 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
2. PART II
FATE
I flung a stone into a grassy field;—
How many tiny creatures there may yield
(I thought) their petty lives through that rude shock!
To me a pebble, 't is to them a rock—
Gigantic, cruel, fraught with sudden death.
Perhaps it crusht an ant, perhaps its breath
Alone tore down a white and glittering palace,
And the small spider damns the giant's malice
Who wrought the wreck—blasted his pretty art!
How many tiny creatures there may yield
(I thought) their petty lives through that rude shock!
To me a pebble, 't is to them a rock—
Gigantic, cruel, fraught with sudden death.
Perhaps it crusht an ant, perhaps its breath
Alone tore down a white and glittering palace,
And the small spider damns the giant's malice
Who wrought the wreck—blasted his pretty art!
Who knows what day some saunterer, light of heart,
An idle wanderer through the fields of space,
Large-limbed, big-brained, to whom our puny race
Seems small as insects,—one whose footstep jars
On some vast world-orb islanded by stars,—
May fling a stone and crush our earth to bits,
And all that men have builded by their wits?
“Ah, what a loss!” you say; “our bodies go,
But not our temples, statues, and the glow
Of glorious canvases; and not the pages
Our poets have illumed through myriad ages.
What boots the insect's loss? Another day
Will see the selfsame ant-hill and the play
Of light on dainty web the same. But blot
All human art from this terrestrial plot,
Something indeed would pass that nevermore
Would light the universe as once before!”
The spider's work is not original,—
You hold,—but what of ours? I fear that all
We do is just the same thing over and over.
Take Life: you have the woman and her lover;
'T is old as Eden; naught is new in that!
Take Building, and you reach ere long the flat
Nile desert sands, by way of France, Rome, Greece.
And there is poetry—our bards increase
In numbers, not in sweetness, not in force,
Since, he, sublimest poet of this globe,
Forgotten now, poured forth the chant of Job—
Where Man with the Eternal holds discourse.
No, no! The forms may change, but even they
Come round again. Could we but truly scan it,
We'd find in the heavens some little, busy planet,
Whence all we are was borrowed. If to-day
The imagined giant flung his ponderous stone,
And we and all our far-stretched schemes were done,
His were a scant remorse and short-lived trouble,
Like mine for those small creatures in the stubble.
An idle wanderer through the fields of space,
Large-limbed, big-brained, to whom our puny race
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On some vast world-orb islanded by stars,—
May fling a stone and crush our earth to bits,
And all that men have builded by their wits?
“Ah, what a loss!” you say; “our bodies go,
But not our temples, statues, and the glow
Of glorious canvases; and not the pages
Our poets have illumed through myriad ages.
What boots the insect's loss? Another day
Will see the selfsame ant-hill and the play
Of light on dainty web the same. But blot
All human art from this terrestrial plot,
Something indeed would pass that nevermore
Would light the universe as once before!”
The spider's work is not original,—
You hold,—but what of ours? I fear that all
We do is just the same thing over and over.
Take Life: you have the woman and her lover;
'T is old as Eden; naught is new in that!
Take Building, and you reach ere long the flat
Nile desert sands, by way of France, Rome, Greece.
And there is poetry—our bards increase
In numbers, not in sweetness, not in force,
Since, he, sublimest poet of this globe,
Forgotten now, poured forth the chant of Job—
Where Man with the Eternal holds discourse.
No, no! The forms may change, but even they
Come round again. Could we but truly scan it,
We'd find in the heavens some little, busy planet,
Whence all we are was borrowed. If to-day
The imagined giant flung his ponderous stone,
And we and all our far-stretched schemes were done,
His were a scant remorse and short-lived trouble,
Like mine for those small creatures in the stubble.
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“WE MET UPON THE CROWDED WAY”
I
We met upon the crowded way;We spoke and past. How bright the day
Turned from that moment, for a light
Did shine from her to make it bright!
And then I asked: Can such as she
From life be blotted utterly?
