Children of the Night | Page 6

place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,?And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;?And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,?Went home and put a bullet through his head.
Two Octaves
I
Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms?All outward recognition of revealed?And righteous omnipresence are the days?Of most of us affrighted and diseased,?But rather by the common snarls of life?That come to test us and to strengthen us?In this the prentice-age of discontent,?Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame.
II
When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down?Upon a stagnant earth where listless men?Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat,?Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, --?It seems to me somehow that God himself?Scans with a close reproach what I have done,?Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears,?And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts.
Calvary
Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow,?Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free,?Stung by the mob that came to see the show,?The Master toiled along to Calvary;?We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee,?Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow;?We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, --?And this was nineteen hundred years ago.
But after nineteen hundred years the shame?Still clings, and we have not made good the loss?That outraged faith has entered in his name.?Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong!?Tell me, O Lord -- tell me, O Lord, how long?Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!
Dear Friends
Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,?Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say?That I am wearing half my life away?For bubble-work that only fools pursue.?And if my bubbles be too small for you,?Blow bigger then your own: the games we play?To fill the frittered minutes of a day,?Good glasses are to read the spirit through.
And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;?And some unprofitable scorn resign,?To praise the very thing that he deplores;?So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,?The shame I win for singing is all mine,?The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.
The Story of the Ashes and the Flame
No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came,?There was her place. No matter what men said,?No matter what she was; living or dead,?Faithful or not, he loved her all the same.?The story was as old as human shame,?But ever since that lonely night she fled,?With books to blind him, he had only read?The story of the ashes and the flame.
There she was always coming pretty soon?To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes?That had in them the laughter of the moon?For baffled lovers, and to make him think --?Before she gave him time enough to wink --?Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise.
For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold
Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand,?He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,?And brings their crystal cadence back once more?To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land?Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band?Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore?Of heroes and the men that long before?Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.
Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go?For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray --?For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms;?And still does art's imperial vista show,?On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away,?Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.
Amaryllis
Once, when I wandered in the woods alone,?An old man tottered up to me and said,?"Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made?For Amaryllis." There was in the tone?Of his complaint such quaver and such moan?That I took pity on him and obeyed,?And long stood looking where his hands had laid?An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone.
Far out beyond the forest I could hear?The calling of loud progress, and the bold?Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear;?But though the trumpets of the world were glad,?It made me lonely and it made me sad?To think that Amaryllis had grown old.
Kosmos
Ah, -- shuddering men that falter and shrink so?To look on death, -- what were the days we live,?Where life is half a struggle to forgive,?But for the love that finds us when we go??Is God a jester? Does he laugh and throw?Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive?For some vague end that never shall arrive??And is He not yet weary of the show?
Think of it, all ye millions that have planned,?And only planned, the largess of hard youth!?Think of it, all ye builders on the sand,?Whose works are down! -- Is love so small, forsooth??Be brave! To-morrow you will understand?The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth!
Zola
Because he puts the compromising chart?Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid;?Because he counts the price that you have paid?For innocence, and counts it from the start,?You loathe him. But he sees the human heart?Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed?Your squeamish and emasculate crusade?Against the grim dominion of