War is Kind | Page 3

paddle,?A girl with soft searching eyes,?A call: "John!"?. . . . . . .?Come, arise, hunter!?Can you not hear?
The chatter of a death-demon from a treetop.
The impact of a dollar upon the heart
Smiles warm red light,?Sweeping from the hearth rosily upon the
white table,?With the hanging cool velvet shadows?Moving softly upon the door.
The impact of a million dollars?Is a crash of flunkys,?And yawning emblems of Persia?Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre,?The outcry of old beauty?Whored by pimping merchants?To submission before wine and chatter.?Silly rich peasants stamp the carpets of men,?Dead men who dreamed fragrance and light?Into their woof, their lives;?The rug of an honest bear?Under the feet of a cryptic slave?Who speaks always of baubles,?Forgetting state, multitude, work, and state,?Champing and mouthing of hats,?Making ratful squeak of hats,?Hats.
A man said to the universe:
"Sir, I exist!"?"However," replied the universe,?"The fact has not created in me?"A sense of obligation."
When the prophet, a complacent fat
man,?Arrived at the mountain-top,?He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!?"I intended to see good white lands?"And bad black lands,?"But the scene is grey."
There was a land where lived no?violets.?A traveller at once demanded: "Why?"?The people told him:?"Once the violets of this place spoke thus:?"'Until some woman freely give her lover?"'To another woman?"'We will fight in bloody scuffle.'"?Sadly the people added:?"There are no violets here."
There was one I met upon the road?Who looked at me with kind eyes.?He said: "Show me of your wares."?And I did,?Holding forth one,?He said: "It is a sin."?Then I held forth another.?He said: "It is a sin."?Then I held forth another.?He said: "It is a sin."?And so to the end.?Always He said: "It is a sin."?At last, I cried out:?"But I have non other."?He looked at me?With kinder eyes.?"Poor soul," he said.
Aye, workman, make me a dream,?A dream for my love.?Cunningly weave sunlight,?Breezes, and flowers.?Let it be of the cloth of meadows.?And--good workman--?And let there be a man walking thereon.
Each small gleam was a voice,?A lantern voice--?In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.?A chorus of colors came over the water;?The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,?No pines crooned on the hills,?The blue night was elsewhere a silence,?When the chorus of colors came over the
water,?Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
Small glowing pebbles?Thrown on the dark plane of evening?Sing good ballads of God?And eternity, with soul's rest.?Little priests, little holy fathers,?None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.?When the marvellous chorus comes over the
water,?Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
The trees in the garden rained flowers.?Children ran there joyously.?They gathered the flowers?Each to himself.?Now there were some?Who gathered great heaps--?Having opportunity and skill--?Until, behold, only chance blossoms?Remained for the feeble.?Then a little spindling tutor?Ran importantly to the father, crying:?"Pray, come hither!?"See this unjust thing in your garden!"?But when the father had surveyed,?He admonished the tutor:?"Not so, small sage!?"This thing is just.?"For, look you,?"Are not they who possess the flowers?"Stronger, bolder, shrewder?"Than they who have none??"Why should the strong--?"The beautiful strong--?"Why should they not have the flowers?
Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the
ground.?"My lord," he said,?"The stars are displaced?"By this towering wisdom."
INTRIGUE
Thou art my love,?And thou art the peace of sundown?When the blue shadows soothe,?And the grasses and the leaves sleep?To the song of the little brooks,?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a strorm?That breaks black in the sky,?And, sweeping headlong,?Drenches and cowers each tree,?And at the panting end?There is no sound?Save the melancholy cry of a single owl--?Woe is me!
Thou are my love,?And thou art a tinsel thing,?And I in my play?Broke thee easily,?And from the little fragments?Arose my long sorrow--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a wary violet,?Drooping from sun-caresses,?Answering mine carelessly--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art the ashes of other men's love,?And I bury my face in these ashes,?And I love them--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art the beard?On another man's face--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a temple,?And in this temple is an altar,?And on this altar is my heart--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a wretch.?Let these sacred love-lies choke thee,?From I am come to where I know your lies
as truth?And you truth as lies--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a priestess,?And in they hand is a bloody dagger,?And my doom comes to me surely--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art a skull with ruby eyes,?And I love thee--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And I doubt thee.?And if peace came with thy murder?Then would I murder--?Woe is me.
Thou art my love,?And thou art death,?Aye, thou art death?Black and yet black,?But I love thee,?I love thee--?Woe, welcome woe, to me.
Love, forgive me if I wish you grief,?For in your grief?You huddle to my breast,?And for it?Would I pay the price of your grief.
You walk among men?And all men do not surrender,?And thus I understand?That love reaches his hand?In mercy to