The thoughts from those clear eyes that dawn—
Down to the ground can they be drawn?
II
Among the mighty who can findOne that hath a perfect mind?
Angry, jealous, curst by feuds,
They own the sway of fatal moods;
But thou dost perfect seem to me
In thy divine simplicity.
Tho' from the heavens the stars be wrenched,
Thy light, dear maid, shall not be quenched.
Gentle, and true, and pure, and free—
The gods will not abandon thee!
THE WHITE AND THE RED ROSE
I
In Heaven's happy bowersThere blossom two flowers,
One with fiery glow
And one as white as snow;
While lo! before them stands,
With pale and trembling hands,
A spirit who must choose
One, and one refuse.
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II
O, tell me of these flowersThat bloom in heavenly bowers,
One with fiery glow,
And one as white as snow!
And tell me who is this
In Heaven's holy bliss
Who trembles and who cries
Like a mortal soul that dies!
III
These blossoms two,Wet with heavenly dew—
The Gentle Heart is one,
And one is Beauty's own;
And the spirit here that stands,
With pale and trembling hands,
Before to-morrow's morn
Will be a child new-born,
Will be a mortal maiden
With earthly sorrows laden;
But of these shining flowers
That bloom in heavenly bowers,
To-day she still may choose
One, and one refuse.
IV
Will she pluck the crimson flowerAnd win Beauty's dower?
Will she choose the better part
And gain the Gentle Heart?
Awhile she weeping waits
Within those pearly gates;
Alas! the mortal maiden
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Her tears afresh they start—
She has chosen the Gentle Heart.
V
And now the spirit goes,In her breast the snow-white rose.
When hark! a voice that calls
Within the garden walls:
“Thou didst choose the better part,
Thou hast won the Gentle Heart—
Lo, now to thee is given
The red rose of Heaven.”
A WOMAN'S THOUGHT
I am a woman—therefore I may not
Call to him, cry to him,
Fly to him,
Bid him delay not!
Call to him, cry to him,
Fly to him,
Bid him delay not!
Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;
Still as a stone—
All silent and cold.
If my heart riot—
Crush and defy it!
Should I grow bold,
Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him—
What to atone
Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning—
That he were lost to me.
Not as a lover
At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure—
Calm and demure
Then must I hold me,
In myself fold me,
Lest he discover;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me—
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.
Still as a stone—
All silent and cold.
If my heart riot—
Crush and defy it!
Should I grow bold,
Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him—
What to atone
Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning—
That he were lost to me.
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At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure—
Calm and demure
Then must I hold me,
In myself fold me,
Lest he discover;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me—
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.
Pity me, lean to me,
Thou God above me!
Thou God above me!
THE RIVER INN
The night was black and drear
Of the last day of the year.
Two guests to the river inn
Came, from the wide world's bound—
One with clangor and din,
The other without a sound.
Of the last day of the year.
Two guests to the river inn
Came, from the wide world's bound—
One with clangor and din,
The other without a sound.
“Now hurry, servants and host!
Get the best that your cellars boast.
White be the sheets and fine,
And the fire on the hearthstone bright;
Pile the wood, and spare not the wine,
And call him at morning-light.”
Get the best that your cellars boast.
White be the sheets and fine,
And the fire on the hearthstone bright;
Pile the wood, and spare not the wine,
And call him at morning-light.”
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“But where is the silent guest?
In what chamber shall she rest?
In this! Should she not go higher?
'T is damp, and the fire is gone.”
In what chamber shall she rest?
In this! Should she not go higher?
'T is damp, and the fire is gone.”
“You need not kindle the fire,
You need not call her at dawn.”
You need not call her at dawn.”
Next morn he sallied forth
On his journey to the North.
O, bright the sunlight shone
Through boughs that the breezes stir;
But for her was lifted a stone
Under the churchyard fir.
On his journey to the North.
O, bright the sunlight shone
Through boughs that the breezes stir;
But for her was lifted a stone
Under the churchyard fir.
