. No time for a lie; The truth, and then die. Hide not thy heart!
II
Forth with thy thought! Soon 't will be naught, And thou in thy tomb. Now is air, now is room. ​Down with false shame; Reck not of fame; Dread not man's spite; Quench not thy light. This be thy creed, This be thy deed: "Hide not thy heart!"
III
If God is, He made Sunshine and shade, Heaven and hell; This we know well. Dost thou believe? Do not deceive; Scorn not thy faith— If 't is a wraith, Soon it will fly. Thou, who must die, Hide not thy heart!
IV
This is my creed; This be my deed: Faith, or a doubt, I shall speak out And hide not my heart.
"THE POET FROM HIS OWN SORROW"
The poet from his own sorrow Poured forth a love-sad song. A stranger, on the morrow, Drew near, with a look of wrong, ​And said: "Beneath its pall I have hidden my heart in vain— To the world thou hast sung it all! Who told thee my secret pain?"
"WHITE, PILLARED NECK"
White, pillared neck; a brow to make men quake; A woman's perfect form; Like some cool marble, should that wake, Breathe, and be warm.
A shape, a mind, a heart, Of womanhood the whole: Her breath, her smile, her touch, her art, All—save her soul.
"GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY GAY"
Great nature is an army gay, Resistless marching on its way; I hear the bugles clear and sweet, I hear the tread of million feet. Across the plain I see it pour; It tramples down the waving grass; Within the echoing mountain-pass I hear a thousand cannon roar. It swarms within my garden gate; My deepest well it drinketh dry. It doth not rest; it doth not wait; By night and day it sweepeth by; Ceaseless it marcheth by my door; It heeds me not, tho' I implore. I know not whence it comes, nor where It goes. For me it doth not care— ​Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep, Or live, or die, or sing, or weep. And now the banners all are bright, Now torn and blackened by the fight. Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky, Sometimes the groans of those who die. Still through the night and through the livelong day The infinite army marches on its remorseless way.
"LIFE IS THE COST"
I
Life is the cost. Behold yon tower, That heavenward lifts To the cloudy drifts— Like a flame, like a flower! What lightness, what grace, What a dream of power! One last endeavor One stone to place— And it stands forever.
II
A slip, a fall; A cry, a call; Turn away, all's done. Stands the tower in the sun Forever and a day. On the pavement below The crimson stain Will be worn away In the ebb and flow; The tower will remain. Life is the cost.
THE PRISONER'S THOUGHT
I
Is 't I for whom the law's brute penalty Was made; to whom the law once seemed a power Far off and not to be concerned withal? Am I indeed this rank and noisome thing Fit for such handling; to be pushed aside Into a human, foul receptacle,— A fetid compost of dull, festering crime— Even not meet for nutriment of earth, But only here to rot in memories Of my own shame, and shame of other men? Here let me rot, then—there's a taste one has For just the best of all things, even of sin. He's a poor devil who in deepest hell Knows no keen relish for the worst that is,— The very acme of intensest pain,— Nor smacks charred lips at thoughts of some dear crime, The sweetest, deadliest, damnablest of all. Sometimes I hug that hellish happiness; And then a loathing falls upon my soul For what I was, and am, and still must be.
II
And this same I—there comes to me a time, And often comes, when all this slips away; Stays not one stain, nor scar, nor fatal hurt. Perhaps it is a sort of waking dream; But if I dream, I'm breathing audibly, I feel my pulse beat, hear the talk and tread Down these long corridors; see the barred blue Of the cell's window, hear a singing bird— Yes, O my God, I hear a singing bird, Such as I heard in childhood. Now, you think, ​I dream I am a child once more. Not so; I am just what I am: a man in prison— (Damn them! I'm innocent of what they swore And proved—with cant, and well-paid perjury; Tho' other crimes, they know not of, I did)— But suddenly my soul is pure as yours; My thought as clean; my spirit is as free As any man's, or any purest woman's. I think as justly, as for instance, sir, You think; as circumspectly, wisely, freely, As does my jolly keeper, or the smith Who enters once a day to try the bars That shut my body out from freedom! Not My soul. Why, this my soul has thoughts that strike Into the very hights and depths of Heaven. You'll think it passing strange, good friend, no doubt. 'T is strange; but here s a further mystery: Think you that in some other living state After what we call death,—or in this life,— The thinking part of us we name the soul Can ever get away from its old self; Can wash the earth all off from it, that so It really will be, what I sometimes seem— As sinless as a little child at birth, With all a woman's love for all things pure, And all a grown man's strength to do the right?
