Trees and Other Poems | Page 6

it drink and lust and sing,?You flung it back into God's face?And thought you did a noble thing.?"Lo, I have lived and loved," you said,?"And sung to fools too dull to hear me.?Now for a cool and grassy bed?With violets in blossom near me."
Well, rest is good for weary feet,?Although they ran for no great prize;?And violets are very sweet,?Although their roots are in your eyes.?But hark to what the earthworms say?Who share with you your muddy haven:?"The fight was on -- you ran away.?You are a coward and a craven.
"The rug is ruined where you bled;?It was a dirty way to die!?To put a bullet through your head?And make a silly woman cry!?You could not vex the merry stars?Nor make them heed you, dead or living.?Not all your puny anger mars?God's irresistible forgiving.
"Yes, God forgives and men forget,?And you're forgiven and forgotten.?You might be gaily sinning yet?And quick and fresh instead of rotten.?And when you think of love and fame?And all that might have come to pass,?Then don't you feel a little shame??And don't you think you were an ass?"
Memorial Day
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,?But not of war it sings to-day.?The road is rhythmic with the feet?Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red?On tombs where weary soldiers lie;?Flags wave above the honored dead?And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,?They kept the faith and fought the fight.?Through flying lead and crimson steel?They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn?Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,?Who went through fire and death to earn?At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed?They march, the legions of the Lord;?He is their Captain unafraid,?The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.
The Rosary
Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings?Shall all men praise the Master of all song.?Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;?And skilled must be the laureates of kings.?Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!?Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!?How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,?Music like that God's chosen poet sings?
There is one harp that any hand can play,?And from its strings what harmonies arise!?There is one song that any mouth can say, --?A song that lingers when all singing dies.?When on their beads our Mother's children pray?Immortal music charms the grateful skies.
Vision
(For Aline)
Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful faces Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream, Yet did he seem?Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places.
I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, Yet have I seen?All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.
To Certain Poets
Now is the rhymer's honest trade?A thing for scornful laughter made.
The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain,?These are the burden of our pain.
Because of you did this befall,?You brought this shame upon us all.
You little poets mincing there?With women's hearts and women's hair!
How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be?To hear you lisp of "Poesie"!
A heavy-handed blow, I think,?Would make your veins drip scented ink.
You strut and smirk your little while?So mildly, delicately vile!
Your tiny voices mock God's wrath,?You snails that crawl along His path!
Why, what has God or man to do?With wet, amorphous things like you?
This thing alone you have achieved:?Because of you, it is believed
That all who earn their bread by rhyme?Are like yourselves, exuding slime.
Oh, cease to write, for very shame,?Ere all men spit upon our name!
Take up your needles, drop your pen,?And leave the poet's craft to men!
Love's Lantern
(For Aline)
Because the road was steep and long?And through a dark and lonely land,?God set upon my lips a song?And put a lantern in my hand.
Through miles on weary miles of night?That stretch relentless in my way?My lantern burns serene and white,?An unexhausted cup of day.
O golden lights and lights like wine,?How dim your boasted splendors are.?Behold this little lamp of mine;?It is more starlike than a star!
St. Alexis
Patron of Beggars
We who beg for bread as we daily tread?Country lane and city street,?Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway?To the saint with the vagrant feet.?Our altar light is a buttercup bright,?And our shrine is a bank of sod,?But still we share St. Alexis' care,?The Vagabond of God.
They gave him a home in purple Rome?And a princess for his bride,?But he rowed away on his wedding day?Down the Tiber's rushing tide.?And he came to land on the Asian strand?Where the heathen people dwell;?As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed?And he saved their souls from hell.
Bowed with years and pain he came back again?To his father's dwelling place.?There was none