THE HOMESTEAD
I
Here stays the house, here stay the selfsame places,Here the white lilacs and the buttonwoods;
Here the dark pine-groves, there the river-floods,
And there the threading brook that interlaces
Green meadow-bank with meadow-bank the same.
The melancholy nightly chorus came
Long, long ago from the same pool, and yonder
Stark poplars lift in the same twilight air
Their ancient lonelinesses; nearer, fonder,
The black-heart cherry-tree's gaunt branches bare
Rasp on the same old window where I ponder.
II
And we, the only living, only pass;We come and go, whither and whence we know not.
From birth to bound the same house keeps, alas!
New lives as gently as the old; there show not
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The looks that partings bring to human faces.
The black-heart there, that heard my earliest moan,
And yet shall hear my last, like all these places
I love so well, unloving lives from child
To child; from morning joy to evening sorrow—
Untouched by joy, by anguish undefiled;
All one the generations gone, and new;
All one dark yesterday and bright to-morrow;
To the old tree's insensate sympathy
All one the morning and the evening dew—
My far, forgotten ancestor and I.
AT FOUR SCORE
This is the house she was born in, full four-score years ago,
And here she is living still, bowed and ailing, but clinging
Still to this wonted life—like an ancient and blasted oak-tree,
Whose dying roots yet clasp the earth with an iron hold.
And here she is living still, bowed and ailing, but clinging
Still to this wonted life—like an ancient and blasted oak-tree,
Whose dying roots yet clasp the earth with an iron hold.
This is the house she was born in, and yonder across the bay
Is the home her lover builded, for her and for him and their children;
Daily she watched it grow, from dawn to the evening twilight,
As it rose on the orchard hill, 'mid the springtime showers and bloom.
Is the home her lover builded, for her and for him and their children;
Daily she watched it grow, from dawn to the evening twilight,
As it rose on the orchard hill, 'mid the springtime showers and bloom.
There is the village church, its steeple over the trees
Rises and shows the clock she has watched since the day it was started—
O, many a year ago, how many she cannot remember.
Now solemnly over the water rings out the evening hour.
Rises and shows the clock she has watched since the day it was started—
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Now solemnly over the water rings out the evening hour.
And there in that very church,—tho', alas, how bedizened, and changed!
They've painted it up, she says, in their queer, new, modern fashion,—
There on a morning in June, she gave her hand to her husband;
Her heart it was his (she told him) long years and years before.
They've painted it up, she says, in their queer, new, modern fashion,—
There on a morning in June, she gave her hand to her husband;
Her heart it was his (she told him) long years and years before.
Now here she sits at the window, gazing out on steeple and hill;
All but the houses are gone,—the church, and the trees, and the houses;—
All, all have gone long since, parents, and husband, and children;
And herself—she thinks, at times, she too has vanished and gone.
All but the houses are gone,—the church, and the trees, and the houses;—
All, all have gone long since, parents, and husband, and children;
And herself—she thinks, at times, she too has vanished and gone.
No, it cannot be she who stood in the church that morning in June,
Nor she who felt at her breast the lips of a child in the darkness;
But hark in the gathering dusk comes a low, quick moan of anguish—
Ah, it is she indeed, who has lived, who has loved, and lost.
Nor she who felt at her breast the lips of a child in the darkness;
But hark in the gathering dusk comes a low, quick moan of anguish—
Ah, it is she indeed, who has lived, who has loved, and lost.
For she thinks of a wintry night, when her last was taken away,
Forty years this very month, the last, the fairest, the dearest;
All gone—ah, yes, it is she who has loved, who has lost, and suffered,
She and none other it is, left alone in her sorrow and pain.
Forty years this very month, the last, the fairest, the dearest;
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She and none other it is, left alone in her sorrow and pain.
Still with its sapless roots, that stay tho' the branches have dropt—
Have withered, and fallen, and gone, their strength and their glory forgotten;
Still with the life that remains, silent, and faithful, and stedfast,
Through sunshine and bending storm clings the oak to its mother-earth.
