University of Virginia Library

WHY I FLED FROM DUTY.

I HAVE LOST YOU, LITTLE MISS DUTY.
I TOLD YOU MY LUST AND LOVE,
LUST LIKE THE PULSE OF THE TIGER—
THE HUNGER OF HAWK FOR DOVE.
I HAVE LOST YOU, LITTLE MISS DUTY,
THOUGH I BROUGHT YOU MYSELF QUITE WHOLE,
WHITE, BODY AND BLACK DESIRE—
CONSCIENCE, AND BREATH, AND SOUL.
“YOU ARE NAKED,” SAID LITTLE MISS DUTY,
“GO HIDE IN THE CAVES AND HILLS,
FOR I MUST BE GILDING COBWEBS,
I AM CHAINED IN THE COBWEB MILLS.
MY SILK BUYS BREAD AND BUTTER
AND PAYS MY DEBT ON THE FARM.”
SO I STOLE HER SHOE FOR REMEMBERANCE
AND FLED LEST I DO HER HARM.

MACHINERY.

LOVE AND LAW.

TRUE LOVE IS FOUNDED IN ROCKS OF REMEMBERANCE.
IN STONES OF FORBEARANCE AND MORTAR OF PAIN.
THE WORKMAN LAYS WEARILY GRANITE ON GRANITE.
AND BLEEDS FOR HIS CASTLE 'MID SUNSHINE AND RAIN.
LOVE IS NOT VELVET, NOT ALL OF IT VELVET,
NOT ALL OF IT BANNERS, NOT GOLD-LEAF ALONE.
'TIS STERN AS THE AGES, AND OLD AS RELIGION.
WITH PATIENCE ITS WATCHWORD AND LAW FOR ITS THRONE.

THE FLIGHT OF MONA LISA.

BEING THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE STEALING OF LEONARDO DA VINCI'S MASTERPIECE FROM THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE.

ALWAYS ENTHRONED, AND EVER WISE AND STILL [OMITTED]
RIVERS OF STARING, STRENUOUS FOLK WENT BY,
ONLY THE WISE AND RIPE OF SOUL WOULD PAUSE,
MARKING THE SHADOWED MAGIC OF YOUR EYE [OMITTED]
NOW MOBS UNDO YOUR NAME WITH CLACKING TONGUE.
TOO DULL TO KNOW THE LADY THAT YOU ARE,
IGNORANT OF THE RENAISSANCE SO SWEET
OF WHICH YOU WERE THE CULMINATING STAR—
CROWDS, TO WHOM BEAUTY IS A HIDDEN BOOK—
THOUGH THEY GO SEEK IT TILL THEIR EYES ARE RED;
MEN TO WHOM LEONARDO IS UNKNOWN
OR BUT A DUSTY FAME, A LONG TIME DEAD:
THESE SAY THAT YOU WERE COURTED BY A THIEF,
NAY, RATHER, AFTER HALF A THOUSAND YEARS,
YOUR SMILE TOOK ON AN UNEXPECTED BLOOM,
DESIRE AROSE THAT MOVED YOU NIGH TO TEARS.
YOU FLASHED THAT PRINCESS-GLANCE THAT WAS COMMAND—
“CARRY ME WITH YOU YOUTH. I LEAVE THIS PLACE.
I GROW LOVE-HUNGRY 'MID THE CENTURIES,
YOURS IS THE DESTINED, FLUSHED ADORING FACE!”
AH, WHAT A BEAUTEOUS, WICKED THING IT WAS,
THIS RECKLESS HOPE OF YOURS THAT STUNG HIM SO—
TILL, SCORNING YOUR FAIR PALACE AND YOUR GUARD,
HE HALED YOU TO SOME LONELY PLACE AGLOW.
WHY DID THIS SUDDEN THIRST OF YOURS AWAKE?
CAN FEVER MUTINY IN VEINS SO OLD?
WHAT, IN HIS GESTURE TAMED YOUR SPIRIT HIGH?
WHAT, IN HIS FIGURE MADE YOUR GLANCES BOLD?
TILL, DAY BY DAY YOUR LONG LOOK WITCHING HIM.
HIS FLAGGING PULSES KINDLED TO SPICED FIRE.
AND REACHED AT LAST THE RENAISSANCE SUPREME
ATTAINED THE HEIGHT OF FLORENTINE DESIRE?
I KNOW 'TWAS LEONARDO COME TO EARTH
IN MASQUERADING FANCY DRESSED SO GAY.
TRANSFORMED INTO A CARELESS ARTIST-BOY,
A LOAFING STUDENT WASTING OUT THE DAY,
AH, GROWN SO WEARY OF HIGH HEAVEN'S STREETS!
AND OF THE GLITTERING SAINTS TOO-RIGHTEOUS GRACE!
WEARY OF GODLY SUNSHINE WITHOUT END!
SEEKING AGAIN THE SHADOWS OF YOUR FACE!
YOU DID NOT KNOW HIM FOR HIMSELF UNTIL
YOU FLED, WITHIN HIS ARMS, ADOWN THE STAIR.
THEN, (AND YOU SAW THE GLEAMING PARIS STREET),
HE STOOD A GREY WISE MAN BESIDE YOU THERE.
A WANDERING JEW, TO YOU HIS HEART'S OLD HOME,
HE CAME, AND GAVE YOUR SOUL AT LAST SURPRISE,
HE STRANGELY BROUGHT A CHILD-ASTONISHMENT,
A NOBLE MAIDEN-WONDER TO YOUR EYES.
HE RAVISHED YOU AWAY TO HEAVEN WITH HIM,
STILL YEARNING FOR YOUR BITTER KISS AGAIN—
YOUR BITTER, GENTLE, DOVE-LIKE WEARINESS,
AND FOLLIES GARNERED 'MID THE SONS OF MEN.

