The Five Books of Youth | Page 6

had read the gathering sky,
And
darkly wrapt in that dread prophecy,
Died trusting that their truth
might be retrieved.
It matters not. For life deals thus with Man;
To die alone deceived or

with the mass,
Or disillusioned to complete his span.
Thermopylae
or Golgotha, all one,
The young dead legions in the narrow pass;

The stark black cross against the setting sun.
Pomfret, 1919
BOOK II
DAYS AND SEASONS
I
Winds blowing over the white-capped bay,
Winds wet with the eager
breath of spray,
Warm and sweet from the oceans we have dreamed
of;
From gardens of Cathay.
The empty factory windows, row on row,
Warm sullenly beneath the
afterglow,
Burn topaz out of dust and dim the flare
Of the street-lamps below.
In the smoky park the dingy plane-trees stir,
Green branches in the
twilight fade and blur;
A lonely girl walks slowly through the square
And the wind speaks to her.
Speaks of the sunset scattered on the sea,
And the spring blowing
northward radiantly;
Flaming in lightning from cyclonic dark,
Dreams of delights to be.
Tomorrow there will be orchards filled with fruit,
And song of
meadow lark and song of flute;
Far from the city there are lover's
fields,
Lips eloquent and mute.

Warm are the winds out of the ebbing day,
Blowing the ships and the
spring into the bay,
I smell the cherry blossoms falling gaily
In gardens of Cathay.
Paris, 1919
II
Like children on a sunny shore
The rhododendrons thrive
Which
never any spring before
Have been so much alive.
Each metal bough benignly lit
With yellow candle flames;
The tree
is holy, hallow it
With sacramental names.
Paris, 1919
III
Against my wall the summer weaves
Profundities of dusky leaves,

And many-petaled stars full-blown
In constellated whiteness sown;

I contemplate with lazy eyes
My small estate in Paradise,
And very
comforting to me
Is this familiarity.
Paris, 1919
IV
Into the trembling air,
Calm on the sunset mist,
Sweetness of
gardens where
The yellow slave boy kissed
The Sultan's
daughter....
Shadow of tumbled hair
Shadow of hanging vine
Fountains of gold
that twine
In singing water.
A secret I have heard
From the scarlet beak of the bird
That sings at
the close of day,
Fills me with cold unrest
Under the open doors of

the fiery west.
"O heart of clay,
O lips of dust,
O blue-shadowed wisteria vine;

Youth falls away
As petals must
Beneath the drooping leaves in the
day's decline."
Paris, 1919
V
In gardens when the sun is set,
The air is heavy with the wet
Faint
smell of leaves, and dark incense
Of peach-blossom and violet.
There is no lurking foe to fear,
Only the friendly ghosts are here
Of
lazy youth and dozing age,
Who sat and mellowed year by year,
Until they merged with all the rest
Beneath the overhanging west,

And took their sleep with tranquil hearts
Safe in our Mother's mighty
breast.
If there be any sound, 'tis sweet,
The hidden rush of eager feet

Where robins flutter in the dust,
Or perch upon the garden-seat,
And little voices that are known
To those who contemplate alone

The busy universe that moves
In gardens rank and overgrown.
Here in the garden we are one,
The golden dust, the setting sun,
The
languid leaves, the birds and I,--
Small bubbles on oblivion.
Tours, 1918
VI
Now the white dove has found her mate,
And the rainbow breaks into
stars;
And the cattle lunge through the mossy gate
As the old man
lowers the bars.

Westerly wind with a rainy smell,
Eaves that drip in the mud;
And
the pain of the tender miracle
Stabbing the languid blood.
Over the long, wet meadow-land,
Beyond the deep sunset,
There is
a hand that pressed your hand,
And eyes that shall not forget.
Now the West is the door of wrath,
Now 'tis a burnt-out coal;
Petals
fall on the orchard path;
Darkness falls on the soul.
Washington, 1918
VII
When voices sink in twilight silences,
Like swimmers in a sea of
quietude,
And faint farewells re-echo from the hill;
When the last
thrush his sleepy vesper says,
And the lost threnody of the
whip-poor-will
Gropes through the gathering shadows in the wood;
Then in the paths where dusk fades into grey,
And sighing shapes stir
that I never see,
I follow still a quest of old despair
To find at
last,--ah, but I cannot say,
Except that I have known a face
somewhere,
And loved in times beyond all memory.
O soulless face! white flash in solitude,
Forgotten phantom of a
moonless night,
Shall I kiss thy sad mouth once again, or wait

Drowned beneath fathoms of a tideless mood
Until the stars flee
through the western gate
Driven in shivering fear before the light?
Cambridge, 1916
VIII
When noon is blazing on the town,
The fields are loud with droning
flies,
The people pull their curtains down,
And all the houses shut
their eyes.

The palm leaf drops from your mother's hand
And she dozes there in
a darkened room,
Outside there is silence on the land,
And only
poppies dare to bloom.
Open the door and steal away
Through grain and briar shoulder high,

There are secrets hid in the heart of day,
In the hush and slumber of
July.
Your face will burn a fiery red,
Your feet will drag through dusty
flame,
Your brain turn molten in your