World Voices :: :: University of Virginia Library

“This is my task: Amid Discordant strife
To keep a clean, sweet center in my life,
And though the human orchestra may be
Playing all out of key,
To tune my soul to symphonies above
And sound the note of love.
This is my task.”
“THIS IS MY TASK”

THIS IS MY TASK

When the whole world resounds with rude alarms
Of warring arms,
When God's good earth, from border unto border,
Shows man's disorder,
Let me not waste my dower of mortal might
In grieving over wrongs I cannot right.
This is my task: Amid discordant strife
To keep a clean, sweet center in my life,
And though the human orchestra may be
Playing all out of key,
To tune my soul to symphonies above
And sound the note of love.
This is my task.

When, by the minds of men, most beauteous Faith
Seems doomed to death,
And to her place is hoisted, by soul-treason,
The dullard Reason,
Let me not hurry forth with flag unfurled
To proselyte an unbelieving world.
This is my task: In depths of unstarred night
Or in diverting and distracting light,
To keep (in crowds or in my room alone)
Faith on her lofty throne,
And whatsoever happen or befall,
To see God's hand in all.
This is my task.

When, in church pews, men worship God in words,
But meet their kind with swords,
When fair Religion, stripped of holy passion,
Walks masked as Fashion,
Let me not wax indignant at the sight
Or waste my strength bewailing her sad plight.
This is my task: To search in my own mind
Until the qualities of God I find;
To seek them in the heart of friend and foe,
Or high or low,
And in my hours of toil or prayer or play,
To live my creed each day,
This is my task.

The Superwoman

What will the superwoman be, of whom we sing—
She who is coming over the dim border
Of far To-morrow, after earth's disorder
Is tidied up by Time? What will she bring
To make life better on tempestuous earth?
How will her worth
Be greater than her forebears? What new power
Within her being will burst into flower?

She will bring beauty, not the transient dower
Of adolescence which departs with youth,
But beauty based on knowledge of the truth
Of its eternal message and the source
Of its all potent force.
Her outer being by the inner thought
Shall into lasting loveliness be wrought.

She will bring virtue; but it will not be
The pale, white blossom of cold chastity
Which hides a barren heart. She will be human—
Not saint or angel—but the superwoman,
Mother and mate and friend of superman.

She will bring strength to aid the larger Plan,
Wisdom and strength and sweetness all combined.
Drawn from the Cosmic Mind—
Wisdom to act, and courage to attain,
And sweetness that finds growth in joy or pain.

She will bring that large virtue, self-control,
And cherish it as her supremest treasure.
Not at the call of sense or for Man's pleasure
Will she invite from space an embryo soul,
To live on earth again in mortal fashion,
Unless love stirs her with divinest passion.

To motherhood, she will bring common sense—
That most uncommon virtue. She will give
Love that is more than she-wolf violence,
(Which slaughters others that its own may live),
Love that will help each little tendril mind
To grow and climb;
Love that will know the lordliest use of Time
Is training human egos to be kind.

She will be formed to guide, but not to lead—
Leaders are ever lonely—and her sphere
Will be that of the comrade and the mate,
Loved, loving, and with insight fine and clear,
Which casts its search-light on the course of fate.
And to the leaders says, “Proceed” or “Wait.”

And best of all, she will bring holy faith
To penetrate the shadowy world of Death,
And show the road beyond it, bright and broad.
That leads straight up to God.

PRAISE DAY

Let us halt now for a space in our hurrying
Let us take time to look up and look out.
Let us refuse for a spell to be worrying;
Let us decline both to question or doubt.
If one goes caviling
Hair splitting, flaw hunting, ready for strife,
All the best pleasure is missed in the traveling
Onward through life.

Just for today we will put away sorrowing
Just for today not a tear shall be shed.
Nor will we fear anything or go borrowing
Pain from the future by profitless dread.
Thought shall go frolicking
Pleasuring, treasuring, everything bright;
Tasting the joy that is found just in rolicking
On through the light.

Just for today all the ills that need bettering
We will omit from our notebook of mind.
All that is good we will mark by red lettering;
Those things alone we are seeking to find.
Things to be sad over,
Pine over, whine over, pass them, I say.
Nothing is noted save what we are glad over—
This is Praise Day.

COMPASSION

He was a failure; and one day he died.
Across the border of the mapless land
He found himself among a sad-eyed band
Of disappointed souls: they, too, had tired
And missed their purpose. With one voice they cried
Unto the shining Angel in command
“Oh, lead us not before our Lord to stand
For we are failures, failures. Let us hide.”

Yet on the Angel fared until they stood
Before the Master. (Even his holy place
The hideous noises of the earth assailed.)

Christ reached his arms out to the trembling brood,
With God's vast sorrow in his listening face.
“Come unto me,” he said, “I, too, have failed.”

The Younger Born

[_]

The modern English-speaking young girl is the astonishment of the world and the despair of the older generation. Nothing like her has ever been seen or heard before. Alike in drawing-rooms and the amusement places of the people, she defies long-established conventions in dress, speech, and conduct. She is bold, yet not immoral. She is immodest, yet she is chaste. She has no ideals, yet she is kind and generous. She is an anomaly and a paradox.

We are the little daughters of Time and the World, his wife;
We are not like the children born in their younger life;
We are marred with our mother's follies and torn with our father's strife.

We are the little daughters of the modern World
And Time, her spouse.
She had brought many children to our father's house
Before we came, when both our parents were content
With simple pleasures and with quiet, homely ways.
Modest and mild
Were the fair daughters born to them in those fair days,
Modest and mild.

But Father Time grew restless and longed for a swifter pace,
And our mother pushed out beside him at the cost of her tender grace,
And life was no more living, but just a headlong race.

And we are wild—
Yea, wild are we, the younger born of the World.
Into life's vortex hurled.
With the milk of our mother's breast
We drank her own unrest,
And we learned our speech from Time,
Who scoffs at the things sublime.
Time and the World have hurried so,
They could not help their younger born to grow.
We only follow, follow where they go.

They left their high ideals behind them as they ran;
There was but one goal—pleasure for Woman or for Man,
And they robbed the nights of slumber to lengthen the days' brief span.

We are the demi-virgins of the modern day;
All evil on the earth is known to us in thought,
But yet we do it not.
We bare our beauteous bodies to the gaze of men;
We lure them, tempt them, lead them on, and then
Lightly we turn away.
By strong, compelling passion we are never stirred:
To us it is a word—
A word much used when tragic tales are told.
We are the younger born, yet we are very old

In understanding, and our knowledge makes us bold.
Boldly we look at life,
Loving its stress and strife,
And hating all conventions that may mean restraint,
Yet shunning sin's black taint.

We know wine's taste;
And the young-maiden bloom and sweetness of our lips
Is often in eclipse,
Under the brown weed's stain.
Yet we are chaste.
We have no large capacity for joy or pain,
But an insatiable appetite for pleasure.
We have no use for leisure,
And never learned the meaning of that word “repose.”
Life, as it goes,
Must spell excitement for us, be the cost what may.
Speeding along the way,
We ofttimes pause to do some generous little deed
And fill the cup of need;
For we are kind at heart,
Though with less heart than head.
Unmoral, not immoral, when the worst is said,
We are the product of the modern day.

We are the little daughters of Time and the World, his wife;
We are not like the children born in their younger life;
We are marred with our mother's follies and torn with our father's strife.

CONTRASTS

A great gold sun in the skies above us;
A great green world about;
Fair winds out,
And a blue sea flowing;
And boats with white sails coming and going.
For the friends we love and the friends who love us,
Sing ho—sing—
Life is a goodly thing.

(The prison stands against the sky
A monument of gloom;
The dead are there who did not die
Yet dwell within a tomb,
If summers come or winters go
They do not seem to care, or know;
They do not sing, they do not sing.)

Birds in the orchard and bees in the clover
Rainbows abloom in the sod;
Lovers abroad;
And somebody singing
An old sweet air on taut strings ringing,
And off in the woodlands the cry of a lover.
Sing ho, I say—
Life is a holiday.

(The Factory offends the air—
With shrill imperious calls;
And little children hurrying there
Are lost within its walls;
It does not matter much someway
If bright or dark the outer day.
They do not sing, they do not sing.)

BELGIUM

Ruined? Destroyed? Ah, no; though blood in rivers ran
Down all her ancient streets; though treasures manifold,
Love-wrought, time-mellowed, and beyond the price of gold
Are lost, yet Belgium's star shines still in God's vast plan.

Rarely have kings been great, since kingdoms first began;
Rarely have great kings been great men when all was told.
But, by the lighted torch in mailed hands, behold
Immortal Belgium's immortal king, and man.

IF I WERE A MAN, A YOUNG MAN

If I were a man, a young man and knew what I know today,
I would look in the eyes of Life undaunted
By any Fate that might threaten me.
I would give to the world what the world most wanted—
Manhood that knows it can do and be;
Courage that dares, and faith that can see
Clear into the depths of the human soul,
And find God there, and the ultimate goal—
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know today

If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know today,
I would think of myself as the masterful creature
Of all the masterful plan;
The Formless Cause, with form and feature;
The Power that heeds not limit or ban;
Man, wonderful man.
I would do good deeds, and forget them straightway;
I would weave my woes into ropes and climb
Up to the heights of the helper's gateway;
And Life should serve me, and Time,
And I would sail out, and out, and find
The treasures that lie in that deep sea,
Mind.
I would dream, and think, and act;
I would work, and love, and pray,
Till each dream and vision grew into a fact
If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know today.