THE MAGICAL VILLAGE

THE PATIENT WITCH.

A LADY CALLED THE PATIENT WITCH,
LIVED NEAR US LONG AGO.
OUR SERVANTS GAVE HER OFF AND ON
A BIT OF COIN OR SO,
TO TELL THEM WHAT THEIR DREAMS COULD MEAN,
AND IF THEIR LOVES WERE TRUE;
TO STUDY OUT THEIR PALMS AND SAY—
“A PALACE WAITS FOR YOU.”
AND THEN SHE ALWAYS WAS POLITE,
AND SAID, “HOW DO YOU FARE?
I HOPE YOUR LITTLE GIRL IS WELL,”
WITH A MOST PLEASANT AIR.
SHE MUMBLED MUCH, WE KNEW NOT WHAT—
EACH AFTERNOON WOULD WAIT
BESIDE THE GUIDE-POST TO THE WEST
FOR SOME EXALTED FATE.
SHE LOOKED DOWN EVERY ROAD AS THOUGH
A STATELY COACH WAS DUE,
TO BEAR HER HOME TO SOMEWHERE ELSE,
TO FOLKS SHE REALLY KNEW.
“ONE EVENING,” SAID A LITTLE BOY,
THE ONLY ONE ANIGH,
“SHE TOLD ME PRETTY STORIES, AND
SHE KISSED MY CURLS GOODBY,
AND TURNED INTO A SWAN AND SPREAD
HER WHITE WINGS BIG AND WIDE.
AND FLEW AND FLEW INTO THE SKY!
AND I CAME HOME AND CRIED.”

THE TOWER BUILDER.

IN AN IMPERIAL HOUR
WITH COUNTENANCE BENIGN,
VENUS THE HOLY CAME
AND LAID KIND HANDS IN MINE.
HANDS I CANNOT FORGET.
NEVER A WORD SHE SPOKE.
SHE GAVE HER FINGER-TIPS
AND MY DEAD SOUL AWOKE.
I LEARNED WHY STRONG MEN TOIL,
AND WHY BRIGHT CITIES RISE.
I HARDLY TOUCHED HER HAIR,
AND SCARCELY SAW HER EYES.
THOUGH SHE IS GONE I BUILD
BY HER STRONG HANDS ALL DAY.
I HAVE THE KEY TO LIFE
A POWER WORDS CANNOT SAY.

THE LAMP IN THE WINDOW.