THE CONDEMNED
Thou art not fit to die?—Why not? The fairest body ripes to rot. Thy soul? O, why not let it go Free from the flesh that drags it low! To die! Poor wretch, do not deceive Thyself—who art not fit to live.
"SOW THOU SORROW"
Sow thou sorrow and thou shalt reap it; Sow thou joy and thou shalt keep it.
TEMPTATION
Not alone in pain and gloom, Does the abhorrèd tempter come; Not in light alone and pleasure Proffers he the poisoned measure. When the soul doth rise Nearest to its native skies, There the exalted spirit finds Borne upon the heavenly winds Satan, in an angel's guise, With voice divine and innocent eyes.
A MIDSUMMER MEDITATION
I
Face once the thought: This piled up sky of cloud, Blue vastness, and white vastness steept in light,— Struck through with light, that centers in the sun,— This blue of waves below that meets blue sky; But a white, trembling shore between, that sweeps The circle of the bay; this green of woods, And keener green of new-mown, grassy fields; This ceaseless, leaf-like rustle of the waves; These shining, billowy tree-tops; songs of birds; Strong scent of seaweed, mixt with smell of pines; Face once this thought: Thy spirit that looks forth, That breathes the light, and life, and joy of all, Shall cease, but not the things that pleasure thee; ​They shall endure for eyes like thine, but not For thine own eyes; for human hearts like thine, But not for thine own heart, all dust and dead.
II
Face it, O Spirit, then look up once more, Brave conqueror of dull mortality! Look up and be a part of all thou seest. Ocean and earth and miracle of sky, All that thou seest, thou art, and without thee Were nothing. Thou, a god, dost recreate The whole; breathing thy soul in all, till all Is one wide world made perfect at thy touch. And know that thou, who darest a world create, Art one with the Almighty, son to sire— Of His eternity a quenchless spark.
AS DOTH THE BIRD"
As doth the bird, on outstretched pinions, dare The dread abysm's viewless air, Take thou, my soul, thy fearless flight Into the void and dark of death's eternal night.
VISIONS
I
Cast into the pit Of lonely sorrow, The suffering soul, Looking aloft, Sees with amaze In the daytime sky The shine of stars.
II
Came to him once In the seething town A form of beauty, Innocent brow, And soul of youth; Deep, sweet eyes, An angel's gaze, And rose-leaf lips That murmured low: "I, lost, forgotten, Long left, long dead, I am thy sin."
III
With full-toned beat Of the happy heart, In a day of peace, In an hour of joy, Once in my life And only once, Of a sudden, I saw, The end of all! —Death!
WITH A CROSS OF IMMORTELLES
When Christ cried: "It is done!" The face of a small red flower, Looking up to the suffering One, Turned pale with love and pain, And never shone red again. In memory of that hour ​Which holds the secret of bliss; And the darker secret of sorrow That shall come to each, to-morrow; Sweet friend, I send you this.
THE PASSING OF CHRIST
I
O Man of light and lore! Do you mean that in our day The Christ hath past away; That nothing now is divine In the fierce rays that shine Through every cranny and thought; That Christ as he once was taught Shall be the Christ no more? That the Hope and Savior of men Shall be seen no more again; That, miracles being done, Gone is the Holy One? And thus, you hold, this Christ For the past alone sufficed; From the throne of the hearts of the world The Son of God shall be hurled, And henceforth must be sought New prophets and kings of thought; That the tenderest, truest word The heart of sorrow hath heard Shall sound no more upon earth; That he who hath made of birth A dread and sacred rite; Who hath brought to the eyes of death A vision of heavenly light, Shall fade with our failing faith;— ​He who saw in children's eyes Eternal paradise; Who made the poor man's lowly Labor a service holy, And sweat of work more sweet Than incense at God's feet; Who turned the God of Fear To a father, bending near; Who looked through shame and sin At the sanctity within; Whose memory, since he died, The earth hath sanctified— Hath been the stay and the hold Of millions of lives untold, And the world on its upward path Hath led from crime and wrath;— You say that this Christ hath past And we cannot hold him fast?
