War is Kind | Page 3

the
value of kings and birds,
"Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile
peaks.
"Thous only needest eternal patience;
"We bow to Thy
wisdom, O Lord--
"Humble, idle, futile peaks."
In the night
Grey heavy clouds muffles the valleys,
And the peaks
looked toward God alone.
The chatter of a death-demon from a tree-top.
Blood--blood and torn grass--
Had marked the rise of his agony--

This lone hunter.
The grey-green woods impassive
Had watched the
threshing of his limbs.
A canoe with flashing 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