I LIGHT MY HOMELY LAMP AGAIN TONIGHT,
AND SAY“—PERHAPS A WANDERING ONE GOES BY,
HURRIED PAST DOOR-WAYS WHERE THE WATCH-DOGS GROWL—”
THE HEARTHS THE STRANGER DARES NOT COME ANIGH.
WE SIT IN STOLID CIRCLE AT THE BOARD,
AND NEVER A SON OR DAUGHTER TELLS A TALE.
THE FAITHFUL MOTHER FINDS NO CHEER IN TOIL,
OUR ROSY INFANT'S CROW CAN NAUGHT AVAIL.
THE COUNTRYSIDE GROWS DULL WITH HOMES UNSTIRRED.
THE PREACHER PRATES IN LONG-FAMILIAR WORDS.
THE NEIGHBORS COME, WITH WOODEN EYES, TO TALK
OF WEEDS AND FENCES, BARNS AND FLOCKS AND HERDS.
PERHAPS TONIGHT WITHIN THE SOAKING RAIN
SOME STORM-BLOWN BOY MOVES ON THAT WE SHOULD KEEP.
TO BRING US LAUGHTER ROUND OUR ROARING STOVE,
TO SHOW US WHY WE SOW AND WHY WE REAP.
TONIGHT, PERCHANCE, A CONQUERING ONE RETURNS,
MASTER OF WEARINESS AND FATE AND PAIN
WITHIN HIS POCKET NOTE-BOOKS OF HIS LORE,
WITHIN HIS SOUL GREAT PASSIONS HELD IN REIN.
PERHAPS, TONIGHT SOME WILD MAN PASSES BY,
BEARING WISE PARCHMENTS FROM OLD CITIES GRIM,
OR, IT MAY BE, A BETTER LAMP THAN MINE
MORE LIKE ALADDIN'S, NOT, LIKE THIS ONE, DIM.
ALL IT WILL NEED, THE OIL AND WICK AND FLAME,
AND SHELTERED ROOM TO KEEP THE WIND AWAY
I CAN PROVIDE AH, IF A LAMP HE BRINGS,
IT SHALL BE TRIMMED AND BURNISHED EVERY DAY!

THE BUSH OF BURNING SPICE

FROM DUST CELESTIAL THAT A CLOUD LET FALL,
A RUSH CAME UP, FULL FORTY YEARS UNSEEN,
THAT SCATTERED SMOKE AND EVER-BURNING SPICE
ACROSS A FIELD OF THORNS AND BURDOCKS MEAN.
AND THEN A CRIPPLED CHILD ON A SWEET TIME,
OF HOLIDAY BEHELD IT DECK THE MORN.
HIS FRIEND, THE PASTOR, SAW ONE BRANCH, AND SANG.
THE VILLAGE LAUGHED THE FLIGHTY PAIR TO SCORN.
LATER THE TWO GROWN OLD AND STAID DENIED,
THE SOLITARY INSIGHT OF THEIR YOUTH,
AND MOCKED THEIR CHILDREN, WHO WITH LAUGHTER SANG,
“OUR EYES BEHOLD THE DEATHLESS BUSH OF TRUTH.”
“WHY DANCE, PRAY TELL,” THE CRIPPLE ASKED, “AND CHANT
AROUND A CINDER IN AN EMPTY LOT?”
“NO BURNING BUSH.” THE PASTOR SAID, “HAS BLOOMED
SINCE MOSES' DAY. NEW MIRACLES COME NOT.”
AND YET THOSE FRAGILE CHILDREN GREW IN STRENGTH,
RADIANT AND ROYAL AS THE YEARS INCREASED.
AT LAST THEY BROUGHT THEIR REVERENT LOVERS THERE
TO BREATHE THE SMOKE AS THOUGH IT WERE A FEAST.
FROM EVERY BRANCH FLEW OUT A RAINBOW BIRD,
A DARLING SONGSTER WITH HIS PLUMES AFLAME,
AND EVERY BIRD FLEW ROUND AND ROUND A CHILD,
AND SANG OF GOD, AND CALLED THE CHILD BY NAME.
THESE SWEETHEART'S NE'ER WERE FALSE. EACH WOMAN WORE
WITHIN HER LOCKET SAFE, A FEATHER BLUE,
THAT DROPPED TO HER FROM OUT THOSE WHIRRING PLUMES,
A TALISMAN THAT KEPT HER LOVER TRUE.
AND YET IN AFTER TIME THOSE DAYS GREW DIM,
AND LEST THEY BE FOREVER LEFT BEHIND
THEY WROTE THEM IN A BOOK IN NOBLE WORDS,
SWEET HYMNS ABOUT A BUSH THEY COULD NOT FIND!