If I were a man, a young man, and knew what I know today,
I would guard my passions as Kings guard treasures,
And keep them high and clean.
(For the will of a man, with his passions measures;
It is strong as they are keen.)
I would think of each woman as some one's mother;
I would think of each man as my own blood brother,
And speed him along on his way.
And the glory of life in this wonderful hour
Should fill me and thrill me with conscious power,
If I were a man, a young man and knew what I know today.

It May Be

Let us be silent for a little while;
Let us be still and listen. We may hear
Echoes from other worlds not far away.

City on city rising, steeple out-topping steeple,
Gaining and hoarding and spending, and armies on battle bent,
People and people and people, and ever more human people—
This is not all of creation, this is not all that was meant!
Earth on its orbit spinning,
This is not end nor beginning;
That is but one of a trillion spheres out into the ether hurled:
We move in a zone of wonder,
And over our planet and under,
Are infinite orders of beings and marvels of world on world.

There may be moving among us, curious people and races,
Folk of the fourth dimension, folk of the vast star spaces.
They may be trying to reach us,
They may be longing to teach us
Things we are longing to know.
If it is so,
Voices like these are not heard in earth s riot,
Let us be quiet.

Classes with classes disputing, nation warring with nation,
Building and owning and seeking to lead—this is not all!
Endless the works of creation,
There may be waiting our call
Beings in numberless legions,
Dwellers in rarefied regions,
Journeying Godward like us,
Alist for a word to be spoken,
Awatch for a sign or a token,
If it be thus,
How they must grieve at our riotous noise
And the things we call duties and joys!

Let us be silent for a little while;
Let us be still and listen. We may hear
Echoes from other worlds not far away

AN OLD SONG

Two roadways lead from This land to That; and one is the road of Prayer;
And one is the road of Old Time Songs, and every note is a stair.

A shabby old man with a music machine on the sordid city street,—
But suddenly earth seemed Arcady, and life grew young and sweet
For the city street fled and the world was green and a little house stood by the sea;
And she came singing a martial air (she who was peace itself);
She brought back with her the old strange charm of mingled pathos and glee;
With her eyes of a child in a woman's face and her soul of a saint in an elf.

She had been gone for many a year, they tell us it is not far,—
That silent place where the dear ones go but it might as well be a star.
Yes it might as well be a distant star, as a beautiful Near-By-Land.
If we hear no voice, and see no face, and feel no touch of a hand.

But now she had come, for I saw her there, and she looked so blithe and young;
(Not white and still as I saw her last) and the rose that she wore was red;
And her voice soared up in a birdlike trill, at the end of the song she sung,
And she mimicked a soldier's warlike stride and tossed back her dear little head.

She had been gone for many a year, and never came back before;
But I think she dwells in a Near-By-Land since a song jarred open the door;
Yes I think it is surely a Near-By-Land, that place where our loved ones are
For the song would never have reached her ear had she been on a distant star.

Two roadways lead from This land to That; and one is the road of Prayer;
And one is the road of Old Time Songs, and every note is a stair.

BEAUTY

The search for beauty is the search for God,
Who is All Beauty. He who seeks shall find;
And all along the paths my feet have trod,
I have sought hungrily with heart and mind
And open eyes for beauty everywhere.
Lo! I have found the world is very fair.
The search for beauty is the search for God.

Beauty was first revealed to me by stars.
Before I saw it in my mother's eyes,
Or, seeing, sensed it beauty, I was stirred
To awe and wonder by those orbs of light,
All palpitant against empurpled skies.
They spoke a language to my childish heart
Of mystery and splendor and of space,
Friendly with gracious, unseen presences.
Beauty was first revealed to me by stars.

Sunsets enlarged the meaning of the word.
There was a window looking to the west:
Beyond it, wide Wisconsin fields of grain,
And then a hill, whereon white flocks of clouds
Would gather in the afternoon to rest.
And when the sun went down behind that hill,
What scenes of glory spread before my sight—
What beauty—beauty, absolute, supreme!
Sunsets enlarged the meaning of that word.

Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet,
In summer billowed like a crimson sea
Across the meadow lands. One day, I stood
Breast-high amidst its waves, and heard the hum
Of myriad bees that had gone mad like me
With fragrance and with beauty. Over us,
A loving sun smiled from a cloudless sky,
While a bold breeze kissed lightly as it passed
Clover in blossom, red and honey-sweet.

Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful,
And in the gallery of Nature hung
Colossal pictures hard against the sky,
Set forests gorgeous with a hundred hues,
And with each morning some new wonder flung
Before she startled world—some daring shade,
Some strange, new scheme of color and of form.
Autumn spoke loudly of the beautiful.

Winter, though rude, is delicate in art—
More delicate than summer or than fall
(Even as rugged Man is more refined
In vital things than Woman). Winter's touch
On Nature seemed most beautiful of all—
That evanescent beauty of the frost
On window-panes, of clean, fresh-fallen snow,
Of white, white sunlight on the ice-draped trees.
Winter, though rude, is delicate in art.

Morning! The word itself is beautiful,
And the young hours have many gifts to give
That feed the soul with beauty. He who keeps
His days for labor and his nights for sleep
Wakes conscious of the joy it is to live,
And brings from that mysterious Land of Dreams
A sense of beauty that illumines earth.
Morning! The word itself is beautiful.

The search for beauty is the search for God.

THE WHITE MAN

Wherever the white man's feet have trod
(Oh, far does the white man stray)
A bold road rifles the virginal sod,
And the forest wakes out of its dream of God,
To yield him the right of way.
For this is the law: By the power of thought,
For worse, or for better, are miracles wrought.

Wherever the white man's pathway leads,
(Far, far hast that pathway gone)
The earth is littered with broken creeds—
And always the dark man's tent recedes,
And the white man pushes on.
For this is the law: Be it good or ill,
All things must yield to the stronger will.

Wherever the white man's light is shed,
(Oh, far has that light between thrown)
Though nature has suffered and beauty bled,
Yet the goal of the race has been thrust ahead,
And the might of the race has grown.
For this is the law: Be it cruel or kind,
The Universe sways to the power of mind.

AFTER

Over the din of battle,
Over the cannons' rattle,
Over the strident voices of men and their dying groans,
I hear the falling of thrones.

Out of the wild disorder
That spreads from border to border,
I see a new world rising from ashes of ancient towns;
And the Rulers wear no crowns.

Over the blood-charged water,
Over the fields of slaughter,
Down to the hidden vaults of Time, where lie the worn-out things
I see the passing of Kings.

THE HARP

The Harp is dual natured—Heaven and Earth
Are parents of its birth;
Heaven, the radiant mother; Earth, the sire
Whose unappeased desire
Reverberates and rings
Along its throbbing strings.

In sounds more eloquent than any word
The Heavenly Mother speaks—in tender chords
And tones that seem the echo from God's lands
Of singing choral bands.

The Spirit of Celestial music floats
Great argosies of soft melodious notes
Down the high octaves to their port and goal,
The human soul.

Then from some deep sea place, where dwells the resonant bass,
All suddenly the mortal passions wake
And like wind-driven billows, rush and break
Upon the heart and flood it with an ocean
Of memory and emotion.
Ambitions, aspirations, hopes and dreams
Past, present, future, swirl in these great streams
Of harmony; and over and above
Sounds the clear call of love.

Into her confidence has Nature taken
The wondrous harp; so oft her strings are shaken
By voices of the wind—
By eerie laughter of the elfin kind—
By ripple of the brooks, by fall of leaves
And by the ebbing tide that sighs and grieves—
By whirr of wings at dawn—by that sweet word
Uttered in deep wood trysts twixt bird and bird
At mating time—yea all that Nature feels
And knows and understands, the Harp reveals.

IT MATTERS ONLY

Carthage has gone, and Nineveh and Tyre!
Yea, thrice has Carthage in the dust been laid.
Of other, older, cities, Time has made
Dry kindling, for Ambition's funeral pyre.
This is the certain end of all desire.
Our work must perish and our dreams must fade;
Yet do I wake, each morning, undismayed,
To dream new dreams, to labor, and aspire.

It does not matter that my name must die,
My structures fall and nothing leave behind,
My best achievements pass away forever;
It matters only that immortal I
Feel God is in my heart and soul and mind,
Urging me on and on to new endeavor.

EUROPE

Little lads and grandsires,
Women old with care;
But all men are dying men
Or dead men over there.

No one stops to dig graves;
Who has time to spare?
The dead men, the dead men
How the dead men stare!

Kings are out a-hunting—
Oh, the sport is rare;
With dying men and dead men
Falling everywhere.

Life for lads and grandsires;
Spoils for kings to share;
And dead men, dead men
Dead men everywhere.

THE SUITORS

There is a little Bungalow,
Perched on a granite ledge,
And at its feet two suitors meet;
(I watch them, and I know)
One waits outside the casement edge;
One paces to and fro.

The Patient Rock speaks not a word;
The Sea goes up and down,
And sings full oft, in cadence soft;
(I listen, and have heard)
Again he wears an angry frown
By jealous passion stirred.

This dawn, the Rock was all aglow;
Far out the mad Sea went,
Beyond the raft, like one gone daft;
(I saw them, and I know)
While radiant and well content
Smiled down the Bungalow.

