Trees and Other Poems | Page 5

hall?He comes in all a victor's pride?
The scene shall never fit the deed.?Grotesquely wonders come to pass.?The fool shall mount an Arab steed?And Jesus ride upon an ass.
This man has home and child and wife?And battle set for every day.?This man has God and love and life;?These stand, all else shall pass away.
O Carpenter of Nazareth,?Whose mother was a village maid,?Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath?In scorn on any humble trade?
Have pity on our foolishness?And give us eyes, that we may see?Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress?The splendor of humanity!
Servant Girl and Grocer's Boy
Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"?Her soul spoke thus (I know it did):
"O king of realms of endless joy,?My own, my golden grocer's boy,
I am a princess forced to dwell?Within a lonely kitchen cell,
While you go dashing through the land?With loveliness on every hand.
Your whistle strikes my eager ears?Like music of the choiring spheres.
The mighty earth grows faint and reels?Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.
How keenly, perilously sweet?To cling upon that swaying seat!
How happy she who by your side?May share the splendors of that ride!
Ah, if you will not take my hand?And bear me off across the land,
Then, traveller from Arcady,?Remain awhile and comfort me.
What other maiden can you find?So young and delicate and kind?"
Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"?Her soul spoke thus (I know it did).
Wealth
(For Aline)
From what old ballad, or from what rich frame?Did you descend to glorify the earth??Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came??Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth?
Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand?Could Raphael or Leonardo trace.?Nor could the poets know in Fairyland?The changing wonder of your lyric face.
I would possess a host of lovely things,?But I am poor and such joys may not be.?So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings?Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me.
Martin
When I am tired of earnest men,?Intense and keen and sharp and clever,?Pursuing fame with brush or pen?Or counting metal disks forever,?Then from the halls of Shadowland?Beyond the trackless purple sea?Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand?Beside my desk and talk to me.
Still on his delicate pale face?A quizzical thin smile is showing,?His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,?His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.?He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,?A suit to match his soft grey hair,?A rakish stick, a knowing hat,?A manner blithe and debonair.
How good that he who always knew?That being lovely was a duty,?Should have gold halls to wander through?And should himself inhabit beauty.?How like his old unselfish way?To leave those halls of splendid mirth?And comfort those condemned to stay?Upon the dull and sombre earth.
Some people ask: "What cruel chance?Made Martin's life so sad a story?"?Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,?And wore an overcoat of glory.?A fleck of sunlight in the street,?A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,?Such visions made each moment sweet?For this receptive ancient child.
Because it was old Martin's lot?To be, not make, a decoration,?Shall we then scorn him, having not?His genius of appreciation??Rich joy and love he got and gave;?His heart was merry as his dress;?Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave?Who did not gain, but was, success!
The Apartment House
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky?The great stone box is cruelly displayed.?The street becomes more dreary from its shade,?And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.?Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie,?Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.?How worse than folly is their labor made?Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!
Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face?Gleam from a window far above the street.?This is a house of homes, a sacred place,?By human passion made divinely sweet.?How all the building thrills with sudden grace?Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!
As Winds That Blow Against A Star
(For Aline)
Now by what whim of wanton chance?Do radiant eyes know sombre days??And feet that shod in light should dance?Walk weary and laborious ways?
But rays from Heaven, white and whole,?May penetrate the gloom of earth;?And tears but nourish, in your soul,?The glory of celestial mirth.
The darts of toil and sorrow, sent?Against your peaceful beauty, are?As foolish and as impotent?As winds that blow against a star.
St. Laurence
Within the broken Vatican?The murdered Pope is lying dead.?The soldiers of Valerian?Their evil hands are wet and red.
Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits,?His cassock is his only mail.?The troops of Hell have burst the gates,?But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.
They have encompassed him with steel,?They spit upon his gentle face,?He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal?The Church's hidden treasure-place.
Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight,?Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!?Since thou hast fought the goodly fight?A martyr's death is fixed for thee.
St. Laurence, pray for us to bear?The faith which glorifies thy name.?St. Laurence, pray for us to share?The wounds of Love's consuming flame.
To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
When you had played with life a space?And made