Many Voices | Page 8

our feet!
POEM: THESE LITTLE ONES
"What of the garden I gave?"?God said to me;?"Hast thou been diligent to foster and save?The life of flower and tree??How have the roses thriven,?The lilies I have given,?The pretty scented miracles that Spring?And Summer come to bring?
"My garden is fair and dear,"?I said to God;?"From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.?Green-trimmed its sod.?The rose is red and bright,?The lily a live delight;?I have not lost a flower of all the flowers?That blessed my hours."
"What of the child I gave?"?God said to me;?"The little, little one I died to save?And gave in trust to thee??How have the flowers grown?That in its soul were sown,?The lovely living miracles of youth?And hope and joy and truth?"
"The child's face is all white,"?I said to God;?"It cries for cold and hunger in the night:?Its little feet have trod?The pavement muddy and cold.?It has no flowers to hold,?And in its soul the flowers you set are dead."?"Thou fool!" God said.
POEM: THE DESPOT
The garden mould was damp and chill;?Winter had had his brutal will?Since over all the year's content?His devastating legions went.
The Spring's bright banners came: there woke?Millions of little growing folk?Who thrilled to know the winter done,?Gave thanks, and strove towards the sun.
Not so the elect; reserved, and slow?To trust a stranger-sun and grow,?They hesitated, cowered and hid,?Waiting to see what others did.
Yet even they, a little, grew,?Put out prim leaves to day and dew,?And lifted level formal heads?In their appointed garden beds.
The gardener came: he coldly loved?The flowers that lived as he approved,?That duly, decorously grew?As he, the despot, meant them to.
He saw the wildlings flower more brave?And bright than any cultured slave;?Yet, since he had not set them there,?He hated them for being fair.
So he uprooted, one by one,?The free things that had loved the sun,?The happy, eager, fruitful seeds?Who had not known that they were weeds.
POEM: THE MAGIC RING
Your touch on my hand is fire,?Your lips on my lips are flowers.?My darling, my one desire,?Dear crown of my days and hours.?Dear crown of each hour and day?Since ever my life began.?Ah! leave me--ah! go away -?We two are woman and man.
To lie in your arms and see?The stars melt into the sun;?Till there is no you and me,?Since you and I are one.?To loose my soul to your breath,?To bare my heart to your life -?It is death, it is death, it is death!?I am not your wife.
The hours will come and will go,?But never again such an hour?When the tides immortal flow?And life is a flood, a flower . . .?Wait for the ring; it is strong,?It has a magic of might?To make all that was splendid and wrong?Sordid and right.
POEM: PHILOSOPHY
The sulky sage scarce condescends to see?This pretty world of sun and grass and leaves;?To him 'tis all illusion--only he?Is real amid the visions he perceives.
No sage am I, and yet, by Love's decree,?To me the world's a masque of shadows too,?And I a shadow also--since to me?The only real thing in life is--you.
POEM: THE WHIRLIGIG OF TIME
Before your feet,?My love, my sweet,?Behold! your slave bows down;?And in his hands?From other lands?Brings you another crown.
For in far climes,?In bygone times,?Myself was royal too:?Oh, I have been?A king, my queen,?Who am a slave for you!
POEM: MAGIC
What was the spell she wove for me??Life was a common useful thing,?An eligible building site?To hold a house to shelter me.?There were no woodlands whispering;?No unimagined dreams at night?About that house had folded wing,?Disordering my life for me.
I was so safe until she came?With starry secrets in her eyes,?And on her lips the word of power.?- Like to the moon of May she came,?That makes men mad who were born wise -?Within her hand the only flower?Man ever plucked from Paradise;?So to my half-built house she came.
She turned my useful plot of land?Into a garden wild and fair,?Where stars in garlands hung like flowers:?A moonlit, lonely, lovely land.?Dim groves and glimmering fountains there?Embraced a secret bower of bowers,?And in its rose-ringed heart we were?Alone in that enchanted land.
What was the spell I wove for her,?Her mad dear magic to undo??The red rose dies, the white rose dies,?The garden spits me forth with her?On the old suburban road I knew.?My house is gone, and by my side?A stranger stands with angry eyes?And lips that swear I ruined her.
POEM: WINDFLOWERS
When I was little and good?I walked in the dappled wood?Where light white windflowers grew,?And hyacinths heavy and blue.
The windflowers fluttered light,?Like butterflies white and bright;?The bluebells tremulous stood?Deep in the heart of the wood.
I gathered the white and the blue,?The wild wet woodland through,?With hands too silly and small?To clasp and carry them all.
Some dropped from my hands and died?By the home-road's grassy side;?And those that my fond hands pressed?Died even before the rest.
POEM: AS IT IS
If you and I?Had wings