Part 3
How babies love the foolish things! Their chubby, mittened hands they reach, Pout rosy lips in lisping speech, Coaxing the wizard with wrinkled face To part with his treasure, The joys that have wings. He is willing enough, for a nickel or two— And what is a nickel to me or you? He grins and nods with an artist’s grace, Pleased with the little ones’ guileless pleasure. He airily pockets the proffered pence, Tethers his wares to the iron fence. With gentle fingers he ties the strings To proud small buttons; he thrusts a wand— A fairy wand—in a baby hand. “_Va bene!_” Off to a Wonderland!
Giovanni Carbone! No wonder you grin, With your burning eye set in parchment skin; Purveyor of dreams for the innocent; Maker of laughter rather than pain; Vender of perfect, rounded content. I envy you again and again Your job and your bit of wonder-money, And your breezy stand, when the day is sunny.
THE SPARROW
Little bird of dusty brown, Why do you stay here in town, In the noise and dirt and heat Hopping in the ugly street? Other songsters choose to go Where the grass and clovers grow, Where the dew is on the hill And the shady woods are still; Where the baby rivers skip, And the cool green mosses drip. There to-morrow I shall be! Sparrow, do you envy me?
Saucy bird, alert and quick, Lingering on stone and brick— Little children linger too, Who perhaps are fond of you; Pale and pitiful to see, Sick and sorry too, maybe. They can dream, but never stray Where the ferns and daisies play. All the sultry summer through They will hear no bird but you, Cheap and common, sharp and shrill, Chirping, chirping, chirping still, Picking bugs and crumbs and things. Yet—you have the gift of wings! They can see you dart and fly Free and high to tree and sky— Only little comrade given Who can bring them news of heaven!
Sparrow, though I run away, Is that why you choose to stay?
SYLVIA
Sylvia is always gay. When she winged to earth one day, Through the wonders of the sky, She caught a star as she flew by, Green and gold and amethyst, In her tiny baby fist, And hid it in her little breast As a secret unconfessed.
Like a jeweled lantern she Shines for all the world to see. In her eyes the sparkle beams, From her burnished hair it gleams; Radiant all she does and says, All her pretty, twinkling ways— Just because she dared to leaven Lifetime with a bit of heaven. Sylvia! Without your spark, Oh, the journey would be dark.
THE PLUME
“Here is a gift,” the Brownie said, As something fell on the little maid’s head— “A golden feather with silver bars Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars; A beautiful plume to use as you will, Fortunate friend on top of the hill! Fasten it into your curly hair; Love will follow and find you fair. Put it into the Magi’s hands; They will pay you with gold and lands. Feather a shaft with the magic thing, And bring down Fame with a crippled wing. Other wonders the plume can do, But I wouldn’t bother, if I were you!”
Now the queer little maid on top of the hill Clipped the plume to a scratchy quill— The golden feather with silver bars Of the Faraway Bird who sings to the stars! She wrote and wrote, all night, all day, The curious things it made her say— Wonder-tales and whimsical rhymes, Faraway deeds from faraway times, Told for the clamorous boys and girls, With bangs and braids, with clips and curls. The children laughed and clapped and cried— “Tell it again! Tell more beside!” Then the queer little maid was proud and glad, And this was the good of the gift she had— The magical plume of the Faraway Bird.
But the Brownie sighed, for never a word To the busy house on the hilltop came Of flattering love, or wealth, or fame.
THE WOODSY ONES
Hear them creeping, creeping, creeping, through the mosses and the brush, The Woodsy Ones whom I can never see! Now they snap a twig and falter, now they laugh and whisper “Hush!” As they dodge their little heads behind a tree.
Hear them dancing, dancing, dancing, in the grass when I’m abed, And singing at my window in the moon! Oh, the fairy music bubbles in my dizzy little head, And I drift away to Nothing all too soon!
THE WEE KNITTER
_Click! Click! Click!_ Hark to the needles knitting fast Of the wee Knitter in the sun. Over the fairy finger-tips are cast Gossamer threads by an old witch-spider spun In her den at the heart of a flower In a moonlit hour.