That was at Dawn; ere day had set,
The Sea with pleading voice
Came back to woo his love anew;
(I saw them when they met)
And now I know not which her choice—
(The Rock's gray face was wet.)

OCCUPATION

There must in Heaven be many industries
And occupations, varied, infinite,
Or Heaven could not be Heaven. What gracious tasks
The Mighty Maker of the Universe
Can offer souls, that have prepared on earth
By holding lovely thoughts and fair desires!

Art thou a poet to whom words come not!
A dumb composer of unuttered sounds,
Ignored by fame and to the world unknown?
Thine may be, then, the mission to create
Immortal lyrics and immortal strains,
For stars to chant together as they swing
About the holy centre where God dwells.

Hast thou the artist instinct with no skill
To give it form or color? Unto thee
It may be given to paint upon the skies
Astounding dawns and sunsets, framed by seas
And mountains; or to fashion and adorn
New faces for sweet pansies and new dyes
To tint their velvet garments. Oftentimes
Methinks behind a beauteous flower I see
Or in the tender glory of a dawn,
The presence of some spirit who has gone
Into the Place of Mystery, whose call
Imperious and compelling, sounds for all
Or soon or late. So many have passed on—
So many with ambitions, hopes and aims
Unrealized, who could not be content
As idle Angels, even in paradise.
The unknown Michael Angelos, who lived
With thoughts on beauty bent while chained to toil
That gave them only bread and burial—
These must find waiting in the World of Space
The shining timbers of their splendid dreams
Ready for shaping Temples, Shrines and Towers
Where radiant hosts may congregate to raise
Their glad hosannas to the God Supreme.
And will there not be gardens glorious
And Mansions all embosomed among blooms,
Where heavenly children reach out loving arms
To lonely women who have been denied
On earth, the longed for boon of Motherhood?

Surely God has provided work to do
For souls like these, and for the weary, rest

OH, POOR SICK WORLD

Lord of all the Universe, when I think of YOU,
Flinging stars out into space, moving suns and tides;
Then this little mortal mind, gets the larger view;
And the carping self of me, runs away and hides.

Then I see all shadowed paths, leading out to Light;
See the false things fade away, leaving but the True;
See the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right;
When this little mortal mind, gets the larger view.

Cavillings at this and that, censure, doubt and fear,
Fly, as fly before the dawn, insects of the night;
Life and Death are understood; everything seems clear,
All the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right.

The World has walked with fever in its veins
For many and many a day. Oh, poor sick World!
Not knowing all its dreams of greed and gain
Of selfish conquest and possession, were
Disordered visions of a brain diseased.

Now the World's malady is at its height
And there is foul contagion in its breath.
It raves of death and slaughter; and the stars
Shake with reverberations of its cries,
And the sad seas are troubled and dismerged.

So must it rave—this sick and suffering world—
Until the old secretions in its blood
Are emptied out and purged away by war;
And the deep seated cankers of the mind
Begin the healing process. Then a calm
Shall come upon the earth; and that loved word
PEACE, shall be understood from shore to shore.

Shriek on, mad World. The Great Physician sits
Serenely conscious of the coming change,
Nor seeks to check the fever; it must run
Until its course is finished. He can wait.

He feels but pity for His ailing charge—
Not blame or anger. And He knows the hour
Will surely dawn when that sick child shall wake
Free from all frenzied fancies, and shall turn
Clear-seeing eyes upon the face of God.

In His vast Solar Systems He has seen
So many other Worlds delirious.

Lord of all Universe when I think of YOU,
Then this little mortal mind gets the larger view.
Then I see all shadowed paths leading into Light,
Where the wrong things slay themselves, leaving only Right.
Oh, poor sick World!

THE WINDS OF FATE

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the self-same winds that blow;
'Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
That tells them the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the winds of fate
As we voyage along through life;
'Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal
And not the calm or the strife.

America

I am the refuge of all the oppressed,
I am the boast of the free,
I am the harbor where ships may rest
Safely 'twixt sea and sea.
I hold up a torch to a darkened world,
I lighten the path with its ray.
Let my hand keep steady
And let me be ready
For whatever comes my way—
Let me be ready.

Oh, better than fortresses, better than guns,
Better than lance or spear,
Are the loyal hearts of my daughters and sons,
Faithful and without fear.
But my daughters and sons must understand
That Attila did not die.
And they must be ready,
Their hands must be steady,
If the hosts of hell come nigh—
They must be ready.

If Jesus were back on the earth with men,
He would not preach today
Until He had made him a scourge, and again
He would drive the defilers away.
He would throw down the tables of lust and greed
And scatter the changers' gold.
He would be ready,
His hand would be steady,
As it was in that temple of old—
He would be ready.

I am the cradle of God's new world,
From me shall the new race rise,
And my glorious banner must float unfurled,
Unsullied against the skies.
My sons and daughters must be my strength,
With courage to do and to dare.
With hearts that are ready,
With hands that are steady,
And their slogan must be, Prepare!
They must be ready!

With a prayer on the lip they
must shoulder arms.
For after all has been said,
We must muster guns,
If we master Huns—
And Attila is not dead—
We must be ready!

SONGS OF LOVE AND THE SEA

I

When first we met (the Sea and I),
Like one before a King
I stood in awe; nor felt nor saw
The sun, the winds, the earth, the sky
Or any other thing.
God's Universe to me,
Was just the Sea.

When next we met, the lordly Main
Played but a courtier's part;
Crowned Queen was I; and earth and sky,
And sun and sea were my domain,
Since love was in my heart.
Before, beyond, above,
Was only Love.

II

Love built me on a little rock,
A little house of pine;
At first, the Sea
Beat angrily
About that house of mine;
(That dear, dear home of mine).

But when it turned to go away
Beyond the sandy track,
Down o'er its wall
The house would call,
Until the Sea came back;
(It always hurried back).

And now the two have grown so fond,
(Oh, breathe no word of this),
When clouds hang low,
And east winds blow,
They meet and kiss and kiss;
(At night, I hear them kiss).

III

No man can understand the Sea until
He knows all passions of the senses, all
The great emotions of the heart, and each
Exalted aspiration of the soul.
Then may he sit beside the sea and say:
“I, too, have flung myself against the rocks,
And kissed their flinty brows with no return,
And fallen spent upon unfeeling sands.
I, too, have gone forth yearning, to far shores,
Seeking that something which would bring content,
And finding only what I took away;
And I have looked up through the veil of skies
When all the world was still, and understood
That I am one with Nature and with God.”

IV

The Dawn was flying from the Night;
Swift as the wind she sped;
Her hair was like a fleece of light;
Her cheeks were warm and red.

All passion pale, the Night pursued;
She fled away, away;
And in her garments, rainbow hued,
She gained the peak of day.

And then, all shaken with alarms,
She leaped down from its crest
Into the Sea's uplifted arms,
And swooned upon his breast.

WHAT THEY SAW

Sad man, sad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?

I saw the unloved and unhappy old waiting for slow, delinquent death to come;
Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where sunlight is ashamed to go;
The awful almshouse, where the living dead rot slowly in their hideous, open graves.
And there were shameful things:
Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil-ships, and loud-winged devil-birds,
All bent on slaughter and destruction. These and yet more shameful things mine eyes beheld:
Old men upon lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with no thought of God,
And half-clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the underworld,
Engrossed in shallow pleasures, and intent on being barren wives.
These things I saw.
(How God must loathe his earth!)

Glad man, glad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?

I saw an aged couple in whose eyes
Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith
Which makes the earth one room of paradise
And leaves no sting in death.

I saw vast regiments of children pour,
Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door,
By Progress mobilized. They seemed to say:
“Let ignorance make way.
We are the heralds of a better day.”

I saw the college and the church that stood
For all things sane and good.
I saw God's helpers in the shop and slum
Blazing a path for health and hope to come,
And True Religion, from the grave of creeds,
Springing to meet man's needs.

I saw great Science reverently stand
And listen for a sound from Border-land,
No longer arrogant with unbelief,
Holding itself aloof,
But drawing near and searching high and low
For that complete and all convincing proof
Which shall permit its voice to comfort grief,
Saying, “We know.”

I saw fair women in their radiance rise
And trample old traditions in the dust,
Looking in their clear eyes.
I seemed to hear these words as from the skies.
“He who would father our sweet children must
Be worthy of the trust.”

Against the rosy dawn. I saw unfurled
The banner of the race we usher in—
The supermen and -women of the world.
Who make no code of sex to cover sin.
Before they till the soil of parenthood,
They look to it that seed and soil are good.

And I saw, too, that old, old, sight, and best—
Pure mothers with dear babies at the breast,
These things I saw.
(How God must love his earth!)

WE MUST SEND THEM OUT TO PLAY

Now much there is need of doing must not be done in haste;
But slowly and with patience, as a jungle is changed to a town.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not always so:
When a murderer's hand is lifted to kill, there is no time to waste;
And the way to change his purpose is first to knock him down
And teach him the law of kindness after you give him the blow.

The acorn you plant in the morning will not give shade at noon;
And the thornless cactus must be bred by year on year of toil.
But listen, my brothers, listen; it is not ever the way,
For the roots of the poison ivy plant you cannot pull too soon;
If you would better your garden and make the most of your soil,
Hurry and dig up the evil things and cast them out today.

The ancient sin of the nations no law can ever efface;
We must wait for the mothers of men to grow, and give clean souls to their sons.
But listen, my brothers, listen; when a child cries out in pain,
We must rise from the banquet board and go, though the host is saying grace;
We must rise and find the Herod of Greed, who is killing our little ones,
Nor ever go back to the banquet until the monster is slain.