THE WOMAN CALLED “BEAUTY” AND HER SEVEN DRAGONS.

A POEM FOR THOSE WHO DESIRE AN ESTHETIC UTOPIA.

[I]

SHE BUILT TO THE HEIGHT OF HER BREAST,
AN EARTH-WORK OF THISTLES AND SOD.
SHE LAVED HER SOFT ARMS IN THE SPRING,
SHE SCATTERED THE FIRE WITH A ROD.
THE ROSE-PETAL CHILD BY HER SIDE,
CRIED OUT WITH A COUNTENANCE WHITE,
THE MOUND THEY HAD BUILDED AWOKE,
WITH EYES THAT WERE BLINKING AND BRIGHT.
THE SEVEN STRANGE DRAGONS OF ART,
CAME FORTH LIKE GOLD PARCHMENTS UNROLLED,
AND FAWNED ON THE SIBYL'S DOVE-HAND,
SUBMISSIVE AS SHEEP FROM THE FOLD.
YET SHIMMERING OPALS OF FIRE,
YET TITAN CHAMELEON—KINGS,
ALL HISSING IMPATIENTLY THERE,
UNSHEATHING THEIR TUSKS AND THEIR STINGS.
SHE LAUGHED WHILE THEY FOAMED O'ER THE FIELD,
AND BLASTED THE HEDGES WITH HEAT,
AND POUNDED THE BOULDERS TO DUST,
AND ATE THE RED FAGOTS LIKE MEAT.

II

GO FORTH, TEAR THIS IRON AGE DOWN,
“MY SONS,” THUS THE WISE WOMAN SPOKE,
“AND SET EVERY FANTASY FREE,
AND EVERY CRUSHED WORKER UNYOKE.
ESTABLISH THE SANDALWOOD AGE,
ESTABLISH THE WHITE AGE OF ART,
WHEN EARTH WILL STILL SIN AS OF OLD,
BUT SIN WITH A LOFTIER HEART.
WHEN CATIFFS AND BRAGGARTS WILL SLAY,
BUT SLAY WITH A LOFTIER LUST.
WHEN LAUGHTER'S BRIGHT ROAD WILL BE CLEAN,
AND TRAGEDY'S PATH MORE AUGUST.
WHEN YOUTH WILL CLIMB RECKLESSLY STILL,
BUT CLIMB DRAGON-GREAT IN ITS PRIDE.
AND FULL-BLOODED, FURIOUS HOSTS,
WILL FLAUNT MY WHITE BANNER AND RIDE
TO FIGHT AGAINST BALLOTS WITH TRUTH.
'GAINST MOBS, WITH THE CHISEL AND PEN;
THE PRIZE OF MY SOLDIERS TO BE
FAIR CONTINENTS FITTED FOR MEN.”

III

THE MISSIONARY MISGIVING.

(WILL THE WORLD BE BUT NOMINALLY CHRISTIAN?)

I SEE ANOTHER LUTHER
BRING WRATH TO INDIA'S EYES.
I SEE AN INQUISITION
BY CHINA'S CHURCHES RISE.
I SEE ANOTHER CROMWELL.
SET FIRE TO GRIM JAPAN.
LONG IS THE ROAD AND DREADFUL,
WHEREBY CHRIST CONQUERS MAN.
OR, IF OUR CREEDS SHALL CRUMBLE?
WHAT IF THE AGES SEE.
A JESUS LIKE TO BUDDHA.
UNDER THE BOHDI TREE?
A CHRIST TOO LIKE CONFUCIUS,
WITH SILKEN ROBE AND FAN?
YET ARE THE YEARS TRIUMPHANT
IF CHRIST SHALL CONQUER MAN.
FOR CHRIST HAS COME IN GLORY,
WHEN MEN ARE BROTHERS HERE,
WHEN SWORDS ARE TURNED TO PLOUGHSHARES,
AND PEACE HAS VANQUISHED FEAR.
WHATEVER TOMB ENFOLDS HIM,
HOWEVER STRANGE HIS PLAN,
THE EARTH SHALL BE HIS THRONE-ROOM,
OUR CHRIST SHALL CONQUER MAN!

THE PERILOUS ROAD.