_Click! Click! Click!_ The wee small Knitter is all in green, With thistledown hair, And petal-shoon on her silver toes That she swings in the air, From her perch on a tremulous rose, Knitting unseen.
_Click! Click! Click!_ The slender needles of the pine Flash spicy fragrance as they go, To and fro, In the sweet sunshine, Knitting a secret few can know, Of magical meshes none may spy With a mortal eye.
_Click! Click! Click!_ A fairy laugh rings clear and wild, As eagerly the needles knit, Knot by knot and bit by bit, A purse invisible to hold Not gold— But a bit of luck for a human child.
Do you hear, do you hear, O Fortunate One, The wee small Knitter in the sun? _Click! Click! Click!_
A CHARM SAID UNDER AN OAK
_Deus Robur Meus._ Oak, with thy straightness, Oak, with thy wholeness, Oak, with thy brightness, Hearten me! Aid me! Rooted in passionate earth, Crowned in ethereal blue, Breathing ineffable love, Shelter me! Shade me!
With thy sweet strength, With thy cool peace, With thy green joy, Touch me and thrill me! Spirit of patience, Spirit of courage, Spirit of wisdom, Cover me! Fill me!
Balm-giving oak, Force-giving oak, Self-giving oak, Inspire and elate me! Lovely green tree of life, Happy tall tree of hope, Holy great tree of good, Oh, consecrate me! _Deus Robur Meus._
FAIRY RING
I stepped within the fairy ring, Where it was green, so green. Then I heard the trill of a fairy bell, And the song of the Fairy Queen.
The secret that she murmured me, To the trill of the fairy bell, Was sweet, so sweet you’d not believe, If I should try to tell.
But step you too in the fairy ring, And hold fast to my hand; Then we may hear a lovelier thing, And both will understand.
DANGEROUS PASSING
Who ventures to the Magic Wood? Who dares the moonlit way, Full perilous in the silver flood, Though safe enough by day?
Who brushes through the mystic dew To hear the flute of Pan, And spy upon our dancing crew? Beware, O Maid, O Man!
The Wee Folk lurk behind the trees And ambush in the fern; Our mischief whispers in the breeze— Ye Trespassers, return!
Enchanted, each to each shall seem Transfigured and divine; Your faces with strange beauty gleam, Your lips hold maddening wine.
You shall forget for what you seek; Careless of all about, Hand clasped to hand and cheek to cheek, Sport for the elfin rout.
We tangle never to be free The feet that tread too far. Beware the moonlight witchery, The magic of a star!
THE DRYAD
I was a Dryad cloistered in a tree, Nor knew it for a cell, so close and kind; Till some one’s careless fingers found the key And set me free to sun and sky and wind.
Heigho! The outer world seemed very sweet, For all the sunlit mysteries were new, The tender little moss caressed my feet, I drank of flower-wine and crystal dew.
I heard quaint stories from the birds and bees; My cheeks were of the sun’s warm kisses fain; I joined wild frolics with the reckless breeze, And mocked the mocking echoes back again.
But when the evening fell and all the world Folded to rest without a thought of me, With fear a-shiver as the dark unfurled, I longed to shelter in the ancient tree.
The sun has gone and now my heart is cold! My friend the breeze, grown weary with his play, Slumbers upon the flowers; while all the gold Has faded from the glory of the day.
O good great Oak, close me within your bark! I droop and faint and cannot wander more. But though through all the world I search the dark, I cannot find my cloister’s wrinkled door.
O good great Oak, let me not seek in vain A helpless Dryad, exiled from her tree! Ah, but to feel your clasping strength again Between the cruel, careless world and me!
FAIRY WINE
You from east and I from west Both stumbled into Fairyland; And there we wandered, blithe and blest, Through elfin mazes, hand in hand.
They poured a cup of magic brew And laid enchantment on our eyes; I thought I read the heart of you, You saw me in a fairy guise.
Out of the wonder-hill we came; We blinked and stammered, wild and wan. For you and I were just the same, But lo! the witchery was gone!
So, go your way and I’ll go mine, You to the west, I to the east. But ah, how sweet the fairy wine We sipped together at the feast!
WEBS
Oh, they spread out their silver webs Upon the moonlit grass, Their wee bright webs of faërie, To catch the Dreams that pass.