The strong man waits for justice, with lifted soul and eyes,
As a sturdy oak will face the storm and does not break or bow.
But listen, my brothers, listen; the child is a child for a day;
If a merciless foot treads down each shoot, how can the forest rise?
We are robbing the race when we rob a child; we must rescue the children NOW;
We must rescue the little slaves of Greed and send them out to play.

A Revery in the Station-House

Last night I walked along the city street
And smiled at men; they saw the ancient sin
In my young eyes, and one said, “Come with me.”
I went with him, believing my poor purse
Would fatten with his gold. He brought me here
And turned the key upon me. In an hour,
I shall be called before the judge and fined,
Because I have solicited. How strange
And inexplicable a thing is law—
How curious its whys, and why-nots! I
Was young and innocent of evil thought
A few brief years ago. My brother's friend,
A social favorite to whom all doors
Were open (and a church communicant),
Sought me, soliciting my faith and trust,
And brushed the dew of virtue from my lips;
Then left me to my solitary thoughts.
Death and misfortune entered on the scene;
I was thrown out to battle with the world,
And hide the anguish of a maid deflowered.

I left my first employer,—left because
He, too, solicited those favors that
No contract mentions, but which seem to be
Expected duties by unwritten law
In many business-houses. Soon I learned
That virtue is, indeed, its own reward.
And often finds no other. My poor wage
For honest labor and a decent life
Scarce kept me fed and sheltered. Everywhere
In office, boarding-house, and in church aisles
I met the eyes of men soliciting.
They supplemented pleading looks by words,
And laughed at all my scruples. Finally,
The one compelling lover had his way,
And when he wearied of me I began
The dreary treadmill of the city streets,
Soliciting whoever crossed my path
To take my favors and to give me gold.

Somehow, I cannot seem to understand
Why there is law to punish me for that,
And none to punish any of the men
Who have pursued me with soliciting
Right from the threshold of my childhood's home
To this grim station-house.
My case is called?
Well, lead the way, and I will follow you.

PAIN'S PURPOSE

How blind is he who prays that God will send
All pain from earth. Pain has its use and place;
Its ministry of holiness and grace.
The darker tones upon the canvas blend
With light and color; and their shadows lend
The painting half its dignity. Efface
The sombre background, and you lose all trace
Of that perfection which is true art's trend.

Life is an artist seeking to reveal
God's majesty and beauty in each soul.
If from the palette mortal man could steal
The precious pigment pair, why then the scroll
Would glare with colors meaningless and bright,
Or show an empty canvas, blurred with light.

LAWNS

The roads that from my childhood's home led out,
As seasons changed were paved with dust or snow;
And in the summer, bordered all about
With unkempt grasses, and wild weeds ablow.

I can recall the early ride to town,
One soft spring morning in the month of May.
(The promised purchase of my Sunday gown
Lent mystery and glory to the day.)

And I recall the feeling even yet,
Which stole upon me as we neared the place
Where country roads with city pavements met,
For there life seemed to show a fairer face.

The gala windows of the tempting store—
The throngs of people moving on and on—
I loved the sight of these; but loved still more
The vernal splendor of each close cut lawn.

Down to the very street from each abode
They stretched their lovely lengths, block after block;
A comely contrast to the dusty road
And weedy wilds where I was wont to walk.

They lay like velvet carpets soft and bright,
Spread for the feet of Beauty and Repose.
My unformed mind was moved by pure delight,
And something sweet and tender in me rose.

A vision nebulous and indistinct
Lifted my fancy to a world ideal
Where earth and fairyland were interlinked
And all the “might be's” of this life were real.

And where the country places all were towns,
With gala windows filled with What-we-Seek;
Where little children wore their Sunday gowns
And danced on emerald lawns throughout the week.

So in her wonderhouse of beauteous wares
Which Life has shown to me, a green lawn seems
Like tapestries thrown over flights of stairs
On which I mounted to my world of dreams.

I AM RUNNING FORTH TO MEET YOU

I am running forth to meet you, O my Master,
For they tell me you are surely on the way;
Yes, they tell me you are coming back again
(While I run, while I run).
And I wish my feet were winged to speed on faster,
And I wish I might behold you here today,
Lord of men.

I am running, yet I walk beside my neighbor,
And I take the duties given me to do;
Yes, I take the daily duties as they fall
(While I run, while I run),
And my heart runs with my hand and helps the labor,
For I think this is the way that leads to you,
Lord of all.

I am running, yet I turn from toil and duty,
Oftentimes to just the art of being glad;
Yes, to just the joys that make the earth-world bright
(While I run, while I run).
For the soul that worships God must worship beauty,
And the heart that thinks of You can not be sad,
Lord of Light.

I am running, yet I pause to greet my brother,
And I lean to rid my garden of its weed;
Yes, I lean, although I lift my thoughts above
(While I run, while I run).
And I think of that command, “Love one another.”
As I hear discordant sounds of creed with creed,
Lord of Love.

I am running, and the road is lit with splendor,
And it brightens and shines fairer with each span;
Yes, it brightens like the highway in a dream
(While I run, while I run).
And my heart to all the world grows very tender,
For I seem to see the Christ in every man,
Lord supreme.

HIS LAST LETTER

Well, you are free;
The longed-for, lied-for, waited-for decree
Is yours to-day.
I made no protest—and you had your say,
And left me with no vestige of repute.
“Neglect, abuse, and cruelty” you charge,
With broken marriage-vows. The list was large,
But not to be denied. So I was mute.

Now you shall listen to a few plain facts
Before you go out wholly from my life
As some man's wife.
Read carefully this statement of your acts
Which changed the luster of my honeymoon
To somber gloom,
And wrenched the cover from Pandora's box.

In those first talks
'Twixt bride and groom, I showed you my whole heart;
Showed you how deep my love was and how true;
With all a strong man's feeling I loved you.
(God, how I loved you, my own chosen mate!)
But I learned this
(So poorly did you play your little part):
You married marriage—to avoid the fate
Of having “Miss”
Carved on your tombstone. Love you did not know;
But you were greedy for the showy things
That money brings.
Such weak affection as you could bestow
Was given the provider, not the lover.

The knowledge hurt. Keen pain like that is dumb

And masks itself in smiles, lest men discover.
But I was lonely, and the feeling grew
The more I studied you.
Into your shallow heart love could not come;
But yet you loved my love, because it gave
The prowess of a mistress o'er a slave.
You showed your power
In petty tyranny, hour after hour,
Day after day, year after lengthening year;
My tasks, my pleasures, my pursuits were not
Held near or dear,
Or made to seem important in your thought.
My friends were not your friends; you goaded me
By foolish and ignoble jealousy.
Till, through suggestion's laws,
I gave you cause.
The beauteous ideal love had hung
In my soul's shrine,
And worshiped as a something all divine,
With wanton hand you flung
Into the dust. And then you wondered why
My love should die.

My sins and derelictions cry aloud
To all the world. My head is bowed
Under its merited reproaches. Yours
Is lifted to receive
The sympathy the court's decree insures.
The world loves to believe
In Man's depravity and Woman's worth;
But I am one of many men on earth
Whose loud, resounding fall
Is like the crashing of some well-built wall,
Which those who seek can trace
To the slow work of insects at its base.

Be not afraid;
The alimony will be promptly paid.

NEUTRAL

That pale word “Neutral” sits becomingly
On lips of weaklings. But the men whose brains
Find fuel in their blood, the men whose minds
Hold sympathetic converse with their hearts,
Such men are never neutral. That word stands
Unsexed and impotent in Realms of Speech
When mighty problems face a startled world
No virile man is neutral. Right or wrong
His thoughts go forth, assertive, unafraid
To stand by his convictions, and to do
Their part in shaping issues to an end.
Silence may guard the door of useless words,
At dictate of Discretion; but to stand
Without opinions in a world which needs
Constructive thinking, is a coward's part.

PEACE SHOULD NOT COME

Peace should not come alone this foul earth way,
Peace should not come, until we cleanse the earth.
God waited for us; now in awful wrath
He pours the blood of men out day by day
To purify the highroad for her feet.
Why, what would Peace do, in a world where hearts,
Are filled with thoughts like poison-pointed darts?
It were not meet, surely it were not meet
For Peace to come, and with her white robes hide
These industries of death—these guns and swords,—
These uniformed, hate-filled, destructive hordes,—
These hideous things, that are each nation's pride.
So long as men believe in armed might
Let arms be brandished. Let not Peace be sought
Until the race-heart empties out all thought
Of blows and blood, as arguments for Right.
The world has never had enough of war.
Else war were not. Now let the monster stand
Until he slays himself with his own hand;
Though no man knows what he is fighting for,
Then in the place where wicked cannons stood
Let Peace erect her shrine of Brotherhood.

HAPPINESS

There are so many little things which make life beautiful.
I can recall a day in early youth when I was longing for happiness.
Toward the western hills I gazed, watching for its approach.
The hills lay between me and the setting sun, and over them led a highway.
When some traveler crossed the hill, always a fine gray dust rose cloudlike against the sky.
The traveler I could not distinguish, but the dust-cloud I could see.

And the dust-cloud seemed formed of hopes and possibilities—each speck an embryo event.
At sunset, when the skies were fair, the dust-cloud grew radiant and shone with visions.
The happiness for which I waited came not to me adown that western slope.
But now I can recall the cloud of golden dust, the sunset, and the highway leading over the hill,
The wonderful hope and expectancy of my heart, the visions of youth in my eyes; and I know this was happiness.

