Trees and Other Poems | Page 7

to see who this tramp might be,?For they knew not his bearded face.?But his father said, "Give him drink and bread?And a couch underneath the stair."?So Alexis crept to his hole and slept.?But he might not linger there.
For when night came down on the seven-hilled town,?And the emperor hurried in,?Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near?Who will cleanse us of our sin,"?Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain,?For his soul had fled afar,?From his fleshly home he had gone to roam?Where the gold-paved highways are.
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!
Folly
(For A. K. K.)
What distant mountains thrill and glow?Beneath our Lady Folly's tread??Why has she left us, wise in woe,?Shrewd, practical, uncomforted??We cannot love or dream or sing,?We are too cynical to pray,?There is no joy in anything?Since Lady Folly went away.
Many a knight and gentle maid,?Whose glory shines from years gone by,?Through ignorance was unafraid?And as a fool knew how to die.?Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne?And broke the ranks of Hell with her,?And Folly's smile shone brightly on?Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper.
Our minds are troubled and defiled?By study in a weary school.?O for the folly of the child!?The ready courage of the fool!?Lord, crush our knowledge utterly?And make us humble, simple men;?And cleansed of wisdom, let us see?Our Lady Folly's face again.
Madness
(For Sara Teasdale)
The lonely farm, the crowded street,?The palace and the slum,?Give welcome to my silent feet?As, bearing gifts, I come.
Last night a beggar crouched alone,?A ragged helpless thing;?I set him on a moonbeam throne --?Today he is a king.
Last night a king in orb and crown?Held court with splendid cheer;?Today he tears his purple gown?And moans and shrieks in fear.
Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,?Not land, nor sky, nor sea,?Nor love's artillery of tears?Can keep mine own from me.
Serene, unchanging, ever fair,?I smile with secret mirth?And in a net of mine own hair?I swing the captive earth.
Poets
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells?That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.?Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells?Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath?Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.?They shall not live who have not tasted death.?They only sing who are struck dumb by God.
Citizen of the World
No longer of Him be it said?"He hath no place to lay His head."
In every land a constant lamp?Flames by His small and mighty camp.
There is no strange and distant place?That is not gladdened by His face.
And every nation kneels to hail?The Splendour shining through Its veil.
Cloistered beside the shouting street,?Silent, He calls me to His feet.
Imprisoned for His love of me?He makes my spirit greatly free.
And through my lips that uttered sin?The King of Glory enters in.
To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring
(For Kenton)
An iron hand has stilled the throats?That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee?And dammed the flood of silver notes?That drenched the world in melody.?The blosmy apple boughs are yearning?For their wild choristers' returning,?But no swift wings flash through the tree.
Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,?Shall Silence take you in her net??And shall Death quell that radiant song?Whose echo thrills the meadow yet??Burst the frail web about you clinging?And charm Death's cruel heart with singing?Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.
The scented morning of the year?Is old and stale now ye are gone.?No friendly songs the children hear?Among the bushes on the lawn.?When babies wander out a-Maying?Will ye, their bards, afar be straying??Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?
Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.?Above the stars is set your nest.?Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly?And in the trees of Heaven rest.?And little children in their dreaming?Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming?And smile, by your clear music blest.
The Fourth Shepherd
(For Thomas Walsh)
I
On nights like this the huddled sheep?Are like white clouds upon the grass,?And merry herdsmen guard their sleep?And chat and watch the big stars pass.
It is a pleasant thing to lie?Upon the meadow on the hill?With kindly fellowship near by?Of sheep and men of gentle will.
I lean upon my broken crook?And dream of sheep and grass and men --?O shameful eyes that cannot look?On any honest thing again!
On bloody feet I clambered down?And fled the wages of my sin,?I am the leavings of the town,?And meanly serve its meanest inn.
I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,?While sleep takes man and beast to her.?And every cloud is calling "Thief!"?And every star calls "Murderer!"
II
The hand of God is sure and strong,?Nor shall a man forever flee?The bitter punishment of wrong.?The wrath of