A POEM FOR SPIRITUALISTS.

“HERMIT.” THE YOUTH SAID, “TEACH MY HEART THE WAYS
OF HEAVEN'S FREE DAYS.
AND ARE THEIR PLEASURES VARIOUS, FRAGILE, FLEET
WHERE BRIGHT SOULS MEET?
FATHER IN GOD, FOR I HAVE FASTED LONG,
TEACH A WILD SONG.
TEACH ME, THE WHILE I KNEEL, A CURIOUS PRAYER
TO RULE THE AIR.
SHOW ME THE SECRET DOOR THAT OPENS WIDE
WHERE CHARIOTS RIDE.
CHARIOTS THAT COME TO WHIRL YOU TO THE SKY,
WHEN EVE IS NIGH,
CHARIOTS THAT BEAR YOU BACK TO TIME AND SPACE,
AND THIS GRIM PLACE.”
“NAY,” SAID THE PALSIED MAN, “I KEEP THE SPELL
OF HEAVEN, OF HELL.
NAY, THOUGH YOU KNEEL, GOOD YOUTH, I WILL NOT SHOW
WHAT HERMITS KNOW.
SELDOM I DARE TO OPEN WIDE MINE EYES,
BY THAT PATH LIES
TERROR, AND ROSE-BRIARS FIERCE WILL PIERCE AND SEAR,
THIS OLD FRAME HERE.
HE WHO WOULD SPEAK TO STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT
GOING BY, IN WHITE:
HE WHO WOULD SPEAK TO CHRIST IN FUNERAL ROOMS
AND BY NEW TOMBS:
WHO WOULD TOUCH THE HOT-WINGED, TALL IMMORTAL MEN,
AND RETURN AGAIN:
MUST SCORN HIS DAILY LIFE AND NATURAL FRIENDS,
SUCH FRIENDSHIP ENDS.
HE MUST LEAVE HIS SWEETHEART WEEPING IN THE LANE,
TO FORESTALL HER PAIN
WHEN HE WAKES ONCE MORE, HER FINDING HIM SO COLD
TO THEIR LOVE OF OLD.
A HEAVEN OF HEAVENS IS NOT ALWAYS WORTH
A SURRENDERED EARTH.
ONE BLAST OF THAT PERILOUS AIR DRIES UP THE HEART,
YEA, IT SETS APART
FROM ALL THINGS HERE THE SEER, HALF MAD, ALONE,
LIKE A LEAF, A STONE.”

TO THE UNITED STATES SENATE.

AND MUST THE SENATOR FROM ILLINOIS
BE THIS SQUAT THING, WITH BLINKING, HALF-CLOSED EYES?
THIS BRAZEN GUTTER IDOL, REARED TO POWER
UPON A LEERING PYRAMID OF LIES?
AND MUST THE SENATOR FROM ILLINOIS
BE THE WORLD'S PROVERB OF SUCCESSFUL SHAME,
DAZZLING ALL STATE HOUSE FLIES THAT STEAL AND STEAL,
WHO, WHEN THE SAD STATE SPARES THEM, COUNT IT FAME?
IF ONCE OR TWICE WITHIN HIS NEW WON HALL
HIS VOTE HAD COUNTED FOR THE BROKEN MEN;
IF IN HIS EARLY DAYS HE WROUGHT SOME GOOD—
WE MIGHT A GREAT SOUL'S SINS FORGIVE HIM THEN.
BUT MUST THE SENATOR FROM ILLINOIS
BE VINDICATED BY FAT KINGS OF GOLD?
AND MUST HE BE BELAUDED BY THE SMIRCHED,
THE SLEEK, UNCANNY CHIEFS IN LIES GROWN OLD?
BE WARNED, OH, WANTON ONES, WHO SHIELDED HIM—
BLACK WRATH AWAITS. YOU ALL SHALL EAT THE DUST.
YOU DARE NOT SAY: “TOMORROW WILL BRING PEACE;
LET US MAKE MERRY, AND GO FORTH IN LUST.”
WHAT WILL YOU TRADING FROGS DO ON A DAY
WHEN ARMAGEDDON THUNDERS THROUGH THE LAND;
WHEN EACH SAD PATRIOT RISES, MAD WITH SHAME,
HIS BALLOT OR HIS MUSKET IN HIS HAND?
IN THE DISTRACTED STATES FROM WHICH YOU CAME
THE DAY IS BIG WITH WAR HOPES FIERCE AND STRANGE;
OUR IRON CHICAGOS AND OUR GRIMY MINES
RUMBLE WITH HATE AND LOVE AND SOLEMN CHANGE.
TOO MANY WEARY MEN SHED HONEST TEARS.
GROUND BY MACHINES, THAT GIVE THE SENATE EASE.
TOO MANY LITTLE BABES WITH BLEEDING HANDS
HAVE HEAPED THE FRUITS OF EMPIRE ON YOUR KNEES.
AND SWINE WITHIN THE SENATE IN THIS DAY,
WHEN ALL THE SMOTHERING BY-STREETS WEEP AND WAIL;
WHEN WISDOM BREAKS THE HEARTS OF HIS BEST SONS;
WHEN KINGLY MEN, VOTING FOR TRUTH, MAY FAIL:—
THESE ARE A PORTENT AND A CALL TO ARMS.
OUR PROTEST TURNS INTO A BATTLE CRY:
“OUR SHAME MUST END, OUR STATES BE FREE AND CLEAN;
AND IN THIS WAR WE CHOOSE TO LIVE AND DIE.”