The wistful dream that stole from me And crept away to you, They tangled it in glistering knots Of witchery and dew.
And whisht! Your bashful little thought, So innocent and bright, Got trapped in that same silver web And kept with mine all night.
Then ah! Whatever shall we do Upon to-morrow day, Our dreams are snared together so And cannot slip away?
THE FAIRY FORT
As I went by the fairy fort I heard a laughing wee voice say— “Whisht! Be these humans rale at all? I’ll not believe it, nay!”
“Aye, but ye see the crayturs plain?” “But seein’ niver makes it true, No more that not to see be proof; ’Tis what they think and do.
“They just have faith in what they see, And they be blind as midday owls— Except the little childher dear, And some with childher sowls.
“They chase unrale things all day long— Money and aise and fame and power— With niver time to pipe and dream, Or gossip with a flower.
“Such stupid things they be, and quare! I’ll not believe in them, not I! Come, let us pipe a rale, true lilt, And lave the crayturs by.”
As I went by the fairy fort I heard a piping sweet and small; I wonder, are the Wee Folk real, Or am I real at all?
PEACE—WITH A SWORD!
“ENSE PETIT PLACIDAM SUB LIBERTATE QUIETEM” (_Motto of Massachusetts_)
Peace! How we love her and the good she brings On broad, benignant wings! And we have clung to her, how close and long, While she has made us strong! Now we must guard her lest her power cease, And in the harried world be no more peace. Even with a sword; Help us, O Lord.
For us no patient peace, the weary goal Of a war-sickened soul; No peace that battens on misfortune’s pain, Swollen with selfish gain, Bending slack knees before a calf of gold, With nerveless fingers impotent to hold The freeman’s sword: Not this, O Lord!
No peace bought for us by the martyr dead Of countries reeking red; No peace flung to us from the tyrant’s hand, Sop to a servile land. Our Peace the State’s strong arm holds high and free, The “placid Peace she seeks in liberty,” Yea, “with a sword.” Help us, O Lord!
O Massachusetts! In your golden prime, Not with the bribe of time You won her; subtle words and careful ways In perilous days. No! By your valor; by the patriot blood Of your brave sons poured in a generous flood. Peace, with a sword! Help us, O Lord.
Fling out the banners that defied a king; The tattered colors bring That made a nation one from sea to sea, In godly liberty. Unsheathe the patriot sword in time of need, O Massachusetts, shouting in the lead— “Peace, with a sword! Help us, O Lord!”
THE CRY
Hark! From the trampled gardens once so fair, From hateful trenches in the harried fields, From vineyards wasting in polluted air Their rich, ungarnered yields, There comes the piteous, instinctive cry Of soldiers in their lonely agony— “Mother!” “Mère!”
Alas! Those bonny yellow heads low-lying! Blue anguished eyes—like eyes beloved and near! Weak, fevered lips with painful effort sighing That word of all most dear— So like on every tongue, so understood, Sign of our common, outraged brotherhood— “Mutter!” “Mither!”
They cry to Her—the Pity of the race, The fostering Care from which they marched afar, The Sympathy forsaken, and the grace Of Love betrayed by war. In this their bitter hour the brave men cry To her who bore them, piteously to die— “Madre!” “Mat!”
And she at home, the pale, heart-broken mother— She who had nought to do with war and strife— Knows Cain and Abel, brother slaying brother! Sad Eve who gave them life Must watch and wait and weep and work, and hear Those kindred voices crying to her ear— “Mutter!” “Maman!”
Oh, hearken, human Love! unselfish, high, Impartial as the love of mothers good! Not vainly died the lads, if their last cry Prove us our brotherhood; If horror so abound for kindred slain, Man ends forever War, the crime of Cain. “Mother!”
CRUSADERS
They who have seen the vision, We who have dreamed the dream, Are comrades of a mighty host, Crusaders of the Gleam.
Some lads will fall in battle, Some wave victorious swords; Some knit the pitying web of love, Or forge the glowing words.
Still, shoulder set to shoulder, We tread the fields of fate, Our hearts invincible to crush Truculent ranks of Hate.