II
Ah, no! If the Christ you mean Shall pass from this time, this scene, These hearts, these lives of ours, 'T is but as the summer flowers Pass, but return again, To gladden a world of men. For he,—the only, the true,— In each age, in each waiting heart, Leaps into life anew; Tho' he pass, he shall not depart.
Behold him now where he comes! Not the Christ of our subtile creeds, But the lord of our hearts, of our homes, ​Of our hopes, our prayers, our needs; The brother of want and blame, The lover of women and men, With a love that puts to shame All passions of mortal ken;— Yet of all of woman born His is the scorn of scorn; Before whose face do fly Lies, and the love of a lie; Who from the temple of God And the sacred place of laws Drives forth, with smiting rod, The herds of ravening maws.
'T is he, as none other can, Makes free the spirit of man, And speaks, in darkest night, One word of awful light That strikes through the dreadful pain Of life, a reason sane— That word divine which brought The universe from naught.
Ah, no, thou life of the heart, Never shalt thou depart! Not till the leaven of God Shall lighten each human clod; Not till the world shall climb To thy hight serene, sublime, Shall the Christ who enters our door Pass to return no more.
CREDO
How easily my neighbor chants his creed, Kneeling beside me in the House of God. His "I believe" he chants, and "I believe," With cheerful iteration and consent— Watching meantime the white, slow sunbeam move Across the aisle, or listening to the bird Whose free, wild song sounds through the open door.
Thou God supreme—I too, I too, believe! But O, forgive, if this one human word, Binding the deep and breathless thought of Thee And my own conscience with an iron band, Stick in my throat. I cannot say it, thus— This "I believe" that doth Thyself obscure; This rod to smite; this barrier; this blot On Thy most unimaginable face And soul of majesty.
'T is not man's faith In Thee that he proclaims in echoed phrase, But faith in man; faith not in Thine own Christ, But in another man's dim thought of him.
Christ of Judea, look thou in my heart! Do I not love thee, look to thee, in thee Alone have faith of all the sons of men— Faith deepening with the weight and woe of years.
Pure soul and tenderest of all that came Into this world of sorrow, hear my prayer:
Lead me, yea, lead me deeper into life, This suffering, human life wherein thou liv'st ​And breathest still, and hold'st thy way divine. 'T is here, O pitying Christ, where thee I seek, Here where the strife is fiercest; where the sun Beats down upon the highway thronged with men, And in the raging mart. O! deeper lead My soul into the living world of souls Where thou dost move.
But lead me, Man Divine, Where'er thou will'st, only that I may find At the long journey's end thy image there, And grow more like to it. For art not thou The human shadow of the infinite Love That made and fills the endless universe! The very Word of Him, the unseen, unknown Eternal Good that rules the summer flower And all the worlds that people starry space!
NON SINE DOLORE
I
What, then, is Life,—what Death? Thus the Answerer saith; O faithless mortal, bend thy head and listen:
Down o'er the vibrant strings, That thrill, and moan, and mourn, and glisten, The Master draws his bow. A voiceless pause; then upward, see, it springs, Free as a bird with disimprisoned wings! In twain the chord was cloven, While, shaken with woe, With breaks of instant joy all interwoven, Piercing the heart with lyric knife, ​On, on the ceaseless music sings, Restless, intense, serene;— Life is the downward stroke; the upward, Life; Death but the pause between.