Have withered, and fallen, and gone, their strength and their glory forgotten;
Still with the life that remains, silent, and faithful, and stedfast,
Through sunshine and bending storm clings the oak to its mother-earth.
JOHN CARMAN
I
John Carman of Carmeltown
Worked hard through the livelong day;
He drove his awl and he snapt his thread
And he had but little to say.
Worked hard through the livelong day;
He drove his awl and he snapt his thread
And he had but little to say.
He had but little to say
Except to a neighbor's child;
Three summers old she was, and her eyes
Had a look that was deep and wild.
Except to a neighbor's child;
Three summers old she was, and her eyes
Had a look that was deep and wild.
Her hair was heavy and brown
Like clouds in a starry night.
She came and sat by the cobbler's bench
And his soul was filled with delight.
Like clouds in a starry night.
She came and sat by the cobbler's bench
And his soul was filled with delight.
No kith nor kin had he
And he never went gadding about;
A strange, shy man, the people said;
They could not make him out.
And he never went gadding about;
A strange, shy man, the people said;
They could not make him out.
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And some of them shook their heads
And would never tell what they'd heard.
But he drove his awl and snapt his thread—
And he always kept his word;
And would never tell what they'd heard.
But he drove his awl and snapt his thread—
And he always kept his word;
And the little child that knew him
Better than all the rest,
She threw her arms around his neck
And went to sleep on his breast.
Better than all the rest,
She threw her arms around his neck
And went to sleep on his breast.
One day in that dreadful summer
When children died by the score,
John Carman glanced from his work and saw
Her mother there at the door.
When children died by the score,
John Carman glanced from his work and saw
Her mother there at the door.
He knew by the look on her face—
And his own turned deathly white;
He rose from his bench and followed her out
And watched by the child that night.
And his own turned deathly white;
He rose from his bench and followed her out
And watched by the child that night.
He tended her day and night;
He watched by her night and day.
He saw the cruel pain in her eyes;
He saw her lips turn gray.
He watched by her night and day.
He saw the cruel pain in her eyes;
He saw her lips turn gray.
II
The day that the child was buried
John Carman went back to his last,
And the neighbors said that for weeks and weeks
Not a word his clencht lips past.
John Carman went back to his last,
And the neighbors said that for weeks and weeks
Not a word his clencht lips past.
“He takes it hard,” they gossiped,
“Poor man, he's lacking in wit”;
“I'll drop in to-day,” said Deacon Gray,
“And comfort him up a bit.”
“Poor man, he's lacking in wit”;
“I'll drop in to-day,” said Deacon Gray,
“And comfort him up a bit.”
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So Deacon Gray dropt in
With a kind and neighborly air,
And before he left he knelt on the floor
And wrestled with God in prayer.
With a kind and neighborly air,
And before he left he knelt on the floor
And wrestled with God in prayer.
And he said: “O Lord, Thou hast stricken
This soul in its babyhood;
In Thy own way, we beseech and pray,
Bring forth from evil good.”
This soul in its babyhood;
In Thy own way, we beseech and pray,
Bring forth from evil good.”
III
That night the fire-bells rang
And the flames shot up to the sky,
And into the street as pale as a sheet
The town-folk flock and cry.
And the flames shot up to the sky,
And into the street as pale as a sheet
The town-folk flock and cry.
The bells ring loud and long,
The flames leap high and higher,
The rattling engines come too late—
The old First Church is on fire!
The flames leap high and higher,
The rattling engines come too late—
The old First Church is on fire!
And lo and behold in the crimson glare
They see John Carman stand—
A look of mirth on his iron lips
And a blazing torch in his hand.
They see John Carman stand—
A look of mirth on his iron lips
And a blazing torch in his hand.
“You say it was He who killed her”
(His voice had a fearful sound):
“I'd have you know, who love Him so,
I've burned His house to the ground.”
(His voice had a fearful sound):
“I'd have you know, who love Him so,
I've burned His house to the ground.”
