flash of unforeseen
Remembrance falls on what has
been.
We've each a darkening hill to climb;
And this is why, from
time to time
In Tilbury Town, we look beyond
Horizons for the
man Flammonde.
The Gift of God
Blessed with a joy that only she
Of all alive shall ever know,
She
wears a proud humility
For what it was that willed it so, --
That her
degree should be so great
Among the favored of the Lord
That she
may scarcely bear the weight
Of her bewildering reward.
As one apart, immune, alone,
Or featured for the shining ones,
And
like to none that she has known
Of other women's other sons, --
The
firm fruition of her need,
He shines anointed; and he blurs
Her
vision, till it seems indeed
A sacrilege to call him hers.
She fears a little for so much
Of what is best, and hardly dares
To
think of him as one to touch
With aches, indignities, and cares;
She
sees him rather at the goal,
Still shining; and her dream foretells
The proper shining of a soul
Where nothing ordinary dwells.
Perchance a canvass of the town
Would find him far from flags and
shouts,
And leave him only the renown
Of many smiles and many
doubts;
Perchance the crude and common tongue
Would havoc
strangely with his worth;
But she, with innocence unwrung,
Would
read his name around the earth.
And others, knowing how this youth
Would shine, if love could make
him great,
When caught and tortured for the truth
Would only
writhe and hesitate;
While she, arranging for his days
What
centuries could not fulfill,
Transmutes him with her faith and praise,
And has him shining where she will.
She crowns him with her gratefulness,
And says again that life is
good;
And should the gift of God be less
In him than in her
motherhood,
His fame, though vague, will not be small,
As upward
through her dream he fares,
Half clouded with a crimson fall
Of
roses thrown on marble stairs.
The Clinging Vine
"Be calm? And was I frantic?
You'll have me laughing soon.
I'm
calm as this Atlantic,
And quiet as the moon;
I may have spoken
faster
Than once, in other days;
For I've no more a master,
And
now -- `Be calm,' he says.
"Fear not, fear no commotion, --
I'll be as rocks and sand;
The
moon and stars and ocean
Will envy my command;
No creature
could be stiller
In any kind of place
Than I . . . No, I'll not kill her;
Her death is in her face.
"Be happy while she has it,
For she'll not have it long;
A year, and
then you'll pass it,
Preparing a new song.
And I'm a fool for prating
Of what a year may bring,
When more like her are waiting
For
more like you to sing.
"You mock me with denial,
You mean to call me hard?
You see no
room for trial
When all my doors are barred?
You say, and you'd
say dying,
That I dream what I know;
And sighing, and denying,
You'd hold my hand and go.
"You scowl -- and I don't wonder;
I spoke too fast again;
But you'll
forgive one blunder,
For you are like most men:
You are, -- or so
you've told me,
So many mortal times,
That heaven ought not to
hold me
Accountable for crimes.
"Be calm? Was I unpleasant?
Then I'll be more discreet,
And grant
you, for the present,
The balm of my defeat:
What she, with all her
striving,
Could not have brought about,
You've done. Your own
contriving
Has put the last light out.
"If she were the whole story,
If worse were not behind,
I'd creep
with you to glory,
Believing I was blind;
I'd creep, and go on
seeming
To be what I despise.
You laugh, and say I'm dreaming,
And all your laughs are lies.
"Are women mad? A few are,
And if it's true you say --
If most
men are as you are --
We'll all be mad some day.
Be calm -- and let
me finish;
There's more for you to know.
I'll talk while you
diminish,
And listen while you grow.
"There was a man who married
Because he couldn't see;
And all his
days he carried
The mark of his degree.
But you -- you came
clear-sighted,
And found truth in my eyes;
And all my wrongs
you've righted
With lies, and lies, and lies.
"You've killed the last assurance
That once would have me strive
To rouse an old endurance
That is no more alive.
It makes two
people chilly
To say what we have said,
But you -- you'll not be
silly
And wrangle for the dead.
"You don't? You never wrangle?
Why scold then, -- or complain?
More words will only mangle
What you've already slain.
Your
pride you can't surrender?
My name -- for that you fear?
Since
when were men so tender,
And honor so severe?
"No more -- I'll never bear it.
I'm going. I'm like ice.
My burden?
You would share it?
Forbid the sacrifice!
Forget so quaint a notion,
And let no more be told;
For moon and stars and ocean
And you
and I are cold."
Cassandra
I heard one who said: "Verily,
What word have I for children here?
Your Dollar is your only Word,
The wrath of it your only fear.
"You build it altars tall enough
To make you see, but you are blind;
You cannot leave it long enough
To look before you or
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