I
There was a field green and fragrant with grass and
flowers, and flooded with sunlight, and the air above it
throbbed with the songs of birds. It was yet morning
when a great darkness spread over the earth, and out of
the darkness lightning, and after the lightning fire that
consumed every green thing; and the singing birds fell
dying upon the blackened grass. The thunder and the
flame past, but it was still dark—till a ray of light
touched the field's edge and grew, little by little. Then
one who listened heard—not the songs of birds again,
but the flutter of broken wings.
II—THE TRAVELER
I met a traveler on the road
Whose back was bent beneath a load;
His face was worn with mortal care,
His frame beneath its burden shook,
Yet onward, restless, he did fare
With mien unyielding, fixt, a look
Set forward in the empty air
As he were reading an unseen book.
What was it in his smile that stirred
My soul to pity! When I drew
More near it seemed as if I heard
The broken echo of a tune
Learned in some far and happy June.
His lips were parted, but unmoved
By words. He sang as dreamers do,
And not as if he heard and loved
The song he sang: I hear it now!
He stood beside the level brook,
Nor quenched his thirst, nor bathed his brow,
Nor from his back the burden shook.
He stood, and yet he did not rest;
His eyes climbed up in aimless quest,
Then close did to that mirror bow—
And, looking down, I saw in place
Of his, my own familiar face.
III—“COME TO ME YE WHO SUFFER”
Come to me ye who suffer, for to all
I am a brother now! 'T was not in vain
I saw the face of Sorrow; she who slain
Yet lives; whose voice when she doth weep and call
Is silent. When she weeps? Nay, nay! the pall
Is on her tears too—they are dead. The rain
Is molten-hot, dust-dry from her dull pain,
Like ashes from the burning heavens that fall.
I know the world-wide, lovely, living lie;
I know the truth that better were unknown;
I know the joyful laugh that is a cry
Torn from a heart whence hope and faith have flown,
And yet beats on, and will not, dare not die.
I know the anguish without word or moan.
IV—WRITTEN ON A FLY-LEAF OF “SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS”
When shall true love be love without alloy—
Shine free at last from sinful circumstance!
When shall the canker of unheavenly chance
Eat not the bud of that most heavenly joy!
When shall true love meet love not as a coy
Retreating light that leads a deathful dance,
But as a firm fixt fire that doth enhance
The beauty of all beauty! Will the employ
Of poets ever be too well to show
That mightiest love with sharpest pain doth writhe;
That underneath the fair, caressing glove
Hides evermore the iron hand; and tho'
Love's flower alone is good, if we would prove
Its perfect bloom, our breath slays like a scythe!
V—“AND WERE THAT BEST!”
And were that best, Love, dreamless, endless sleep!
Gone all the fury of the mortal day—
The daylight gone, and gone the starry ray!
And were that best, Love, rest serene and deep!
Gone labor and desire; no arduous steep
To climb, no songs to sing, no prayers to pray,
No help for those who perish by the way,
No laughter 'mid our tears, no tears to weep!
And were that best, Love, sleep with no dear dream,
Nor memory of anything in life—
Stark death that neither help nor hurt can know!
O, rather, far, the sorrow-bringing gleam,
The living day's long agony and strife!
Rather strong love in pain; the waking woe!
VI—“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THE SUN”
There is nothing new under the sun;
There is no new hope or despair;
The agony just begun
Is as old as the earth and the air.
My secret soul of bliss
Is one with the singing stars,
And the ancient mountains miss
No hurt that my being mars.
I know as I know my life,
I know as I know my pain,
That there is no lonely strife,
That he is mad who would gain
A separate balm for his woe,
A single pity and cover;
The one great God I know
Hears the same prayer over and over.
I know it because at the portal
Of Heaven I bowed and cried,
And I said: “Was ever a mortal
Thus crowned and crucified!
My praise Thou hast made my blame;
My best Thou hast made my worst;
My good Thou hast turned to shame;
My drink is a flaming thirst.”
But scarce my prayer was said
Ere from that place I turned;
I trembled, I hung my head,
My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;
For there where I bowed down
In my boastful agony,
I thought of thy cross and crown—
O Christ! I remembered thee.
VII—LOVE'S CRUELTY
And this, then, is thy love,” I hear thee say,
“And dost thou love, and canst thou torture so?
Ah, spare me, if thou lov'st me, this last woe!”
But I am not my own; I must obey
My master; I am slave to Love; his sway
Is cruel as the grave. When he says Go!
I go; when he says Come! I come. I know
No law but his. When he says Slay! I slay.
As cruel as the grave? Yes—crueler:
Cruel as light that pours its stinging flood
Across the dark, and makes an anguished stir
Of life; cruel as life that sends through blood
Of mortal the immortal pang and spur;
Cruel as thy remorseless maidenhood.