DREAMS IN THE SLUM.

SOME MEN, NOT BLIND, STILL THINK AMID THE FILTH.
SOME SCHOLARS SEE VAST CITIES LIKE THE SUN:
BRIGHT HIVES OF POWER, OF JUSTICE AND OF LOVE,
IN BRAINS LIKE THESE OUR ZION HAS BEGUN.
WHAT WILL YOU DO TO MAKE THEIR THOUGHT COME TRUE?
OR WILL YOU TREAD THEIR PEARLS INTO THE EARTH?
FRIENDS, WHEN SUCH VOICES RISE DESPITE THE TIME,
WHAT ARE YOUR SHABBY, RICH MAN'S TEMPLES WORTH?

TO THOSE THAT WOULD MEND THESE TIMES.

GO PLANT THE ARTS THAT WOO THE WEARIEST,
BOLD ARTS THAT SIMPLE WORKMEN UNDERSAND,
THAT MAKE NO POOR MEN AND KEEP ALL MEN RICH,
AND THRONE OUR LADY BEAUTY IN THE LAND!

TO THOSE THAT WOULD HELP THE FALLEN.

GO PLANT THE CRAFTS THAT GIVE A DEEP DELIGHT
TO ALL WHO MAKE, TO ALL WHO USE AND SEE:—
NEW CRAFTS WHERE ROUGHEST MEN CAN HINT AT THE THOUGHT
AND WRITE LIFE'S LYRIC IN A HAND SET FREE:
THE DEATHLESS TOUCH OF AGES WORKED ANEW
UPON THE DOOR OF EVERY TINIEST ROOM:
THE JOY OF LIVING PAINTED ON THE WALLS,
AND DAZZLING FABRICS WROUGHT ON ART'S HOME-LOOM.
DECKING THE PARKS: VAIR, VELVET, SILK AND GOLD:
OLD PAGEANTS MARCHING THAT WERE LONG-TIME DEAD:
INNOCENT GAMBOLS, HARP AND SONG AFOOT:—
TO PRAISE THE DAY WHEN ART AND FREEDOM WED!

POEMS ON THE FAR DISTANT FUTURE

THE LEGISLATURE.

OUT OF THE HEART OF AGES COMES THE LAW,
THE SONS WILL HONOR WHAT THE SIRES HAVE LEFT:
THEIR PROVERB IS THE FATHERS' CARELESS WIT.
THEIR HONESTY THE FATHERS' CARELESS THEFT.
WHAT IS OUR FREEDOM BUT A CHANCE TO GIVE
POSTERITY A NOBLE HOUSE FOR PLAY?
AND WILL OUR CHECKED AND BALANCED LAWS BE CHAINS
TO HANG OUR CHILDREN IN AN EVIL DAY?
WE SAY WE WANT THE NATION TO BE FREE,
YET THERE'S A CLANK IN EVERY LAW WE WRITE.
WHY SHOULD WE WORK AT SUCH ILLOMENED STEEL?
TODAY THE FORGE IS LOUD, THE METAL WHITE.
TODAY MAD BLOWS COME THICK AND FAST. THE STEEL.
YIELDS WELL, THAT SOON WILL COOL FOREVERMORE.
WHAT HAVE OUR WILD BLOWS WROUGHT? WHAT GRACELESS MOULD
WHERE MEN WILL POUR THEIR BLOOD FOREVERMORE?

