A Legend of Old Persia and Other Poems | Page 4

was alone, alone, alone?With the mountains and the sky.
"It is a timeless land and still;?The heavens slowly like a wheel?Revolve themselves around;?There are two rulers in that place;?Eternity sits throned by space;?Their law is without sound.
"Ho! you folk, such feats I did?On the world's roof the snow amid,?Ho! such an one as I--?I matched the wild goat in my race,?And underneath the long wise face?I pulled the beard awry.
"Five years I sported undismayed,?But suddenly I was afraid,?Yea, fearfully amazed.?I saw the eye of a dying hare;?Infinity was mirrored there?Ere it was wholly glazed.
"And this shall be my daily good,?To draw your water, hew your wood,?And lighten all your need;?To do your sowing and your tilling;?But to be bright and always willing,?And have no other creed."
All bronzed and bearded was his face;?He had a rapture and a grace?From living in the wild;?As he stared around and strangely spoke?He look��d not like other folk,?But as an eager child.
The Poet and the Lily.
A poet was born in a modern time,?'Neath Saturn and his Rings,?He was a child of the world's prime,?Knew all beautiful things.?He was a child of morning and mirth,?Laughing for joy of the sun,?His nostrils drank the scent of earth?When rain is over and done.
A lily came from the winter's womb?And grew in its own sweet pride,?But the ruthless steel passed over its bloom,?And low in the dust it died.?And the poet's heart was filled with pain?That a delicate thing and rare?Should be reft of the beauty of which it was fain?And killed by the cruel share.
So he sang of the meadows white with lambs,?And life all young again,?Of the colts which gallop to their dams,?Knowing not any rein.?He sang of the spring upon the sea,?Hedges all white with may,?The year in its sweet infancy,?This our great world at play.
Of shepherds piping to their flocks?Across the fields of thyme,?Of sunlit fields above the rocks,?Where the small waves lap in rhyme.?Of glancing maids and youths their peers,?For ever young and free,?With faces fair, and in their ears?Great music of the sea.
He sang the amber moon a-sail?In an even of misty blue,?The stars which burn, the stars which pale,?The might which holds them true;?The comets in another sky?Which sweep to an unknown morn.?He sang of some vast agony?Or ever a world was born.
He sang a song like a twanging bow,?His head was full of sound?As a dark night when winds are low?And a swell comes from the ground.?He sang a song like a joyous bird?In wooded places and hilly,?While in the hearts of those that heard?Pity grew like a lily.
The Tramp.
Forth from the ill-lit tavern door?Where he had snoozed and boozed before?Stumbled his shambling feet.?A candle gave a guttering light,?And some one growled a hoarse good-night....?The Tramp was in the street.
His boots were blistered, burst and patched,?He had a mildewed hat, which matched?His green, unlovely coat.?Once, too, he caught his foot and swore,?And, tho' the night was warm, he wore?A muffler at his throat.
And as he went his two lips moved?As if he muttered songs he loved?To an old, unquiet tune;?And as he went his eyes were glazed,?Twice, too, he paused like some one dazed?And hiccoughed at the moon.
Thus thro' the empty ways he passed?Until he reached the road at last?With fields at either hand,?And in the heavens bare and bright?The moon stood high and shed her light?Upon the silent land.
And lo! hard by, a lofty rick,?No chance was there of stab or prick,?It makes a pleasant bed.?And so, within, he burrowed deep,?And then upon a fragrant heap?He laid his unclean head.
The moon was swallowed by a cloud,?A nightingale sang sweet and loud?From the middle of a wood;?From its small body swelled a strain?Which flooded all the listening plain.?It trembled as it stood.
Upon his hay the Tramp awoke,?The golden fountain never broke,?The lovely sobbing strain.?The melody of that brown bird?Awoke a delicate, prisoned chord?Within his sodden brain.
The brain of him who lived remote?And dreamed strange things he never wrote?But hoarded in his mind.?He would not kill the dreams he loved?For sake of little things that moved?The passions of mankind.
Let the red torches toss and flare,?And all the long-stemmed trumpets blare,?Let brass beat loud on brass.?Let the Kings ride in victory,?Low comes the thought amidst the cry,?"These visions shall but pass."
For, like reflections in a mirror,?Or empty bubbles on a river,?The striving world passed by.?What seemed to others worth the winning?Thro' strong desire or hate of sinning?Brought him no energy.
The thunder muttering on the hills,?The song of birds, the babbling rills,?The painted flowers and stars,?This pageantry of earth did seem?The parcel of a timeless dream.?He lived beyond the bars.
It was to him a vague mirage?Or memory of a storied page?With only that appeal;?But oftentimes a sound or sight?Would bring to him his own delight?More subtle than the real.
And with his sense of entity?Half lost,