II
Then spake the Questioner: If 't were only this, Ah, who could face the abyss That plunges steep athwart each human breath? If the new birth of Death Meant only more of Life as mortals know it, What priestly balm, what song of highest poet, Could heal one sentient soul's immitigable pain? All, all were vain! If, having soared pure spirit at the last, Free from the impertinence and warp of flesh, We find half joy, half pain, on every blast; Are caught again in closer-woven mesh— Ah! who would care to die From out these fields and hills, and this familiar sky; These firm, sure hands that compass us, this dear humanity?
III
Again the Answerer saith: O ye of little faith, Shall, then, the spirit prove craven, And Death's divine deliverance but give A summer rest and haven? By all most noble in us, by the light that streams Into our waking dreams, Ah, we who know what Life is, let us live! Clearer and freer, who shall doubt? Something of dust and darkness cast forever out; ​But Life, still Life, that leads to higher Life, Even tho' the highest be not free from the immortal strife.
The highest! Soul of man, O, be thou bold, And to the brink of thought draw near, behold! Where, on the earth's green sod, Where, where in all the universe of God, Hath strife forever ceased? When hath not some great orb flashed into space The terror of its doom? When hath no human face Turned earthward in despair, For that some horrid sin had stampt its image there?
If at our passing Life be Life increased, And we ourselves flame pure unfettered soul, Like the Eternal Power that made the whole And lives in all He made From shore of matter to the unknown spirit shore; If, sire to son, and tree to limb, Cycle on countless cycle more and more We grow to be like Him; If He lives on, serene and unafraid, Through all His light, His love, His living thought, One with the sufferer, be it soul or star; If He escape not pain, what beings that are Can e'er escape while Life leads on and up the unseen way and far? If He escape not, by whom all was wrought, Then shall not we,— Whate'er of godlike solace still may be,— For in all worlds there is no Life without a pang, and can be naught. No Life without a pang! It were not Life, ​If ended were the strife— Man were not man, nor God were truly God! See from the sod The lark thrill skyward in an arrow of song: Even so from pain and wrong Upsprings the exultant spirit, wild and free. He knows not all the joy of liberty Who never yet was crusht 'neath heavy woe. He doth not know, Nor can, the bliss of being brave Who never hath faced death, nor with unquailing eye hath measured his own grave. Courage, and pity, and divinest scorn— Self-scorn, self-pity, and high courage of the soul; The passion for the goal; The strength to never yield tho' all be lost— All these are born Of endless strife; this is the eternal cost Of every lovely thought that through the portal Of human minds doth pass with following light. Blanch not, O trembling mortal! But with extreme and terrible delight Know thou the truth, Nor let thy heart be heavy with false ruth.
No passing burden is our earthly sorrow That shall depart in some mysterious morrow. 'T is His one universe where'er we are— One changeless law from sun to viewless star. Were sorrow evil here, evil it were forever, Beyond the scope and help of our most keen endeavor. God doth not dote, His everlasting purpose shall not fail. Here where our ears are weary with the wail ​And weeping of the sufferers; there where the Pleiads float— Here, there, forever, pain most dread and dire Doth bring the intensest bliss, the dearest and most sure. 'T is not from Life aside, it doth endure Deep in the secret heart of all existence. It is the inward fire, The heavenly urge, and the divine insistence. Uplift thine eyes, O Questioner, from the sod! It were no longer Life, If ended were the strife; Man were not man, God were not truly God.
PART VI
ODE
Read before the Alpha Chapter of the Phi Beta Kappa Society, Harvard University, June 26, 1890.
In the white midday's full, imperious show What glorious colors hide from human sight! But in the breathing pause 'twixt day and night Forth stream those prisoned splendors, glow on glow; Like billows on they pour And beat against the shore Of cloud-wrought cliffs high as the utmost dome, To die in purple waves that break on dawns to come.
II
Divine, divine! O, breathe no earthlier word! Behold the western heavens how swift they flame With hues that bring to mortal language shame; ​Swelling and pulsing like deep music heard On sacred summer eves When the loud organ grieves And thrills with lyric life the incensed air, While 'mid the pillared gloom the people bow in prayer.
