In Flanders Fields | Page 5

great life-stream ran,?Till as I knelt before my mouldered shrine,?God made me look into a woman's eyes;?And I, who thought all earthly wisdom mine,?Knew in a moment that the eternal skies?Were measured but in inches, to the quest?That lay before me in that mystic gaze.?"Surely I have been errant: it is best?That I should tread, with men their human ways."?God took the teacher, ere the task was learned,?And to my lonely books again I turned.
The Hope of My Heart
"Delicta juventutis et ignorantius ejus, quoesumus ne memineris, Domine."
I left, to earth, a little maiden fair,?With locks of gold, and eyes that shamed the light;?I prayed that God might have her in His care
And sight.
Earth's love was false; her voice, a siren's song;?(Sweet mother-earth was but a lying name)?The path she showed was but the path of wrong
And shame.
"Cast her not out!" I cry. God's kind words come --?"Her future is with Me, as was her past;?It shall be My good will to bring her home
At last."
Penance
My lover died a century ago,?Her dear heart stricken by my sland'rous breath,?Wherefore the Gods forbade that I should know
The peace of death.
Men pass my grave, and say, "'Twere well to sleep,?Like such an one, amid the uncaring dead!"?How should they know the vigils that I keep,
The tears I shed?
Upon the grave, I count with lifeless breath,?Each night, each year, the flowers that bloom and die,?Deeming the leaves, that fall to dreamless death,
More blest than I.
'Twas just last year -- I heard two lovers pass?So near, I caught the tender words he said:?To-night the rain-drenched breezes sway the grass
Above his head.
That night full envious of his life was I,?That youth and love should stand at his behest;?To-night, I envy him, that he should lie
At utter rest.
Slumber Songs
I
Sleep, little eyes?That brim with childish tears amid thy play,?Be comforted! No grief of night can weigh?Against the joys that throng thy coming day.
Sleep, little heart!?There is no place in Slumberland for tears:?Life soon enough will bring its chilling fears?And sorrows that will dim the after years.?Sleep, little heart!
II
Ah, little eyes?Dead blossoms of a springtime long ago,?That life's storm crushed and left to lie below?The benediction of the falling snow!
Sleep, little heart?That ceased so long ago its frantic beat!?The years that come and go with silent feet?Have naught to tell save this -- that rest is sweet.?Dear little heart.
The Oldest Drama
"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . . And shut the door upon him and went out."
Immortal story that no mother's heart?Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain?That rent her soul! Immortal not by art?Which makes a long past sorrow sting again
Like grief of yesterday: but since it said?In simplest word the truth which all may see,?Where any mother sobs above her dead?And plays anew the silent tragedy.
Recompense
I saw two sowers in Life's field at morn,?To whom came one in angel guise and said,?"Is it for labour that a man is born??Lo: I am Ease. Come ye and eat my bread!"?Then gladly one forsook his task undone?And with the Tempter went his slothful way,?The other toiled until the setting sun?With stealing shadows blurred the dusty day.
Ere harvest time, upon earth's peaceful breast?Each laid him down among the unreaping dead.?"Labour hath other recompense than rest,?Else were the toiler like the fool," I said;?"God meteth him not less, but rather more?Because he sowed and others reaped his store."
Mine Host
There stands a hostel by a travelled way;?Life is the road and Death the worthy host;?Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,?"How have ye fared?" They answer him, the most,?"This lodging place is other than we sought;?We had intended farther, but the gloom?Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:?Yet will we lodge. Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,?No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;?No voice of fellowship or strife is heard?But silence of a multitude of dead.?"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"?And to his chamber leads each tired guest.
Equality
I saw a King, who spent his life to weave?Into a nation all his great heart thought,?Unsatisfied until he should achieve?The grand ideal that his manhood sought;?Yet as he saw the end within his reach,?Death took the sceptre from his failing hand,?And all men said, "He gave his life to teach?The task of honour to a sordid land!"?Within his gates I saw, through all those years,?One at his humble toil with cheery face,?Whom (being dead) the children, half in tears,?Remembered oft, and missed him from his place.?If