There are so many little things which make life beautiful.
I can recall another day when I rebelled at life's monotony.
Everywhere about me was the commonplace; and nothing seemed to happen.
Each day was like its yesterday, and to-morrow gave no promise of change.
My young heart rose rebellious in my breast, and I ran aimlessly into the sunlight—the glowing sunlight of June.

I sent out a dumb cry to Fate, demanding larger joys and more delight.
I ran blindly into a field of blooming clover.

It was breast-high, and billowed about me like rose-red waves of a fragrant sea.
The bees were singing above it; and their little brown bodies were loaded with honey-dew, extracted from the clover blossoms.
The sun reeled in the heavens, dizzy with its own splendor.
The day went into night, without bringing any new event to change my life.
But now I recall the field of blooming clover and the honey-laden bees, the glorious June sunlight and the passion of youth in my heart; and I know that was happiness.

There are so many little things which make life beautiful.
Yesterday a failure stared me in the face, where I had thought to welcome proud success.
There was no radiant cloud of dust against the western sky, and no clover field lying fragrant under mid-June suns;
Neither was youth with me any more.

But under the vines that clung against my walls, a flock of birds sought shelter just at twilight;
And, standing at my casement, I could hear the twitter of their voices and the soft, sweet flutter of their wings.
Then over me there fell a sense of peace and calm, and love for all created things, and trust illimitable.

And that, I knew, was happiness.

There are so many little things which make life beautiful.

JUST YOU

All the selfish joys of earth
I am getting through.
That which used to lure and lead
Now I pass and give no heed;
Only one thing seems of worth—
Just you.

Not for me the lonely height,
And the larger view;
Lowlier ways seems fair and wide,
While we wander side by side.
One thing makes the whole world bright—
Just you.

Not for distant goals I run,
No great aim pursue;
Most of earth's ambitions seem
Like the shadow of a dream.
All the world to me means one—
Just you.

MY FAITH

My faith is rooted in no written creed;
And there are those, who call me heretic;
Yet year on year, though I be well, or sick,
Or opulent, or in the slough of need,
If, light of foot, fair Life trips by me pleasuring,
Or, by the rule of pain, old Time stands measuring
The dull drab moments—still ascends my cry
“God reigns on high;
He doeth all things well.”

Not much I prize, or one, or any brand
Of theologic lore; nor think too well
Of generally accepted heaven and hell.
But faith and knowledge build at Love's command
A beauteous heaven; a heaven of thought all clarified
Of hate, and fear, and doubt; a heaven of rarified
And perfect trust; and from that heaven I cry
“God reigns on high.
Whatever is, is best.”

My faith refuses to accept the “ fall,”
It sees man ever as a child of God
Growing in wisdom as new realms are trod
Until the Christ in him is One with All.
From this full consciousness my faith is borrowing
Light to illuminate Life's darkest sorrowing.
Whatever woes assail me still I cry
“God reigns on high;
He doeth all things well”

My faith finds prayer the language of the heart
Which gives us converse with the hosts unseen;
And those who linger in the vales between
The Here and Yonder in these prayers take part.
My dead come near, and say, “Death means not perishing;
Cherish us in your thoughts; for by that cherishing
Shall severed links be welded bye and bye.”
God reigns on high;
Whatever is, is best.

War Mothers

In the old times of peace we went our ways,
Through proper days
Of little joys and tasks. Lonely at times,
When from the steeple sounded wedding-chimes,
Telling to all the world some maid was wife;
But taking patiently our part in life
As it was portioned us by Church and State,
Believing it our fate.
Our thoughts all chaste
Held yet a secret wish to love and mate
Ere youth and virtue should go quite to waste.
But men we criticized for lack of strength,
And kept them at arm's length.

Then the war came—
The world was all aflame!
The men we had thought dull and void of power
Were heroes in an hour.
He who had seemed a slave to petty greed
Showed masterful in that great time of need.
He who had plotted for his neighbor's pelf.
Now for his fellows offered up himself.
And we were only women, forced by war
To sacrifice the things worth living for.

Something within us broke;
Something within us woke;
The wild cave-woman spoke.

When we heard the sound of drumming,
As our soldiers went to camp,
Heard them tramp, tramp, tramp;
As we watched to see them coming,
And they looked at us and smiled
(Yes, looked back at us and smiled)
As they filed along by hillock and by hollow,
Then our hearts were so beguiled
That, for many and many a day,
We dreamed we heard them say,
“Oh, follow, follow, follow!”
And the distant, rolling drum
Called us, “Come, come, come!”
Till our virtue seemed a thing to give away.

There is something in the sound of drum and fife
That wakes all the savage instincts into life.

War had swept ten thousand years away from earth.
We were primal once again.

These were males, not modern men;
We were females meant to bring their sons to birth.
And we could not wait for any formal rite.
We could hear them calling to us. “Come to-night;
For to-morrow, at the dawn,
We move on!”
And the drum
Bellowed, “Come, come, come!”
And the fife
Whistled, “Life, life, life!”

So they moved on and fought and bled and died;
Honored and mourned, they are the nation's pride.
We fought our battles, too; but with the tide
Of our red blood we gave the world new lives.
Because we were not wives
We are dishonored. Is it noble, then,
To break God's laws only by killing men
To save one's country from destruction? We
Took no man's life but gave our chastity.
And sinned the ancient sin
To plant young trees and fill felled forests in.

O clergy of the land,
Bible in hand,
All reverently you stand,
On holy thoughts intent,
While barren wives receive the sacrament!
Had you the open vision you could see
Phantoms of infants murdered in the womb
Who never knew a cradle or a tomb
Hovering about these wives accusingly.

Bestow the sacrament! Their sins are not well known—
Ours to the four winds of the earth are blown.

THE TRIP TO MARS

Oh! by and by we shall hear the cry.
“This is the way to Mars.”
Come take a trip, on the morning Ship;
It sails by the Isle of Stars.

“A glorious view of planets new
We promise by night and day.
Past dying suns our good ship runs,
And we pause at the Milky Way.”

I am almost sure we will take that tour
Together, my dear, my dear.
For, ever have we, by land and sea,
Gone journeying far and near.

Out over the deep—o'er mountain steep,
We have traveled mile on mile;
And to sail away to the Martian Bay,
Oh! that were a trip worth while.

Our ship will race through seas of space
Up into the Realms of Light,
Till the whirling ball of the earth grows small,
And is utterly lost to sight.

Through the nebulous spawn where planets are born
We shall pass with sails well furled,
And with eager eyes we will scan the skies,
For the sights of a new-made world.

From the derelict barque of a sun gone dark,
Adrift on our fair ship's path,
A beacon star shall guide us afar,
And far from the comet's wrath.

Oh! many a start of pulse and heart
We have felt at the sights of land.
But what would we do if the dream came true,
And we sighted the Martian strand?

So, if some day you come and say,
“They are sailing to Mars, I hear.”
I want you to know, I am ready to go,—
All ready, my dear, my dear.

EARTH BOUND

New Paradise and groom and bride;
The World was all their own;
Her heart swelled full of love and pride;
Yet were they quite alone?
“Now how is it, oh how is it, and why is it.” (in fear
All silent to herself she spake) “that something strange seems here?”

Along the garden paths they walked;
The moon was at its height.
And lover-wise they strolled and talked;
But something was not right.
And “Who is that, now who is that, oh who is that” quoth she
(All silent to her heart she spake), “that seems to follow me?”

He drew her closer to his side;
She felt his lingering kiss;
And yet a shadow seemed to glide
Between her heart and his.
And “What is that, now what is that, oh what is that,” she said
(All silent to herself she spake), “that minds me of the dead?”

They wandered back by beds of bloom;
They climbed a winding stair;
They crossed the threshold of their room;
But Something waited there.
“Now who is this, and what is this, and where is this,” she cried
(All silent was the cry she made), “that comes to haunt and hide?”

Wide-eyed she lay, the while he slept;
She could not name her fear.
But Something from her bedside crept
Just as the dawn drew near.
(She did not know, she could not know, how could she know who came
To haunt the home of one whose hand, had dug her grave of shame.)

A Son Speaks

Mother, sit down, for I have much to say
Anent this wide-spread, ever-growing theme
Of Woman and her virtues and her rights.

I left you for the large, loud world of men,
When I had lived one little score of years.
I judged all women by you, and my heart
Was filled with high esteem and reverence
For your angelic sex; and for the wives,
The sisters, daughters, mothers of my friends
I held but holy thoughts. To fallen stars
(Of whom you told me in our last sweet talk,
Warning me of the dangers in my path)
I gave wide pity as you bade me to,
Saying their sins harked back to my base sex.

Now, listen, mother mine: Ten years have passed
Since that clean-minded and pure-bodied youth,
Thinking to write his name upon the stars,
Went from your presence. He returns to you
Fallen from his high altitude of thought,
Hiding deep scars of sins upon his soul,
His fair illusions shattered and destroyed.
And would you know the story of his fall?

He sat beside a good man's honored wife
At her own table. She was beautiful
As woods in early autumn. Full of soft
And subtle witcheries of voice and look—
His senior, both in knowledge and in years.