John Carman died in prison,
In the madman's cell, they say;
And from his crime, that I've told in rhyme,
Heaven cleanse his soul, I pray.
In the madman's cell, they say;
And from his crime, that I've told in rhyme,
Heaven cleanse his soul, I pray.
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DRINKING SONG
Thou who lov'st and art forsaken,
Didst believe and wert mistaken,
From thy dream thou wilt not waken
When Death thee shall call.
Like are infidel, believer,
The deceived, and the deceiver,
When the grave hides all.
Didst believe and wert mistaken,
From thy dream thou wilt not waken
When Death thee shall call.
Like are infidel, believer,
The deceived, and the deceiver,
When the grave hides all.
What if thou be saint or sinner,
Crooked graybeard, straight beginner,—
Empty paunch, or jolly dinner,—
When Death thee shall call.
All alike are rich and richer,
King with crown, and cross-legged stitcher,
When the grave hides all.
Crooked graybeard, straight beginner,—
Empty paunch, or jolly dinner,—
When Death thee shall call.
All alike are rich and richer,
King with crown, and cross-legged stitcher,
When the grave hides all.
Hope not thou to live hereafter
In men's memories and laughter,
When, 'twixt hearth and ringing rafter,
Death thee shall call.
For we both shall be forgotten,
Friend, when thou and I are rotten
And the grave hides all.
In men's memories and laughter,
When, 'twixt hearth and ringing rafter,
Death thee shall call.
For we both shall be forgotten,
Friend, when thou and I are rotten
And the grave hides all.
THE VOYAGER
I
“Friend, why goest thou forth
When ice-hills drift from the north
And crush together?”
When ice-hills drift from the north
And crush together?”
“The Voice that me doth call
Heeds not the ice-hill's fall,
Nor wind, nor weather.”
Heeds not the ice-hill's fall,
Nor wind, nor weather.”
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II
“But, friend, the night is black;
Behold the driving rack
And wild seas under!”
Behold the driving rack
And wild seas under!”
“My straight and narrow bark
Fears not the threatening dark,
Nor storm, nor thunder.”
Fears not the threatening dark,
Nor storm, nor thunder.”
III
“But O, thy children dear!
Thy wife,—she is not here,—
I haste to bring her!”
Thy wife,—she is not here,—
I haste to bring her!”
“No, no, it is too late!
Hush, hush! I may not wait,
Nor weep, nor linger.”
Hush, hush! I may not wait,
Nor weep, nor linger.”
IV
“Hark! Who is he that knocks
With slow and dreadful shocks
The walls to sever?”
With slow and dreadful shocks
The walls to sever?”
“It is my Master's call,
I go, whate'er befall;
Farewell forever.”
I go, whate'er befall;
Farewell forever.”
A LAMENT
FOR THE DEAD OF THE JEANNETTE BROUGHT HOME ON THE FRISIA
I
O gates of ice! long have ye held our loved ones.
Ye Cruel! how could ye keep from us them for whom our hearts yearned—our dear ones, our fathers, our children, our brothers, our lovers?
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Cold and Sleet, Darkness and Ice! hard have ye held them; ye would not let them go.
Their hands ye have bound fast; their feet ye have detained; and well have ye laid hold upon the hearts of our loved ones.
O silent Arctic Night! thou hast wooed them from us.
O Secret of the white and unknown world! too strong hast thou been for us; we were as nothing to thee; thou hast drawn them from us; thou wouldst not let them go.
The long day past; thou wouldst not let them go.
The long, long night came and went; thou wouldst not let them go.
O thou insatiate! What to thee are youth, and life, and hope, and love?
For thou art Death, not Life; thou art Despair, not Hope.
Naught to thee the rush of youthful blood; naught to thee the beauty and strength of our loved ones.
The breath of their bodies was not sweet to thee; they loved thee, and thou lovedst not them.
They followed thee, thou didst not look upon them; but still, O thou inviolate! still did they follow thee.
Thee did they follow through storm, through perils of the ice, and of the unknown darkness.
