Chapter III

Eagle-heart, child-heart, bonnie lad o' dreams,
Far away thy soul hears passion-throated Art
Singing from her peaks of snow,
Wrapped in pale, unearthly glow,
Pleading with her poignant note
That forever seems to float
Farther down the vista that is calling to thy heart.
Hearken! From the heights
Where thy soul alights
Lift thy head to listen for the voice of Art is calling:
"Eagle-heart, child-heart,
Love is love, and art is art,
Answer while thy soul is strong;
Love is brief, but art is long;
Love is sighs, but art is song;
Answer, for thy bride awaits, and moonless night is falling!"

THE SONG OF THE DYNAMO.

_I have been kissed by the Priestess of the Thin and Deadly Blood--
With the kiss that men call Lightning, and yet I did not die,
For the kiss was a message from God; I felt it and understood,
And I knew how He looked on the cosmic light and called it "Good";
I thrilled with a vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy._

Men hear me sing but they know not the source of my song;
I hold them enthralled with my mysterious eyes;
They quiver when I purr with the voice of a wanton woman;
They touch me and fall dead.
I am a dream of the Creator made visible;
My voice is an echo of the Voice that taught
The morning stars their choral hymn;
The force that binds me to the marts of men
Is the force that holds the planets in a leash while God
Drives them in glittering galaxy around the sun.

Here I am a weakling's symbol of a power
That spins the luminous girdle of Saturn in sure hands,
And frames the awful face of God in the shifting boreal light.
My soul is destiny and immortality;
It flashes in the eyes of the tempest, glows along
The phosphorescent billows where the hand of the Almighty
Is laid for a moment on the breast of the sea,
And the sea smiles;
My soul is the wingless word
That flies from zone to zone and speaks suddenly out of the void.

In the years that are to be
I shall soar like an evil bird over the warring camps of men,
And spew destroying poison.
I shall be the sinew of a strange wing,--
A wing that shall bear men into the forge of the thunder and the
lightning.
But when I fail the groundlings shall look up
And see their brothers through the ether plunge,
Stricken, a haggard rout of flame-flotillas of the sun!

In the years that are to come
I shall be a servant in the house of men;
I shall breathe unutterable music on the spindle and the loom;
I shall sing, exultant, with the choristers of dreams fulfilled,
And light shall be bound like sandals on my feet.

_I have been kissed by the Priestess of the Thin and Deadly Blood--
With the kiss that men call Lightning, and yet I did not die,
For the kiss was a message from God; I felt it and understood,
And I knew how He looked on the cosmic light and called it "Good";
I thrilled with a vibrant joy; I hummed with ecstasy._

THE GOLD FIELDS.

Here is a tale the North Wind sang to me:
Hell hath set Mammon o'er a frozen land,
Crowned him with gold, put gold into his hand,
And men forsake their God to bow the knee
Again unto this world-old deity
Whose rule is wheresoe'er man's feet go forth,
Whether they track the grim and icy North,
Or Afric's scorching sweeps of sandy sea.
About his throne they crawl and curse and weep;
The tenfold pangs of darkness and of cold
Bite at their hearts, and hound them as they creep,
Thief-like, to catch his scattered crumbs of gold;--
And over all still burns God's warning scroll:
"What profit it if ye shall lose your soul?"

THE WOMAN ANSWERS.

What will I say when face to face with God
My naked soul shall come, seared with the stain
That men call sin? Why, God will understand;
He knew my pitiful story long before
My frail dust quickened with the breath of life;
He knew the mystery of that day of days
When, thrilled with virgin wonder, I should come
Bearing the lily of my stainless love
To plant upon the desert of desire.
I do not fear His judgment; He knows all.

I do not fear His judgment lest it be
That I shall look no more upon his face
Who taught my heart to love; and, surely, One
Who wrought a perfect note from these poor strings
Will not condemn to discord when the strain
Has reached the fullness of its harmony.

I do not fear His judgment, but I weep
For him who slew the lily with a kiss
Too full of passion's rapture; if I speak
In that transcendent moment when I stand
A sinful woman at the bar of God
To hear my sentence, I shall answer still:
"I loved him; that was all that I could do;
I love him; that is all that I can say!"

THE MONASTERY.

Beyond the wall the passion flower is blooming,
Strange hints of life along the winds are blown;
Within, the cowled and silent men are kneeling
Before an image on a cross of stone,
And on their lifted faces, wan as death,
I read this simple message of their faith:
"The trail of flame is ashen,
And pleasure's lees are gray,
And gray the fruit of passion
Whose ripeness is decay;
The stress of life is rancor,
A madness born to slay;
They only miss its canker
Who live with God and pray."

Beyond the wall lies Babylon, the mighty;
Faint echoes of her songs come drifting by;
Within there is a hymn of consecration,
A psalm that lifts the fervent soul on high;
And yet, sometimes, where bows the hooded choir,
There comes the old call of the World's Desire:
"The rose's dust is ashen
Be petals white or red,
And vain the sighs of passion
When summer's light is fled;
The garden's fruitful measure
Is crowned with bloom today;
They only miss its treasure
Who turn their hearts away."

THE PASSION PLAY.