The boyish admiration of his glance
Was white as April sunlight when it falls
Upon a blooming tree, until she leaned
So close her rounded body sent quick thrills
Along his nerves. He thought it accident
And moved a little; soon she leaned again.
The half-hid beauties of her heaving breast
Rising and falling under scented lace;
The teasing tendrils of her fragrant hair.
With intermittent touches on his cheek,
Changed the boy's interest to the man's desire.
She saw that first young madness in his eyes.
Smiled, and fanned the flame. That was his fall:
And as some mangled fly may crawl away
And leave his wings behind him in the web,
So were his wings of faith in womanhood
Left in the meshes of her sensuous net.

The youth, forced into sudden manhood, went
Seeking the lost ideal of his dreams.
He met, in churches and in drawing-rooms,
Women who wore the mask of innocence
And basked in public favor, yet who seemed
To find their pleasure playing with men's hearts,
As children play with loaded guns. He heard
(Until the tale fell dull upon his ears)
The unsolicited complaints of wives
And mothers all unsatisfied with life
While crowned with every blessing earth can give.
Longing for God knows what to bring content;
And openly or with appealing look
Asking for sympathy. (The first blind step
That leads from wifely honor down to shame
Is ofttimes hid with flowers of sympathy.)

He saw proud women who would flush and pale
With sense of outraged modesty if one
Spoke of the ancient sin before them, bare
To all men's sight, or flimsily conceal
By veils that bid adventurous eyes proceed.
Charms meant alone for lover and for child.
He saw chaste virgins tempt and tantalize.
Lure and deny, invite—and then refuse,
And drive men forth, half crazed, to wantons' arms.

Mother, you taught me there were but two kinds
Of women in the world—the good and bad.
But you have been too sheltered in the safe.
Old-fashioned sweetness of your quiet life
To know how women of these modern days
Make license of their new-found liberty.
Why, I have been more tempted and more shocked
By belles an beauties in the social whirl,
By trusted wives and mothers in their homes,
Than by the women of the underworld
Who sell their favors. Do you think me mad?
No, mother; I am sane, but very sad.
I miss my boyhood's faith in Woman's worth—
Torn from my heart by “good folks” of the earth.

KIM

Kim, in that tender canine heart of yours
What faithfulness endures.
What sterling qualities of loyal friend
And fearless comrade blend,
Making you strong to rescue and defend.

In you we find
The quick perception of a thinking mind,
Keen understanding, cheerfulness and tact,
And love so vast it permeates each act.

Often we cannot think of you as dumb,
But feel that speech must come
From that too silent lip,
Adding the last touch to companionship.

Lifting your shaggy locks and looking down
Into your eyes of brown,
Something I see that makes me more and more
Doubt that religious lore,
That orthodox, unyielding lore, which gives
No spark of soul to anything that lives
Save biped man. Why Kim in your dear eyes
There lies
The chief foundation of man's Paradise—
Unquestioning, undoubting love, and faith
That would walk bravely through the gates of death,
If so your Master or your Mistress led.
When all is said
It is of love and faith we build our Heaven—
Dear Kim
I cannot question that you will be given
Your green celestial lawn, your astral sea,
And life with him and me
Yea, life with him and me,
Since we to you are what God is to us.

And oh! to love God thus!
With such supreme devotion to obey
And ask no reason why; by night or day
To have no will or choice,
But just to follow the Beloved Voice.
To trust implicitly—to feel no fear
Or discontent or doubt since He is near.

Let me look deeper, Kim, in your dear heart;
Impart
To me that fulness of unquestioning love
That I may give my God thereof.

THE GHOSTS

There was no wind, and yet the air
Seemed suddenly astir;
There were no forms, and yet all space
Seemed thronged with growing hosts.
They came from Where and from Nowhere.
Like phantoms as they were.
They came from many a land and place—
The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.

And some were white and some were gray
And some were red as blood—
Those ghosts of men who met their death
Upon the field of war.
Against the skies of fading day,
Like banks of clouds they stood;
And each wraith asked another wraith,
“What were we fighting for?”

One said, “I was my mother's all:
And she was old and blind.”
Another, “Back on earth, my wife
And week-old baby lie.”
Another, “At the bugle's call,
I left my bride behind;
Love made so beautiful my life,
I could not bear to die.”

In voices like the winds that moan
Among pine trees at night,
They whispered long, the newly dead,
While listening stars came out.
“We wonder if the cause is known,
And if the war was right,
That killed us in our prime,” they said.
“And what it was about.”

They came in throngs that filled all space—
Those whispering phantom hosts.
They came from many a land and place—
The ghosts, the ghosts, the ghosts.

HERESY

Nothing within me responds to the story of Adam and Eve;
And Genesis seems like a tale not meant for the world to believe:
Yet when I wake in the dawn, if the skies are gray or gold,
The love, the love in the heart of me, for God, can never be told.

Jesus to me is a man who lived the life divine;
And I think of his birth as a human birth, just like yours and mine!
But the love down deep in my heart, that is sweeter than any other.
Is the great uplifting, tender love I give to Christ, my brother.

I know at times I have erred, as all who are mortal will;
By doing the wrong thing well, or doing the right thing ill:
But nobody else can atone for the paths my feet have trod;
And I know, I know by the love in my heart, I can make it right with God.

The world has a thousand creeds, and never a one have I;
Nor church of my own, though a million spires are pointing the way on high.
But I float on the bosom of faith that bears me along like a river;
And the lamp of my soul is alight with love, for life, and the world, and the Giver.

I know how brief is my span, and I know how certain is death;
And I send out a prayer of love and trust with the breathing of every breath;
And heretic though I am outside of the pale of creeds,
I have love in my heart for God and man—and I think it is all one needs.

The Crimes of Peace

Musing upon the tragedies of earth,
Of each new horror which each hour gives birth.
Of sins that scar and cruelties that blight
Life's little season, meant for man's delight.
Methought those monstrous and repellent crimes
Which hate engenders in war-heated times.
To God's great heart bring not so much despair
As other sins which flourish everywhere
And in all times—bold sins, bare-faced and proud.
Unchecked by college, and by Church allowed.
Lifting their lusty heads like ugly weeds
Above wise precepts and religious creeds.
And growing rank in prosperous days of peace
Think you the evils of this world would cease
With war's cessation?
If God's eyes know tears.
Methinks he weeps more for the wasted years
And the lost meaning of this earthly life—
This big, brief life—than over bloody strife.
Yea; there are mean, lean sins God must abhor
More than the fatted, blood-drunk monster. War.

Looking from his place, looking from his high place among the stars. God saw a peaceful land—
A land of fertile fields and golden harvests—and great cities whose innumerable spires pierced the vault of heaven, like bayonets of an invading army.
And God said, speaking unto himself aloud. God said:
“Peace and power and plenty have I given unto this land; and those tall steeples are monuments to me.
Now let my people reveal themselves, that I may see their works, done in my name in a fertile land of peace.
I will withdraw mine eyes from other worlds that I may behold them, that I may behold these people to whom I sent Christ—they whose innumerable spires pierce my blue vault like bayonets.”

God saw the restless, idle rich in club and cabaret.
Meat-gorged, wine-filled, they played preened and danced till dawn o day;
They played at sports; they played at love; they played at being gay.
They were but empty, silk-clad shells; their souls had leaked away.
He saw the sweat-shop and the mill where little children toiled,
The sunless rooms where mothers slaved and unborn souls were spoiled;
While those whose greedy, selfish lives had thrust the toilers there,
He saw whirled down broad avenues, clothed all with raiment fair.

He saw in homes made beautiful with all that gold can give
Unhappy souls at odds with life, not knowing how to live.
He saw fair, pampered women turn from motherhood's sweet joy,
Obsessed with methods to prevent or mania to destroy.
He saw men sell their souls to vice and avarice and greed;
He heard race quarreling with race and creed decrying creed,
And shameful wealth and waste he saw, and shameful want and need.

He saw bold little children come from church and school-room, blind
To suffering of lesser things, unfeeling and unkind;
He heard them taunt the poor, and tease their furred and feathered kin;
And no voice spake from home or church, to tell them this was sin.
He heard the cry of wounded things. the wasteful gun's report;
He saw the morbid craze to kill, which Christian men called sport.

And then God hid his grieving face behind a wall of cloud,
On earth they said, “A thunder-storm”—but God had wept aloud.

A SONG OF FAITH

My glass of life with its brew of Being,
I lift, with a toast, to the Universe.
Though black guns bellow and mad men curse
And a sick world hurries from bad to worse
I trust in the might of the One All Seeing—
The One All Knowing, to set things right.

Though hate in the heart of the race may thunder,
In rifle and cannon and bursting shell,
And the sea and the air their tales may tell,
Of the minds of mortals that seethe with hell,—
Yet in God's vast plan there can be no blunder—
He is blazing the trail for the Super-man.

The creeds of ages may totter and tumble,
And fall in ruins, but out of the dust,
And out of the wreckage of old things, must
Rise better religion, and stronger trust,
And faith that knows, and knowing is humble.
(Humility ever with knowledge goes.)

This speck in space on its orbit spinning,
Swings safely along without aid from me,
A Mind that can order, an Eye that can see,
Back of, and over it all must be—
And will be—and was from the first beginning,
Not mine to question or doubt the Cause.

But mine to worship the Mighty Master
And Maker of all things; mine to raise
Ever an anthem of love and praise
In the light of the sun or in shadowed ways,—
In the world's bright hour, or in world disaster,
To see His glory and sing His power.

