Trees and Other Poems | Page 5

with him and
wish him well.
O in no drear and lonely land
Shall he who honors
friendship dwell.
And in his little shop, who knows
What bitter games of war are
played?
Why, daily on each corner grows
A foe to rob him of his
trade.
He fights, and for his fireside's sake;
He fights for clothing and for
bread:
The lances of his foemen make
A steely halo round his head.
He decks his window artfully,
He haggles over paltry sums.
In this
strange field his war must be
And by such blows his triumph comes.
What if no trumpet sounds to call
His armed legions to his side?


What if, to no ancestral 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