Trees and Other Poems | Page 6

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 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