So my glass of life with its brew of Being
I lift, with a song of the One All Seeing—
Of the One All Knowing; though earth seems hurled
Out into chaos, I see it lying
In God's great palm—and my faith undying
Cries, “Lo! He is moulding a better world.”

102

A GOOD SPORT

I was a little lad, and the older boys called to me from the pier.
They called to me: “Be a sport; be a sport! Leap in and swim!”
I leaped in and swam, though I had never been taught a stroke.
Then I was made a hero, and they all shouted: “Well done! Well done,
Brave boy; you are a sport, a good sport!”
And I was very glad.

But now I wish I had learned to swim the right way,
Or had never learned at all.
Now I regret that day,
For it led me to my fall.

I was a youth, and I heard the older men talking of the road to wealth,
They talked of bulls and bears, of buying on margins,
And they said: “Be a sport, my boy; plunge in and win, or lose it all!
It is the only way to fortune.”
So I plunged in and won; and the older men patted me on the back,
And they said, “You are a sport, my boy, a good sport!”
And I was very glad

103

But now I wish I had lost all I ventured on that day—
Yes, wish I had lost it all:
For it was the wrong way,
And pushed me to my fall.

I was a young man, and the gay world called me to come.
Gay women and gay men called to me, crying: “Be a sport; be a good sport!
Fill our glasses and let us fill yours.
We are young but once; let us dance and sing,
And drive the dull hours of night until they stand at bay
Against the shining bayonets of day.”
So I filled my glass, and I filled their glasses over and over again,
And I sang and danced and drank, and drank and danced and sang,
And I heard them cry, “He is a sport, a good sport!”
As they held their glasses out to be filled again.
And I was very glad.

Oh, the madness of youth and song and dance and wine,
Of woman's eyes and lips, when the night dies in the arms of down!

And now I wish I had not gone that way.
Now I wish I had not heard them say,
“He is a sport, a good sport!”
For I am old who should be young.
The splendid vigor of my youth I flung
Under the feet of a mad, unthinking throng.
My strength went out with wine and dance and song;
Unto the winds of earth I tossed like chaff,
With idle jest and laugh,
The pride of splendid manhood, all its wealth
Of unused power and health;
Its dream of looking in some pure girl's eyes
And finding there its earthly paradise;
Its hope of virile children free from blight;
Its thoughts of climbing to some noble height
Of great achievement—all these gifts divine
I cast away for song and dance and wine.
Oh, I have been a sport, a good sport;
But I am very sad.

104

A BACHELOR TO A MARRIED FLIRT

All that a man can say of woman's charms,
Mine eyes have spoken and my lips have told
To you a thousand times. Your perfect arms,
(A replica from that lost Melos mould)
The fair, firm crescents of your bosom (shown
With full intent to make their splendors known.)

Your eyes (that mask with innocence their guile),
The (artful) artlessness of all your ways,
Your kiss-provoking mouth, its lure, its smile,
All these have had my fond and frequent praise.
And something more than praise to you I gave—
Something which made you know me as your slave.

Yet slaves at times grow mutinous, and rebel,
Here in this morning hour from you apart
The mood is on me to be frank and tell
The thoughts long hidden deep down in my heart:
These thoughts are bitter thorny plants, that grew
Below the flowers of praise I plucked for you.

Those flowery praises, led you to suppose
You were my benefactor. Well, in truth
When lovely woman on dull man bestows
Sweet favors of her beauty and her youth,
He is her debtor, I am yours; and yet
You robbed me while you placed me thus in debt.

I owe you for keen moments when you stirred
My senses with your beauty; when your eyes,
(Your wanton eyes) belied the prudent word
Your curled lips uttered. You are worldly wise
And while you like to set men's hearts on flame
You take no risks in that old passion game.

The carnal, common self of dual me,
Found pleasure in this danger play of yours.
(An egotist man always thinks to be
The victor if his patience but endures,
And holds in leash the bounds of fierce desire,
Until the silly woman's heart takes fire.)

But now it is the Higher Self who speaks:
The Me of me—the inner man—the real—
Who ever dreams his dream and ever seeks
To bring to earth his beautiful ideal.
That life-long dream with all its promised joy
Your soft bedevilments have helped destroy.

105

Woman, how can I hope for happy life
In days to come at my own nuptial hearth,
When you who bear the honored name of wife
So lightly hold the dearest gifts of earth?
Descending from your pedestal, alas!
You shake the pedestals of all your class.

A vain, flirtatious wife, is like a thief
Who breaks into the temple of men's souls,
And steals the golden vessels of belief
The swinging censers, and the incense bowls.
All women seem less loyal and less true,
Less worthy of men's faith since I met you.

A WAFT OF PERFUME

A waft of perfume from a bit of lace,
Moved lightly by a passing woman's hand;
And on the common street, a sensuous grace
Shone suddenly from some lost time and land.

Tall structures changed to dome and parapet;
The stern faced Church an oracle became;
In sheltered alcoves, marble busts were set;
And on the wall, frail Lais wrote her name.

Phryne before her judges stood at bay,
Fearing the rigor of Athenian laws;
Till Hyperides tore her cloak away
And bade her splendid beauty plead its cause.

Great Alexander walking in the dusk,
Dreamed of the hour when Greek with Greek should meet;
From Thais' window, attar breathed, and musk;
His footsteps went no farther down the street.

Faint and more faint, the pungent perfume grew;
Of wall and parapet, remained no trace.
Temple and statue vanished from the view
The city street again was commonplace.

106

SEPARATION

He
One decade and a half since first we came
With hearts aflame,
Into Love's paradise, as man and mate;
And now we separate.
Soon, all too soon
Waned the white splendor of our honeymoon.
We saw it fading, but we did not know
How bleak the path would be when once its glow
Was wholly gone.
And yet we two were forced to travel on—
Leagues, leagues apart while ever side by side.
Darker and darker grew the loveless weather,
Darker the way,
Until we could not stay
Longer together.
Now that all anger from our hearts has died,
And love has flown far from its ruined nest
To find sweet shelter in another breast,
Let us talk calmly of our past mistakes
And of our faults—if only for the sakes
Of those with whom our futures will be cast:
You shall speak first.

She
A woman would speak last—
Tell me my first grave error as a wife.

He
Inertia. My young veins were rife
With manhood's ardent blood, and love was fire
Within me But you met my strong desire
With lips like frozen rose leaves—chaste, so chaste,
That all your splendid beauty seemed but waste
Of Love's materials. Then of that beauty
Which had so pleased my sight,
You seemed to take no care: you felt no duty
To keep yourself an object of delight
For lover-eyes; and appetite
And indolence soon wrought
Their devastating changes. You were not

107

The woman I had sworn to love and cherish,
If love is starved, what can love do but perish?
Now, will you speak of my first fatal sin
And all that followed, even as I have done?

She
I must begin
With the young quarter of our honeymoon.
You are but one
Of countless men who take the priceless boon
Of woman's love and kill it at the start,
Not wantonly but blindly. Woman's passion
Is such a subtle thing—woof of her heart,
Web of her spirit; and the body's part
Is to play ever but the lesser rôle
To her white soul.
Seized in brute fashion,
It fades like down on wings of butterflies;
Then dies.
So my love died.
Next, on base Mammon's cross you nailed my pride,
Making me ask for what was mine by right;
Until, in my own sight,
I seemed a helpless slave
To whom the master gave
A grudging dole. Oh, yes, at times gifts showered
Upon your chattel; but I was not dowered
By generous love. Hate never framed a curse
Or placed a cruel ban
That so crushed woman, as the law of man
That makes her pensioner upon his purse.
That necessary stuff called gold is such
A cold, rude thing it needs the nicest touch
Of thought and speech when it approaches Love,
Or it will prove the certain death thereof.

He
Your words cut deep; 'tis time we separate.

She
Well, each goes wiser to a newer mate.

108

AN UNFAITHFUL WIFE TO HER HUSBAND

Branded and blackened by my own misdeeds
I stand before you; not as one who pleads
For mercy or forgiveness, but as one,
After a wrong is done,
Who seeks the why and wherefore.
Go with me
Back to those early years of love, and see
Just where our paths diverged. You must recall
Your wild pursuit of me, outstripping all
Competitors and rivals, till at last
You bound me sure and fast
With vow and ring.
I was the central thing
In all the Universe for you just then.
Just then for me, there were no other men.
I cared
Only for tasks and pleasures that you shared.
Such happy, happy days. You wearied first.
I will not say you wearied, but a thirst
For conquest and achievement in man's realm
Left love's barque with no pilot at the helm.
The money madness, and the keen desire
To outstrip others, set your heart on fire.
Into the growing conflagration went
Romance and sentiment.
Abroad you were a man of parts and power—
Your double dower
Of brawn and brains gave you a leader's place;
At home you were dull, tired, and commonplace.
You housed me, fed me, clothed me; you were kind;
But oh, so blind, so blind.
You could not, would not, see my woman's need
Of small attentions; and you gave no heed
When I complained of loneliness; you said
“A man must think about his daily bread
And not waste time in empty social life—
He leaves that sort of duty to his wife
And pays her bills, and lets her have her way,
And feels she should be satisfied.”
Each day
Our lives that had been one life at the start,
Farther and farther seemed to drift apart.
Dead was the old romance of man and maid.
Your talk was all of politics or trade.
Your work, your club, the mad pursuit of gold
Absorbed your thoughts. Your duty kiss fell cold
Upon my lips. Life lost its zest, its thrill,
Until
One fateful day when earth seemed very dull
It suddenly grew bright and beautiful.