THE PILGRIMS FROM ASIA.

(IN THE DISTANT FUTURE.)

I HAVE WATCHED MULTITUDES OF SCHOLARS COME
TO HAUNT YOUR FOOT-STEPS, LINCOLN, IN OUR TOWN;
EACH PILGRIM PACING FROM THE DAYS TO BE,
CLAD IN A GLITTERING STRANGE-RUSTLING GOWN.
UPON THEIR FLAGS AND SASHES, CLOAKS AND COATS
NEW ASIA'S SYMBOLS, RICH EMBROIDERED THINGS;
(STRONG MEN, SET FREE FROM PRIDES THAT LEAVE US PLAIN,
BROCADED MORE THAN BABYLONIAN KINGS:)
THEIR FACES TOUCHED WITH CULTURES NOW UNKNOWN,
THEIR EYES ALIGHT WITH WISDOMS WE DESIRE,
DOING LONG HONORS TO THE AUSTERK DEAD,
WITH BANNER, PANTOMIME AND SONG AND FIRE.
THOSE WORTHIER DAYS SHALL HAIL THEM FREEDOM'S SEERS:
SELF-MASTERING CHIEFS WITH GENIUS IN CONTROL.
AND YET, THAT MARVELLOUS WORLD SHALL TURN TO THIS,
TRACING SWEET FREEDOM BACK TO LINCOLN'S SOUL.

WE CANNOT CONQUER TIME.

WE CANNOT CONQUER TIME. SIT DOWN, BREATHE SLOW,
AND MUSE A LITTLE, SINCE GREAT TIME IS KING.
THE MOTH AND RUST SHALL DO THEIR DESTINED WORK
UPON US, THOUGH WE POLISH EVERYTHING.
AND ALL OUR QUAINT ATTEMPTS TO BEAT THE CLOCK
TO TREAD TIME DOWN TO DEATH WITH HURRYING FEET,
SHALL SLOWLY END. WE WILL BEAR HIGH HIS FANE,
AND COUNT HIS EVERLASTING BONDAGE MEET.
THE MOTH, THE RUST, THE IVY AND THE RAIN,
THE HAIL AND SNOW EVEN TODAY WEAR DOWN
EACH TOWER THAT SPEAKS OF NEWNESS ALL TOO WELL.
EACH POMPOUS PALACE WITH ITS GLITTERING CROWN.
THE MOTH, THE RUST, THE IVY AND THE RAIN,
THE HAIL AND SNOW AND WIND, WILL, AT THE LAST,
ENTER THE INNER HEART OF THIS OUR RACE,
UNTIL WE LOVE NO FUTURE LIKE THE PAST.

FINAL POEMS OF THE ROAD

LAZARUS AND DIVES.

WRITTEN FOR THAT RARE CREATURE, A PREOCCUPIED HOST.
I AM LAZARUS, POOR THEY SAY,
WAYSIDE DOGS ARE MINE FOR FRIENDS,
ON OUR SORES THE RAINS DESCENDS,
SCORN IS OURS THROUGHOUT THE DAY.
I AM LAZARUS AT YOUR GATE,
BREAD IS MINE, THE BITS THAT FALL.
FROM YOUR AMPLE TABLE, ALL.
CHANCE HAS SCATTERED FROM YOUR PLATE.
WELL CONTENT, I TAKE MY SHARE,
'TIS A SORT OF TACIT RIGHT.
NO MAN FOR MY CRUMB WILL FIGHT,
NO MAN DRIVES ME FROM THE STAIR.
DIVES, OF THE NOBLE HEART,
BY MISGIVING WORN AWAY:
WHETHER PLEASURES GO OR STAY
HOW YOU FUME AND BROOD AND START!
LAZARUS YOU NEVER SEE,
ALL THE LOAF OF LIFE YOU OWN,
MADE SO GOOD FOR YOU ALONE,
YET THIS CRUMB COMES DOWN TO ME.