And comrade heartens comrade Through voids of time and space, Flashing the Sign upon his brow, A light upon his face.
THE KNIGHTS
Not dust! Not dust the chivalry, The knightly heart of high romance Enshrined in ancient poetry. Behold, the battle-fields of France!
Gone plume and crest and jeweled sword, Gone pomp and picturesque array. War is a grim and hideous word! Yet heroes walk the world to-day.
A Launcelot or Lion Heart? A Roland or a Godfrey bold? Nay, simple lads who bear their part As gallantly as knights of old.
Our lithe brown legions swinging by, Our bonny sailors proudly free; The dauntless champions of the sky, The dragon-chasers on the sea!
A thousand Sidneys pass the cup Of blessedness on fields of blood; And countless Bayards offer up Their joyous hope for others’ good.
Never were hearts so nobly bold, Nor bodies built so strongly fair. The tree of life has not grown old, But blooms to-day beyond compare!
No more we glory in the past And yearn to see those kings of men. The peerless knights arise at last, And epic deeds are done again!
FROM THE CANTEEN
Sailor, we shall miss you, Swaggering up and down, Bringing picaresque romance To the mouldy town.
On your lips a whistle, In your heart a dance, A merry lass upon your arm, Mischief in your glance.
Childish in your loneliness, Boyish in your needs, But a man in strong desire, A man to do bold deeds.
Fearful tales you told us— Some of them were true; Furtive tears were often spilled In the cups we poured for you.
How we yearned to help you; Longed to understand The riddle of your restless look, The strange lines of your hand.
You brought us pain and vision, Bright youth and gallant ways. Sailor, we shall miss you In the peaceful days!
CRIPPLED SOLDIER
I may have used but half my strength, And you but half your mind, To help the Cause for which he bled, Leaving a limb behind.
You may have stumbled in your task, I may have limped and failed. But he leaped forth to give his hope, Nor once looked back, nor quailed.
We may be scarred with vain regret For duties left undone, With stiffened limbs and slackened hearts, When the great war is won.
Then who will say that he is lame, While we are safe and whole? Who bears dread wounds for others’ sake Has the uncrippled soul.
And life for him may now begin, With a new hope at heart, While we, disfigured, face a peace In which we won no part.
THE FLAG TRIUMPHANT
Across my window blow the splendid folds Of the great flag hung out for Victory And Peace. They gleam through traceries of vine And struggling plants, cherished through four grim years For comfort, now in blossom. Everything I see between the flutterings of the flag; The unimportant doings in the street, The homely houses opposite, the folk Carelessly passing; and the flight of doves— Peace doves—along a narrow strip of sky. I see them glorified by red and white, Under a blessed hidden field of stars.
And when I turn away to read or write, My eyes are dazzled still by vivid flashes, Caught from the floating colors. No escape From thoughts of death heroic, life triumphant! The room is full of red and white reflections. The very picture-glasses are aglow With patriotic fervor, not content To be mere shields for ancient, precious things— Precious for being ancient; they would share The pride of present effort. Even shy prisms Hung in old candelabra flush and pale Alternately, with tremulous, caught emotion.
O Flag of sacrifice and chivalry, Never before so dear! Your holy red Dyed with the blood of hero-friends; your white Clear like their vision; and your starry field Steadfast with life devotion! Not again, I think, shall I look out upon the world But through the folds of your eternal glory. Flash your fair challenge still across my window, Flag of my Country!
THREE GOLDEN STARS
(IN MEMORY OF THREE RADCLIFFE GIRLS WHO DIED IN SERVICE ABROAD; RUTH HOLDEN, ’11; LUCY N. FLETCHER, ’10; AND HELEN HOMANS)
Lucy, Helen, Ruth! Sweet names they have, Our brave young soldiers, womanly and kind! Sweet as the glorious youth of heart and mind, The years of promise they so gladly gave.
And they have wound the ribbon of their love About and through the nations sundered far, Drawing them close; each with a golden Star Setting her seal on bonds that time shall prove.
For one, a Briton born and Island bred, Chose for America to serve, and bless Our wounded with her strength and steadfastness. She sleeps in France among her Yankee dead.
