The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

I built a house for quiet and dim peace, —
A place whereto when weary I might go,
To sit alone and let the pent tears flow,
And feel a little while their bitter ease.
I built my house, I ringed it round with trees,
And often, when the sun and winds were low,
I sat and mused there, while there seemed to grow
A rest begotten of dear memories.

But strange, unholy shapes with snake-wreathed brows
Did throng my refuge and defile my grove, —
So now no more about that house I move.
Still it looks peaceful through its shadowy boughs;
But voices from within the calm disprove:
What say you, then — shall I not burn my house?

II.

A magic circle holds me round, to-day, —
The air is vital with the young, sweet Spring;
In the fresh wind the leaves and grasses sing;
The songs of birds are blown from spray to spray;
The time is pure, and ardent, and how gay!
Now falls the saintly dusk; low whispering
The gentle wind goes by with flagging wing,
The sun to follow, on his downward way.

Great quietude of moonlight holds the land;
Now if one word I whisper to the air,
If one way turn, or even reach my hand,
The spell is broken, and my Spring to scare
Comes Winter back, and shivering I stand,
Once more the old blast of his old winds to bear.

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III.

I walked in Summer through green, pleasant ways,
And heard a soft wind singing as I went,
And casual songs of birds; sweet was the scent
Of wild things prospering in a sheltered place;
But suddenly chill rain-drops smote my face,
And, like the sad, melodious discontent
That wakens in the wind-played instrument,
The low wind sighed, recalling other days.

I passed into a churchyard filled with dead;
And all the graves, it seemed, had separate tongues,
For over each a bird poised, wings outspread,
And sang sad things of those deaf, eyeless throngs:
“What may this mean?” I cried, and one there said,
“These be thy griefs of old, and these thy songs.”

IV.

Thou sayest, “The skies are dark above my head,
Destroying waves break loud upon my strand,
Wild winds and ruining blight infest my land:
'T is Summer still, but Summer flowers lie shed
On wind-scourged paths; my song-birds all are dead:
Only the oldest trees may hope to stand
Against this mad wind's devastating hand,
There will I house me till its wrath be sped.”

Thou fool! Thou shalt awake some day to see
Thine oldest trees crash round thee, every one;
To meet no darkness, but the insatiate sun,
A beast with eyes of flame, and thee for prey;
And slight, indeed, on that disastrous day,
Will seem this dead day's harsh calamity.

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V.

She sits at home in lordly palaces,
With glowing eyes, and flowing, vine-wreathed hair,
And dainty, white-rose body left half bare;
And they who find life glad and full of ease
Make love to her, and sweet she is to these;
And they who know the blackness of despair
Turn to her, seeing she is surely fair,
And from their pain she gives them swift release.

The same she is who walks the populous street,
A painted, brazen harlot without shame;
But all her lovers, poor and rich, shall meet
There where she leads them, — where in lurid flame
Those gone before her fiery kiss entreat,
Gnash teeth, and dying execrate her name.

University of Virginia Library

PARABLES.

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