III
Now is it some huge bird with monstrous vans That through the sunset plies its shadowy way, Catching on outstretched pinions the last play Of failing tint celestial! See! it spans Darkly the fading west, And now its beamy crest Follows from sight the glittering, golden sun; And now one mighty wing-beat more, and all is done.
IV
But in those skyey spaces what dread change! Thus have we seen the mortal turn immortal; So doth the day's soul die, as through death's portal The soul of man takes up its heavenward range. A million orbs endue The unfathomable blue— Till, the long miracle of night withdrawn, The world beholds once more the miracle of dawn.
V
Dawn, eve, and night, the iridescent seas, Bright moon, enlightening sun, and quivering stars, The midnight rose whose petals are the bars Of Boreal lights, the pomp of autumn trees, The pearl of curvèd shells, The prismy bow that swells 'Gainst stormy skies—these witness, these are sign Of thee, O spirit of Beauty, eternal and divine!
VI
And fairer still than all,—chief sign of all,— The naked loveliness in Eden's bower, Whose flesh blusht back the tint of fruit and flower; Whose eye reflamed the starlight; who could call Father and friend the God That pluckt them from the sod; The Almighty's image, and Creation's hight; Whose deep souls mirrored clear the circling day and night.
VII
Spirit of Beauty! 'neath thy joyful spell Man hath been ever; therefore doth each breeze Bring to his trancèd ears glad melodies,— Voices of birds, the brook's low, silvery bell,— Wild music manifold, Which he hath power to hold His own enchanted harmonies among, That echo round the world the songs that nature sung.
VIII
And thus all Beautiful in Holiness Doth Israel stand before the Eternal One; Striking his harp with rapt, angelic tone, Till tribes and nations the Unseen God confess; Knowing that only where His face makes white the air Could such seraphic song have mortal birth, One saving faith sublime to keep alive on earth.
IX
And therefore with most passionate desire And longing, man yearned ever to express Thy majesty, and light, and loveliness, ​O Spirit of Beauty, unconsuming fire! Therefore by ancient Nile Rose the vast columned aisle, And on the Athenian Hill the wonder white Whose shattered glory is the world's supreme delight.
X
So is it that to thy imperial shore, Bright Italy! the generations fly, Even but once to breathe, or e'er they die, Where did a godlike race its soul outpour; Its birth divine revealing On glorious wall and ceiling, While dome and rhythmic statue, Beauty-wrought, Declare all human art is but what Heaven hath taught.
XI
Fair Italy! whose dread and peerless hight The song is of the awful Ghibelline! Poet! who 'mid the threefold dream divine Didst follow Art and Love to the Central Light! Tell us, O Dante! tell What thou dost know so well, That horror and death are but the shade and foil Of Beauty, deathless, godlike, with never scathe or soil.
XII
Spirit divine! man falls upon the sod In awe of thee, in worship and amaze:— Thou older than the mountains, or the blaze Of sunsets, or the sun; thou old as God; As God who did create Long ere man reached his state All shapes of natural Beauty that men see, And His wide universe did dedicate to thee.
XIII
Ye who bear on the torch of living art In this new world, saved for some wondrous fate, Deem not that ye have come, alas, too late, But haste right forward with unfailing heart! Ye shall not rest forlorn; Behold, even now, the morn Rises in splendor from the orient sea, And the new world shall greet a new divinity.
XIV
Shall greet, ah, who can say! a nobler face Than from the foam of Cytherean seas: Loveliness lovelier; mightier harmonies Of song and color; an intenser grace; Beauty that shall endure Like Charis, heavenly-pure; A Spirit solemn as the starry night, And full as the triumphant dawn of golden light.
AFTER-SONG
TO ROSAMOND
Rose of the world, Bloom of the year, Birth of the dawn! By morn's one star Lighted to life!— Thou and my songs Come to the day Hand claspt in hand.
​Flung on this page May the glow of thy name Back through each song Shine with the light Drawn from the skies— Thou birth of the dawn, Flower of the morn, Rose of the world!