Chapter III

Magnificent, my Own,
There beyond the City’s sky
Are pinnacle and dream,
The rushing of a mighty stream,
The night-wind’s cry
And thunder-harp of pine.
“Oh, Christ,” you weep,
“They are not mine,
They are not mine!
I cannot see, I cannot hear,
Only I remember year on year
Abel and Cain.
Yet somewhere in this welter of my pain
I keep
Memory of another,--
those two lost syllables of doom.”
“What syllables are they, my Own?”
“That word is ‘Brother’!”

WHITE HAIR

All the warmth has gone out of white hair,
It only answers to the wind
And lifts and stirs like creeping snow
Close to the frozen scalp of earth.
It has no gold of autumn grasses
Or red of beech buds
Or warm brown of tree bark
Or depths of quiet
In which eyes burn like star-flame in a dark night.

Has death white hair
And the cramped empty shoulders of old age?
If he has, I shall be as a child, frightened and trying to hide from him.
But if his touch is the touch of warm rain,
If his breath is sweet like the gray-green fruit of the juniper,
If his shoulder is deep and strong like the up-heaved root of hemlock
And his hair velvet-dusk as a moth’s wing,
Then I shall go to him gladly,
And sleep well....

CLEAR POOLS

What is this bitterness of love that scatters dust in the eyes?
What this absence that shrivels the heart and the blood?
What these cries that stop the ears with their pain?
Let us take our love unto God,
He understands, He has fashioned us and is kind;
How well He knows that love must carry its burden
If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!

What are we that we should not know that we are His,
And of Him our passion and of Him our tears?
His breast is deep and He will fold us there
In the mystery of His dark, in the miracle of His closeness.
Distance from us knows He not nor space,
And our love which is His how can it be divided from itself?
Are we not one even as we are His?

What is that cry?
Is it sorrow or is it the wind upon the waters?
What is this light that flows like a brook?
How well He knows that love must carry its burden,
If it would run to bathe in clear pools and lift its eyes to the stars!

THESE TWO

Sometimes when I am alone at night
I put my hand upon my heart;
But it matters little to me that these two are one
From the deep inflow of the rushing blood
Even to the extremity of each living finger
Swung from hollowed palm and flexible wrist:--
This heart and hand that are so wonderful,
So joined in life; so fashioned
In the beat of pulse
And passionate discernment of touch for joy,
So separate and yet not to be divided.

It is not of them I am thinking
When I place my hand on my heart
In the lonely night.
In its weight
Again I feel your head lying on my breast
And in its touch the oval of your childlike face.
You are wide-eyed once more,
With those gray eyes of the sea
Full of space and the shadows of birds’ wings
And the terror of known depths of human tragedy;
You are wide-eyed now
Looking into the dark with me,
Wondering about the night.

I cannot believe that it is only my own hand upon my heart
And that we are separated;
I cannot understand the use of my own fingers
Or the beating of my own pulse;
And I take my hand away
And lie alone in the dark
And suffer.

THE RAILROAD STATION

A station is a place of miracle:
So many trains passing and repassing,
So many thoughts coming and going,
So many greetings and farewells!
Any surprise might happen there:
God come and go,
Street cries turn to stars,
Dust of blown rubbish whirl to aureole!
Thus, in such a place,
Love met me once.
That day the shining tracks seemed leaping toward eternity,
And we heard the street cries sing like stars,
And we saw God come and go
And the dust upon our hair was gold!
Now, blinded, I look past all I see:
It might happen,
Love might be there again!
It’s not that I think a railroad station heaven.
Who does!
Yet so many greetings and farewells,--
Anything might happen!
Have you not felt that way,
And, bewildered, watched;
And, longing, waited?

BUBBLES

How shall I link my thought to yours
Through hours that whirl to dust!
Fling me some word will keep me close to you,
If but a rainbow bubble like our breath,
And share with me its swift-revolving dream!

See how the bubble shapes the silver moon, the golden sun!
In purple sleep it spins among the stars,
Or crimson film it holds the dawn,
Only to break in shattered mist upon our lips,--
One azure word turned kiss!

PEDDLED JOY

“May I not sell this gewgaw red?”
“You must not sell!
You cannot buy!”
“Not sell my own, my heart?”
“You two are one: you may not part,--
One peddled joy, you both are dead!”

“Must I go hungry all the way?”
“You must not beg!
You must not cry!”
“Not for two bits o’love today?”
“Your empty scrip for pillow keep:
It brings great gifts,--thirst, sorrow, sleep!”

WORK

I told my heart that work must be
The only aim of life for me.
But oh! my heart cried, “Love, love, love!”
And wept bitterly.

SOMEWHERE TONIGHT

_On hearing the Evening Bells at Westport-on-Lake Champlain_

I

Somewhere I have heard bells
Mellow as the moon:
Somewhere they hung and swung,
With slender sound they rose
Tiptoe with hunger for the sky,
Star-pointed with the light of dream;
Somewhere those eager bells whispered of love,--
That was another day,
And we were gay!

II

And now this withered sound’s farewell
Swinging like tethered rhyme,
Slow-moving, pendulous,
A sigh upon the water’s breast,
A cloud within the sky!
Never again for us, Belovèd,
Yet somewhere the moon shines and is bright,--
Somewhere tonight!

YOUR SUNLIT WAY

I

Should one thought cry against me in your heart,
I could not rise from Death, saying, “Love, my place
Is by your living side; ghostly, I touch
Your precious hands, I kiss your lovely face!”

II

I would not have you shrink to feel me near,
Or claim despite your will what once was mine,
Was ours in God-flung vow, passionate, dear
By night, by day, companioned or apart.