One of New England, back to England gave The treasure of her wisdom and her skill, To use for hapless refugees, who still Are weeping by her lonely Russian grave.
And one has won a hero’s _Croix de Guerre_, “_Morte pour La France_,” so honoring a debt. Our sister nation never will forget The foreign Saint who gave her soldiers care.
Oh, greater love hath no man shown than they, The dear, bright spirits with the radiant eyes, Fearlessly venturing the great emprise, Cheerfully pacing down the dolorous way!
So, never deem their golden web unspun, Blighted the hope, and lost the precious dower! For Three have died to speed the blessed hour When Truth and Love make all the nations one.
THE SPRING OF THE YEAR
On fields of France the violets are fair, The skylarks sing above the broad champaign; But where are they who walked and listened there, The hero-lads our spring finds not again? They leave to us who did not share the fight, The earth’s expectancy of green delight.
Nay! They have journeyed to a sweeter bourne, Where ghosts of all the garnered springs survive, With all earth-joys that never will return, And all the flowers that ever were alive; Where bird-songs that have echoed through the years Make harmony too sweet for mortal ears.
Oh, what a radiant company are they! Forever one with all that’s newly fair; Out of the heat and burden of the day, The blight of fall and winter’s aged care. They are Youth’s Gladness, ever blossoming Beyond the wistful limit of our spring!
PRAYER FOR AMERICA
O Lord of justice and of right Who made the generous Cause prevail, Who helped our heroes win the fight, Now let not their endeavor fail. Facing new dangers that arise, Oh, make us wise!
Draw out the best of each to serve Unselfishly the common good, Nor let the wider vision swerve From the true goal of brotherhood. To this, thy mighty-blended race, Oh, give thy grace!
Give us great leaders we can trust To strive for righteousness alone; Cast small ambition in the dust, With greed and malice overthrown. Lord God, Preserver of the State, Oh, make us great!
THE ROCK OF LIBERTY A PILGRIM ODE, 1620–1920[1]
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I. VISION
PRAYER OF SAILING
Lord God of Hosts, Defender of the weak, With thine Almighty arm deliver us, Thy suffering people, exiled and forlorn, Pilgrims of faith, who dream a glorious dream! Beyond the deep, where no man knows the way, To savage shores beneath an alien sky, Guide us in hope to Liberty and Peace. Jehovah! Hearken to thy people’s cry! Oh, grant us freedom, Lord, within thy law, To toil or worship, live or die for Thee, In thy name building that which shall endure Beyond the little while we have to live.
THE VISION
O rolling waste of unimagined ocean, Dividing continents and parting men! Yield to the fragile sails of destiny, Maimed by the will that conquers mighty force! Bow to the courage that endures to die, The faith that anchors to a solid Rock. O waves that do divide! The time will come When water shall unite the sundered lands. Then over sea, under the sea and through, Shall fare the galleons of brotherhood, Bearing the freight of liberty and love From a great nation, heir of our desire, To every corner of the peopled earth.
THE MAYFLOWER
O Pilgrims in a cockle frail Upon a perilous quest, Out of the old world making sail Into the golden west; Beyond the misty ocean veil Awaits a Vision blest!
A simple little yeoman band, None of the rich or great, But stout of heart and strong of hand, The pioneers of fate; The patient builders of a land, The founders of a State!
Your fragile bark adventuring Upon a fearful sea,— Awful the cargo that you bring; The seeds of destiny, Promise of future harvesting In sheaves of liberty.
CHORUS OF WOMEN
The peril of the frozen wave Our faith cannot betray; Mothers and maidens, be ye brave, And teach the babes to pray,— “Jehovah! Who art strong to save, Guide to Thy chosen Bay!”
Famine and cold and fever come To meet us on the shore; Labor and want and sorrow, dumb For joys we see no more. O Lord, give hope in a new home; Strength for what lies before!
Yea, though he slay with scourge forlorn, We trust Jehovah’s will. Although the pitying rows of corn Hide many a little hill Where lie our loved and newly-born; Our God is with us still.
CHORUS OF MEN
No snarling danger in its den Can make our courage quail; No prowling savage of the fen Will turn our color pale, Nor treachery of brother men Make our endeavor fail.