109

I spoke a little, and he listened much;
There was attention in his eyes, and such
A note of comradeship in his low tone,
I felt no more alone.
There was a kindly interest in his air;
He spoke about the way I dressed my hair,
And praised the gown I wore.
It seemed a thousand, thousand years and more
Since I had been so noticed. Had mine ear
Been used to compliments year after year,
If I had heard you speak
As this man spoke, I had not been so weak.
The innocent beginning
Of all my sinning
Was just the woman's craving to be brought
Into the inner shrine of some man's thought.
You held me there, as sweetheart and as bride;
And then as wife, you left me far outside.
So far, so far, you could not hear me call;
You might, you should, have saved me from my fall.
I was not bad, just lonely, that was all.

A man should offer something to replace
The sweet adventure of the lover's chase
Which ends with marriage, Love's neglected laws
Pave pathways for the “Statutory Cause.”

THE MEN-MADE GODS

Said the Kaiser's god to the god of the Czar:
“Hark, hark, how my people pray.
Their faith, methinks, is greater by far
Than all the faiths of the others are;
They know I will help them slay.”

Said the god of the Czar: “My people call
In a medley of tongues; they know
I will lend my strength to them one and all.
Wherever they fight their foes shall fall
Like grass where the mowers go.”

Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud
To the god of the king nearby;
“Our people pray, tho' they pray not loud;
They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd,
And to laugh, tho' themselves may die.”

And far out into the heart of space
Where a lonely pathway crept
Up over the stars, to a secret place,
Where no light shone but the light of His face,
Christ covered his eyes and wept.

113

REPLIES

You have lived long and learned the secret of life, O Seer!
Tell me what are the best three thing to seek—
The best three things for a man to seek on earth?

The best three things for a man to seek, O Son! are these:
Reverence for that great source from whence he came;
Work for the world wherein he finds himself,
And knowledge of the realm toward which he goes.

What are the best three things to love on earth, O Seer!—
What are the best three things for a man to love?

The best three things for a man to love, O Son! are these:
Labor which keeps his forces all in action;
A home wherein no evil thing may enter,
And a loving woman with God in her heart.

What are the three great sins to shun, O Seer!—
What are the three great sins for a man to shun?

The three great sins for a man to shun, O Son! are these:
A thought which soils the heart from whence it goes;
An action which can harm a living thing,
And undeveloped energies of mind.

What are the worst three things to fear, O Seer!—
What are the worst three things for a man to fear?

The worst three things for a man to fear, O Son! are these:
Doubt and suspicion in a young child's eyes;
Accusing shame upon a woman's face,
And in himself no consciousness of God.

114

MY FLOWER ROOM

My Flower Room is such a little place;
Scarce twenty feet by nine; yet in that space
I have met God, yea, many a radiant hour
Have talked with Him, and All-Embracing-Cause,
About his laws.
And He has shown me in each vine and flower
Such miracles of power
That day by day this Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine.

Fed by the self-same soil and atmosphere
Pale, tender shoots appear
Rising to greet the light in that sweet room.
One speeds to crimson bloom,
One slowly creeps to unassuming grace;
One climbs, one trails;
One drinks the light and moisture,
One exhales.
Up through the earth together, stem by stem
Two plants push swiftly in a floral race,
Till one sends forth a blossom like a gem,
And one gives only fragrance.
In a seed
So small it scarce is felt within the hand,
Lie hidden such delights
Of scents and sights,
When by the elements of Nature freed,
As Paradise must have at its command.

From shapeless roots and ugly bulbous things
What gorgeous beauty springs!
Such infinite variety appears
A hundred artists in a hundred years
Could never copy from the floral world
The marvels that in leaf and bud lie curled.
Nor could the most colossal mind of man
Create one little seed of plant or vine
Without assistance from the First Great Plan;
Without the aid divine.

Who but a God
Could draw from light and moisture, heat and cold,
And fashion in earth's mold
A multitude of blooms to deck one sod?
Who but a God!
Not one man knows
Just why the bloom and fragrance of the rose,
Or how its tints were blent;
Or why the white Camelia without scent
Up through the same soil grows;

115

Or how the daisy and the violet
And blades of grass first on wild meadows met;
Not one, not one man knows.
The wisest but SUPPOSE.
This Flower Room of mine
Has come to be a shrine;
And I go hence
Each day with larger faith and reverence.

116

The Convention

From the Queen Bee mother, the mother Beast, and the mother Fowl in the fen,
A call went up to the human world, to Woman, the mother of men.
The call said, “Come; for we, the dumb, are given speech for a day,
And the things we have thought for a thousand years we are going, at last, to say.”

Much they marveled, these women of earth, at the strange and curious call,
And some of them laughed and some of them sneered, but they answered it one and all,
For they wanted to hear what never before was heard since the world began—
The spoken word of Beast and Bird, and the message it held for Man.

“A plea for shelter,” the women said, “or food in the wintry weathers,
Or a foolish request that we be dressed without their furs or feathers.
We will do what we can for the poor dumb things, but they must be sensible.” Then
The meeting was called, and a she bear stood and voiced the thought of the fen.

117

“Now this is the message we give to you” (it was thus the she bear spake)
“You, the creatures of homes and shrines, and we of the wold and brake.
We have no churches; we have no schools, and our minds you question and doubt,
But we follow the laws which some Great Cause, alike for us all, laid out.

“We eat and we drink to live; we shun the things that poison and kill;
And we settle the problems of sex and birth by the law of the female will,
For never was one of us known by a male, or made to mother its kind,
Unless there went from our minds consent (or from what we call the mind).

“But you, the highest of all she things, you gorge yourselves at your feasts,
And you smoke and drink in a way we think would lower the standard of beasts;
For a ring and a roof and a rag you are bought by your males, to have and to hold;
And you mate and you breed without nature's need, while your hearts and your bodies are cold.

“All unwanted your offspring come, or you slay them before they are born,
And now we wild she things of the earth have spoken and told our scorn.
We have no minds and we have no souls, maybe as you think—and still,
Never one of us ate or drank the things that poison and kill,
And never was one of us known by a male except by our wish and will.”

122

THE BLASPHEMY of GUNS

There must be lonely moments when God feels
The need of prayer—
Such lonely moments, knowing not any where.
In any spot or place,
In all the far recesses of vast space,
Dwells anyone to whom His prayers may rise,
And then, methinks—so urgent is His need—
God bids His prayers descend.
He that has ears to hear, let him take heed,
For much God's prayers portend.

123

God flings His solar system forth to be
Finished by beings who befit each sphere.
Not ours to pry the secrets out of Mars:
Our work lies here.
To star-folk, leave the stars.

There must be many worlds that give God care:
Young worlds that glow and burn,
Old worlds that freeze and fade.
This world is man's concern.
Methinks God must be very much dismayed.
Seeing the use we make of earth to-day.
While loud we pray.

Last night, in sleep, beyond the earth's small zone,
Adventurously my spirit went alone,
Past lesser hells and heavens, where souls may pause
To learn the meaning of death's larger laws,
Past astral shapes and bodies of desire,
Past angels and archangels, high and higher,

Until the pinnacles of space it trod,
Then, awestruck, paused, hearing the voice of God.

“Mortals of earth, for whom I shaped a sphere
(So spake the Voice), “there rises to mine ear
Eternal praises and eternal pleas.
Now, after centuries, I tire of these.
Have ye no knowledge of the Maker's needs,
Ye who ask favors and who praise by creeds?
Why has it not sufficed
That unto this small earth I sent great Christ.
Divine expression of the mortal man
To aid my plan?

“Why ask for more when all has been refused?
Why praise my name who hourly am abused?
Why seek for Me or heaven, when in you dwells
Hate's lurid hells?

“Persistent praises and persuasive pleas—
I tire, I tire of these
But I, the Maker of a billion suns,
Ask men to stop the blasphemy of guns.”
This is God's prayer.

(There must be many worlds that give God care.)

126

A RAINY NIGHT

When the fingers of rain on the window pane
Tap, tap, tap,
And the feet of the rain run over the roof
In the dark of a summer night,
Then out of their graves old memories creep
And they steal up into the house of sleep
And they rap, rap, rap
On the door of the heart till it sets a light
And opens the portal and spreads the board
For the waiting horde.

Then the great wide world seems all astir
With the ghostly shapes of the things that were.
A Pleasure that perished, a dead Despair,
An old Delight and a vanished Care,
A Passion that builded its funeral pyre,
From the worthless timber of brief desire,
A Hope that wandered and lost its way
In the dazzling beams of its own bright ray,
With long gone Worries and long lost Joys
Come stealthily creeping with never a noise
(For the things that have gone on the road to God,
When they turn back earthward are silence-shod);
And they enter the heart's great living room
When the rain beats down from a sky of gloom
In the dark of a summer night.

And they tell old tales and they sing old songs
That are sweet, sweet, sweet;
While the fingers of rain on the window pane
Beat, beat, beat.
And they feast on the past and drink its wine
And call it a brew divine.

But when in the east the darkness pales
And the edge of the clouds show light,
The ghosts go back with a silent tread
And only the heart knows what they said
In the dark of the summer night.

REWARD

Fate used me meanly; but I looked at her and laughed,
That none might know how bitter was the cup I quaffed.
Along came Joy, and paused beside me where I sat,
Saying, “I came to see what you were laughing at.”