General William Booth Enters into Heaven | Page 8

you all,?Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour,?Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor;?Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men,?Come, let us chant the canticle again?Of mother earth and the enduring sun.?God make each soul the lonely leper's slave;?God make us saints, and brave.
Buddha
Would that by Hindu magic we became?Dark monks of jeweled India long ago,?Sitting at Prince Siddartha's feet to know?The foolishness of gold and love and station,?The gospel of the Great Renunciation,?The ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun,?The beggar's life, with far Nirvana gleaming:?Lord, make us Buddhas, dreaming.
A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People
Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven??Are these your hands upon my wounded soul??Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me,?Fly by my path till you have made me whole!
To Reformers in Despair
'Tis not too late to build our young land right,?Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan,?Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers,?Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.
Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket
I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.?My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness.?I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.?I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.
Man is a curious brute -- he pets his fancies --?Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.?So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal,?Tho' all men plan to live in harmony.
Come, let us vote against our human nature,?Crying to God in all the polling places?To heal our everlasting sinfulness?And make us sages with transfigured faces.
The following verses were written on the evening of March the first, nineteen hundred and eleven, and printed next morning?in the Illinois State Register.
They celebrate the arrival of the news that the United States Senate had declared the election of William Lorimer good and valid, by a vote of forty-six to forty.
To the United States Senate
[Revelation 16: Verses 16-19]
And must the Senator from Illinois?Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes??This brazen gutter idol, reared to power?Upon a leering pyramid of lies?
And must the Senator from Illinois?Be the world's proverb of successful shame,?Dazzling all State house flies that steal and steal,?Who, when the sad State spares them, count it fame?
If once or twice within his new won hall?His vote had counted for the broken men;?If in his early days he wrought some good --?We might a great soul's sins forgive him then.
But must the Senator from Illinois?Be vindicated by fat kings of gold??And must he be belauded by the smirched,?The sleek, uncanny chiefs in lies grown old?
Be warned, O wanton ones, who shielded him --?Black wrath awaits. You all shall eat the dust.?You dare not say: "To-morrow will bring peace;?Let us make merry, and go forth in lust."
What will you trading frogs do on a day?When Armageddon thunders thro' the land;?When each sad patriot rises, mad with shame,?His ballot or his musket in his hand?
In the distracted states from which you came?The day is big with war hopes fierce and strange;?Our iron Chicagos and our grimy mines?Rumble with hate and love and solemn change.
Too many weary men shed honest tears,?Ground by machines that give the Senate ease.?Too many little babes with bleeding hands?Have heaped the fruits of empire on your knees.
And swine within the Senate in this day,?When all the smothering by-streets weep and wail;?When wisdom breaks the hearts of her best sons;?When kingly men, voting for truth, may fail: --
These are a portent and a call to arms.?Our protest turns into a battle cry:?"Our shame must end, our States be free and clean;?And in this war we choose to live and die."
[So far as the writer knows this is the first use?of the popular term Armageddon in present day politics.]
The Knight in Disguise
[Concerning O. Henry (Sidney Porter)]
"He could not forget that he was a Sidney."
Is this Sir Philip Sidney, this loud clown,?The darling of the glad and gaping town?
This is that dubious hero of the press?Whose slangy tongue and insolent address?Were spiced to rouse on Sunday afternoon?The man with yellow journals round him strewn.?We laughed and dozed, then roused and read again,?And vowed O. Henry funniest of men.?He always worked a triple-hinged surprise?To end the scene and make one rub his eyes.
He comes with vaudeville, with stare and leer.?He comes with megaphone and specious cheer.?His troupe, too fat or short or long or lean,?Step from the pages of the magazine?With slapstick or sombrero or with cane:?The rube, the cowboy or the masher vain.?They over-act each part. But at the height?Of banter and of canter and delight?The masks fall off for one queer instant there?And show real faces: faces full of care?And desperate longing: love that's hot or cold;?And subtle thoughts, and countenances bold.?The masks go back. 'Tis one more joke. Laugh on!?The goodly grown-up company is gone.
No doubt had he occasion to address?The