Trees and Other Poems | Page 7

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 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