The sharp spears of the frost they feared not; the terrors of death they feared not. For thee, for thee, for thee, not for us; only that they might look upon thy face!
All these they endured for thee; the thought of us whom yet they loved, this also they endured for thee.
For thou art beautiful, beyond the beauty of woman. In thy hair are the stars of night. Thou wrappest about thee garments of fire that burn not, and are never quenched;
When thou movest they are moved; when thou breathest they tremble.
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Yea, awful art thou in thy beauty; with white fingers beckoning in mists and shadows of the frozen sea; drawing to thee the hearts of heroes.
II
Long, long they have they tarried in thy gates, O North!
But now thou hast given them up. Lo, they come to us once more—our belovèd, our only ones!
O dearest, why have ye stayed so long?
With ye, night and day have come and gone, but with us there was night only.
But no, we will not reproach ye, hearts of our hearts, dearest and best; our fathers, our children, our brothers, our lovers!
Come back to us! Behold our arms are open for you; ye are ours; ye have returned unto us; ye shall never go hence again.
But why are ye silent, why do ye not stir, why do ye not speak to us, O belovèd ones?
White are your cheeks like snow; your eyes they do not look upon us.
So long ye have been gone, and is this your joy to see us once more?
Lo! do we not welcome ye? Are not our souls glad? Do not our tears, long kept, fall upon your faces?
Or do ye but sleep well, after those hard and weary labors? O, now awaken, for ye shall take rest and pleasure; here are your homes and kindred!
Listen, belovèd: here is your sister, here is your brother, here is your lover!
III
They will not hearken to our voices.
They are still; their eyes look not upon us.
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O insatiate! O Secret of the white and unknown world, cruel indeed thou art!
Thou hast sent back to us our best belovèd; their bodies thou hast rendered up, but their spirits thou hast taken away from us forever.
In life thou didst hold them from us—and in death, in death they are thine.
New York, February 20, 1884.
ILL TIDINGS
(THE STUDIO CONCERT)
In the long studio from whose towering wallsGreek Phidias beams, and Angelo appalls,
Eager the listening, downcast faces throng
While violins their piercing tones prolong.
At times I know not if I see, or hear,
Yon statue's smile, or some not sorrowing tear
Down-falling on the surface of the steam
That music pours across my waking dream.
Ah, is it then a dream that while repeat
Those chords, like strokes of silver-shod light feet,
And the great Master's music marches on—
I hear the horses of the Parthenon?
[OMITTED]
But all to-day seems vague, unreal, far,
With fear and discord in the dearest strain,
For 'neath yon slowly-sinking western star
One that I love lies on her bed of pain.
A NEW WORLD
“I know,” he said,
“The thunder and the lightning have past by
And all the earth is black, and burned, and dead;
But, friend, the grass will grow again, the flowers
Again will bloom, the summer birds will sing,
And the all-healing sun will shine once more.”
“The thunder and the lightning have past by
And all the earth is black, and burned, and dead;
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Again will bloom, the summer birds will sing,
And the all-healing sun will shine once more.”
“Blind prophecy,” she answered in her woe.
Yet still, as time wore on, the prophet's words
Came true,—but not all true. (So shall it be
With all who here may suffer mortal loss.)
Ere long the grass, the flowers, the birds, the sun
Once more made bright the bleak and desolate earth;
They came once more, those joys of other days;
She felt them, moved among them, and was glad.
Yet still, as time wore on, the prophet's words
Came true,—but not all true. (So shall it be
With all who here may suffer mortal loss.)
Ere long the grass, the flowers, the birds, the sun
Once more made bright the bleak and desolate earth;
They came once more, those joys of other days;
She felt them, moved among them, and was glad.
Glad—glad! O mocking world! They came once more,
But not the same to her. Familiar they
As a remembered dream, and beautiful—
But changed, all changed, the whole world changed forever.
But not the same to her. Familiar they
As a remembered dream, and beautiful—
But changed, all changed, the whole world changed forever.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |