 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
1
The Stranger At the Gate
I
THE WEAVERS
SUNS flash, stars drift,
Comes and goes the moon;
Ever through the wide miles
Corn fields croon
Patiently, hopefully,
A low, slow tune.
Comes and goes the moon;
Ever through the wide miles
Corn fields croon
Patiently, hopefully,
A low, slow tune.
Lovingly, longingly,
Labors without rest
Every happy cornstalk,
Weaving at its breast
Such a cozy cradle
For the coming guest.
Labors without rest
Every happy cornstalk,
Weaving at its breast
Such a cozy cradle
For the coming guest.
In the flowing pastures,
Where the cattle feed,
Such a hidden love-storm,
Dying into seed—
Blue grass, slough grass,
Wild flower, weed!
Where the cattle feed,
Such a hidden love-storm,
Dying into seed—
Blue grass, slough grass,
Wild flower, weed!
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Mark the downy flower-coats
In the hollyhocks!
Hark, the cooing Wheat-Soul
Weaving for her flocks!
Croon time, June time,
Moon of baby frocks!
In the hollyhocks!
Hark, the cooing Wheat-Soul
Weaving for her flocks!
Croon time, June time,
Moon of baby frocks!
Rocking by the window,
Wrapt in visionings,
Lo, the gentle mother
Sews and sings,
Shaping to a low song
Wee, soft things!
Wrapt in visionings,
Lo, the gentle mother
Sews and sings,
Shaping to a low song
Wee, soft things!
Patiently, hopefully,
Early, late,
How the wizard fingers
Weave with Fate
For the naked youngling
Crying at the Gate!
Early, late,
How the wizard fingers
Weave with Fate
For the naked youngling
Crying at the Gate!
Sound, sight, day, night
Fade, flee thence;
Vanished is the brief, hard
World of sense:
Hark! Is it the plump grape
Crooning from the fence?
Fade, flee thence;
Vanished is the brief, hard
World of sense:
Hark! Is it the plump grape
Crooning from the fence?
Droning of the surf where
Far seas boom?
Chanting of the weird stars
Big with Doom?
Humming of the god-flung
Shuttles of a loom?
Far seas boom?
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Big with Doom?
Humming of the god-flung
Shuttles of a loom?
O'er the brooding Summer
A green hush clings,
Save the sound of weaving
Wee, soft things:
Everywhere a mother
Weaves and sings.
A green hush clings,
Save the sound of weaving
Wee, soft things:
Everywhere a mother
Weaves and sings.
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II
THE STORY
YEARLY thrilled the plum tree
With the mother-mood;
Every June the rose stock
Bore her wonder-child:
Every year the wheatlands
Reared a golden brood:
World of praying Rachels,
Heard and reconciled!
With the mother-mood;
Every June the rose stock
Bore her wonder-child:
Every year the wheatlands
Reared a golden brood:
World of praying Rachels,
Heard and reconciled!
"Poet," said the plum tree's
Singing white and green,
"What avails your mooning,
Can you fashion plums?"
"Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's
Rippling vocal sheen,
"See my golden children
Marching as with drums!"
Singing white and green,
"What avails your mooning,
Can you fashion plums?"
"Dreamer," crooned the wheatland's
Rippling vocal sheen,
"See my golden children
Marching as with drums!"
"By a god begotten,"
Hymned the sunning vine,
"In my lyric children
Purple music flows!"
"Singer," breathed the rose bush,
"Are they not divine?
Have you any daughters
Mighty as a rose?"
Hymned the sunning vine,
"In my lyric children
Purple music flows!"
"Singer," breathed the rose bush,
"Are they not divine?
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Mighty as a rose?"
Happy, happy mothers!
Cruel, cruel words!
Mine are ghostly children,
Haunting all the ways;
Latent in the plum bloom,
Calling through the birds,
Romping with the wheat brood
In their shadow-plays!
Cruel, cruel words!
Mine are ghostly children,
Haunting all the ways;
Latent in the plum bloom,
Calling through the birds,
Romping with the wheat brood
In their shadow-plays!
Gotten out of star-glint,
Mothered of the Moon;
Nurtured with the rose scent,
Wild, elusive throng!
Something of the vine's dream
Crept into a tune;
Something of the wheat-drone
Echoed in a song.
Mothered of the Moon;
Nurtured with the rose scent,
Wild, elusive throng!
Something of the vine's dream
Crept into a tune;
Something of the wheat-drone
Echoed in a song.
Once again the white fires
Smoked among the plums;
Once again the world-joy
Burst the crimson bud;
Golden bannered wheat broods
Marched to fairy drums;
Once again the vineyard
Felt the Bacchic blood.
Smoked among the plums;
Once again the world-joy
Burst the crimson bud;
Golden bannered wheat broods
Marched to fairy drums;
Once again the vineyard
Felt the Bacchic blood.
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Crooned the whitened boughs,
"Quick with vernal love-fires—
Oh, at last, he knows!
See the bursting plum bloom
There above his brows!"
"Boaster!" breathed the rose bush,
"'Tis a budding rose!"
Droned the glinting acres,
"In his soul, mayhap,
Something like a wheat-dream
Quickens into shape!"
Sang the sunning vineyard,
"Lo, the lyric sap
Sets his heart a-throbbing
Like a purple grape!"
"In his soul, mayhap,
Something like a wheat-dream
Quickens into shape!"
Sang the sunning vineyard,
"Lo, the lyric sap
Sets his heart a-throbbing
Like a purple grape!"
Mother of the wheatlands,
Mother of the plums,
Mother of the vineyard—
All that loves and grows—
Such a living glory
To the dreamer comes,
Mystic as a wheat-song,
Mighty as a rose!
Mother of the plums,
Mother of the vineyard—
All that loves and grows—
Such a living glory
To the dreamer comes,
Mystic as a wheat-song,
Mighty as a rose!
Star-glint, moon-glow,
Gathered in a mesh!
Spring-hope, white fire
By a kiss beguiled!
Something of the world-joy
Dreaming into flesh!
Bird-song, vine-thrill
Quickened to a child!
Gathered in a mesh!
Spring-hope, white fire
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Something of the world-joy
Dreaming into flesh!
Bird-song, vine-thrill
Quickened to a child!
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III
THE NEWS
LITTLE Breezes, lurking in the green-roofed covers,
Where the dappled gloaming keeps the cool night dews,
Up, and waft the wonder of it unto countless lovers!
Set the tiger lily bells a-tolling out the news!
Where the dappled gloaming keeps the cool night dews,
Up, and waft the wonder of it unto countless lovers!
Set the tiger lily bells a-tolling out the news!
Down the eager rivers make the glory of the story roll!
Waken joyful shivers in the green gold hush!
Set it to the warble of the early morning oriole!
Fill it with the tender, kissing rapture of the thrush!
Waken joyful shivers in the green gold hush!
Set it to the warble of the early morning oriole!
Fill it with the tender, kissing rapture of the thrush!
Take a little sorrow from the night rain pattering,
Drowning in a black flood stars and moon;
Take a little terror from the zigzag, shattering,
Blue sword-flash of a storm-struck noon!
Drowning in a black flood stars and moon;
Take a little terror from the zigzag, shattering,
Blue sword-flash of a storm-struck noon!
Breathing through the green-aisled orchard chapels,
Learn the holy music of the world-old dream;
Borrow from the still scarlet singing of the apples;
Weave it in the weird tale's gloom and gleam!
Learn the holy music of the world-old dream;
Borrow from the still scarlet singing of the apples;
Weave it in the weird tale's gloom and gleam!
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Hasten with the woven music, make the Summer lyrical,
Sweet as with the odors of a southeast rain!
Set the corn a-chatter o'er the glad, impending miracle!
A little Stranger whimpers at the Gate of Pain!
Sweet as with the odors of a southeast rain!
Set the corn a-chatter o'er the glad, impending miracle!
A little Stranger whimpers at the Gate of Pain!
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IV
IN THE NIGHT
OVER the steep cloud-crags
The marching Day went down—
Bickering spears and flags,
Slant in a wind of Doom!
Blear in the huddled shadows
Glimmer the lights of the town;
Black pools mottle the meadows,
Swamped in a purple gloom.
The marching Day went down—
Bickering spears and flags,
Slant in a wind of Doom!
Blear in the huddled shadows
Glimmer the lights of the town;
Black pools mottle the meadows,
Swamped in a purple gloom.
Is it the night wind sobbing
Over the wheat in head?
Is it the world-heart throbbing,
Sad with the coming years?
Is it the lifeward creeping
Ghosts of the myriad dead,
Livid with wounds and weeping
Wild, uncleansing tears?
Over the wheat in head?
Is it the world-heart throbbing,
Sad with the coming years?
Is it the lifeward creeping
Ghosts of the myriad dead,
Livid with wounds and weeping
Wild, uncleansing tears?
'Twas not a lone loon calling
There in the darkling sedge,
Still as the prone moon's falling
Where in the gloom it slinks!
Hark to the low intoning
There at the hushed grove's edge—
Is it the pitiless, moaning
Voice of the timeless Sphinx?
There in the darkling sedge,
Still as the prone moon's falling
Where in the gloom it slinks!
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There at the hushed grove's edge—
Is it the pitiless, moaning
Voice of the timeless Sphinx?
Woven of dusk and quiet,
Winged with the dim starlight,
Hideous dream-sounds riot,
Couple and breed and grow;
Big with a dread to-morrow,
Flooding the hollow night
With more than a Thracian sorrow,
More than a Theban woe!
Winged with the dim starlight,
Hideous dream-sounds riot,
Couple and breed and grow;
Big with a dread to-morrow,
Flooding the hollow night
With more than a Thracian sorrow,
More than a Theban woe!
Dupe of a lying pleasure,
Dying slave of desire!
Dreading the swift erasure,
The swoop of the grisly Jinn,
Lo, you have trammeled with dust
A spark of the slumbering Fire,
Given it nerves for lust
And feet for the shards of sin!
Dying slave of desire!
Dreading the swift erasure,
The swoop of the grisly Jinn,
Lo, you have trammeled with dust
A spark of the slumbering Fire,
Given it nerves for lust
And feet for the shards of sin!
Woe to the dreamer waking,
When the Dream shall stalk before him,
With terrible thirsts for slaking
And hungers mad to be fed!
Oh, he shall sicken of giving,
Cursing the mother that bore him—
Earth, so lean for the living,
Earth, so fat with the dead!
When the Dream shall stalk before him,
With terrible thirsts for slaking
And hungers mad to be fed!
Oh, he shall sicken of giving,
Cursing the mother that bore him—
Earth, so lean for the living,
Earth, so fat with the dead!
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Peace, mysterious Flouter!
Lo, where the sacred mother
Sleeps in her starry bed,
Dreams of the blessed Comer,
A white awe flung about her,
Wrapped in the hopeful Summer,
The starlight round her head!
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V
BREAK OF DAY
SILENT are the green looms
And the weavers sleep
Nestled in the piled glooms,
Deep on deep.
And the weavers sleep
Nestled in the piled glooms,
Deep on deep.
Gaunt, grim trees stand,
Etched on space,
Like a mirrored woodland
On a purple vase.
Etched on space,
Like a mirrored woodland
On a purple vase.
Faithful in the dun hour,
Like a praying priest,
Eagerly the sunflower
Scans the East.
Like a praying priest,
Eagerly the sunflower
Scans the East.
Corn rows, far-hurled,
Mist-enthralled,
Vanish in a star world,
Sapphire-walled.
Mist-enthralled,
Vanish in a star world,
Sapphire-walled.
Leaning out of dim space
Over field and town,
Some hushed mother face
Peers, bends down;
Over field and town,
Some hushed mother face
Peers, bends down;
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Veiled in gleam-blurs,
Starry locked,
Brooding o'er the dreamers
Dawnward rocked.
Starry locked,
Brooding o'er the dreamers
Dawnward rocked.
Is a spirit walking?
On a sudden seem
All the sleepers talking
In a broken dream!
On a sudden seem
All the sleepers talking
In a broken dream!
All along the corn rows,
O'er the glinting dews,
Hark! A muffled horn blows
Some wild news!
O'er the glinting dews,
Hark! A muffled horn blows
Some wild news!
Listen! From a plum-close,
Like a troubled soul,
Tremulous a voice goes—
'Tis the oriole!
Like a troubled soul,
Tremulous a voice goes—
'Tis the oriole!
Star-lorn, staring,
The East goes white!
Is a Terror faring
Up the steep of night?
The East goes white!
Is a Terror faring
Up the steep of night?
Boldly, gladly,
Through the paling hush,
Wildly, madly,
Cries the thrush!
Through the paling hush,
Wildly, madly,
Cries the thrush!
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Tumbled are the piled glooms
And the weavers stir:
Once again the wild looms
Drone and whir.
And the weavers stir:
Once again the wild looms
Drone and whir.
Glowing through the gray rack
Breaks the Day—
Like a burning haystack
Twenty farms away!
Breaks the Day—
Like a burning haystack
Twenty farms away!
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VI
DAWN SONG
TREADER of the blue steeps and the hollows under!
Day-Flinger, Hope-Singer, crowned with awful hair!
Battle Lord with burning sword to cleave the gloom asunder!
Plunger through the eyries of the eagles of the Thunder!
Stroller up the flame-arched air!
Day-Flinger, Hope-Singer, crowned with awful hair!
Battle Lord with burning sword to cleave the gloom asunder!
Plunger through the eyries of the eagles of the Thunder!
Stroller up the flame-arched air!
All-Beholder, very swift and tireless your pace is!
Now you snuff the guttered moon above the gray abyss,
Moaning with the sagging tide in shipless ocean spaces;
Now you gladden windless hollows thronged with daisy faces;
Now the corn salutes the Morn that sought Persepolis!
Now you snuff the guttered moon above the gray abyss,
Moaning with the sagging tide in shipless ocean spaces;
Now you gladden windless hollows thronged with daisy faces;
Now the corn salutes the Morn that sought Persepolis!
Searcher of the ocean and the islands and the straits,
The mountains and the rivers and the deserts and the dunes,
Saw you any little spirit foundling of the Fates,
Groping at the world-wall for the narrow gates
Guarded by the nine big moons?
The mountains and the rivers and the deserts and the dunes,
Saw you any little spirit foundling of the Fates,
Groping at the world-wall for the narrow gates
Guarded by the nine big moons?
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Numberless and endlessly the living spirit tide rolls,
Like a serried ocean on a pleasant island hurled!
Sun-lured, rain-wooed, color-haunted wild souls,
Trooping with the love-thralled, mother-seeking child souls,
Throng upon the good green world!
Like a serried ocean on a pleasant island hurled!
Sun-lured, rain-wooed, color-haunted wild souls,
Trooping with the love-thralled, mother-seeking child souls,
Throng upon the good green world!
Surely you have seen it in your wide sky-going—
An eager little comrade of the spirits of the wheat;
All the hymning forests and the melody of growing,
All the ocean thunderings and all the rivers flowing,
Silenced by the music of its feet!
An eager little comrade of the spirits of the wheat;
All the hymning forests and the melody of growing,
All the ocean thunderings and all the rivers flowing,
Silenced by the music of its feet!
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VII
END OF SUMMER
PURPLE o'er the tree tops
Wild grapes sprawl;
In the golden silence
Few birds call;
Heavy laden Summer
Ripens toward the Fall.
Wild grapes sprawl;
In the golden silence
Few birds call;
Heavy laden Summer
Ripens toward the Fall.
Weary with the seed pods
Droop the hollyhocks;
Up and down the wide miles,
Corn in shocks;
Silent is the Wheat Mother,
And her merry flocks
Droop the hollyhocks;
Up and down the wide miles,
Corn in shocks;
Silent is the Wheat Mother,
And her merry flocks
Go no more a-marching
Unto fairy drums.
Hark! Is it the footfall
Of the One who comes?
Silence—save the dropping
Of the purple plums!
Unto fairy drums.
Hark! Is it the footfall
Of the One who comes?
Silence—save the dropping
Of the purple plums!
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Patient, stricken Summer
Feels the Odic Fires,
Awful in her ripe domes,
Mystic in her spires.
In a holy sadness
Fruit the Spring desires.
Feels the Odic Fires,
Awful in her ripe domes,
Mystic in her spires.
In a holy sadness
Fruit the Spring desires.
Last of all the awe-moons,
Three times three,
Glimmers down the sun track
Slenderly—
Omen of the Wonder
Soon to be.
Three times three,
Glimmers down the sun track
Slenderly—
Omen of the Wonder
Soon to be.
Does the darkness listen
For a shout of Doom?
Hist! Was it a thin voice
Crying from a womb?
Silence—save a dry leaf's
Whisper down the gloom.
For a shout of Doom?
Hist! Was it a thin voice
Crying from a womb?
Silence—save a dry leaf's
Whisper down the gloom.
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VIII
VISION
SOON shall you come as the dawn from the dumb abysm of night,
Traveler birthward, Hastener earthward out of the gloom!
Soon shall you rest on a soft white breast from the measureless mid-world flight;
Waken in fear at the miracle, light, in the pain-hushed room.
Traveler birthward, Hastener earthward out of the gloom!
Soon shall you rest on a soft white breast from the measureless mid-world flight;
Waken in fear at the miracle, light, in the pain-hushed room.
Lovingly fondled, fearfully guarded by hands that are tender,
Frail shall you seem as a dream that must fail in the swirl of the morrow:
Oh, but the vast, immemorial past of ineffable splendor,
Forfeited soon in the pangful surrender to Sense and to Sorrow!
Frail shall you seem as a dream that must fail in the swirl of the morrow:
Oh, but the vast, immemorial past of ineffable splendor,
Forfeited soon in the pangful surrender to Sense and to Sorrow!
Who shall unravel your tangle of travel, uncurtain your history?
Have you not run with the sun-gladdened feet of a thaw?
Lurked as a thrill in the will of the primal sea-mystery,
The drift of the cloud and the lift of the moon for a law?
Have you not run with the sun-gladdened feet of a thaw?
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The drift of the cloud and the lift of the moon for a law?
Lost is the tale of the gulfs you have crossed and the veils you have lifted:
In many a tongue have been wrung from you outcries of pain:
You have leaped with the lightning from thunder-heads, hurricane-rifted,
And breathed in the whispering rain!
In many a tongue have been wrung from you outcries of pain:
You have leaped with the lightning from thunder-heads, hurricane-rifted,
And breathed in the whispering rain!
Latent in juices the April sun looses from capture,
Have you not blown in the lily and grown in the weed?
Burned with the flame of the vernal erotical rapture,
And yearned with the passion for seed?
Have you not blown in the lily and grown in the weed?
Burned with the flame of the vernal erotical rapture,
And yearned with the passion for seed?
Poured on the deeps from the steeps of the sky as a chalice,
Flung through the loom that is shuttled by tempests at play,
Myriad the forms you have taken for hovel or palace—
Broken and cast them away!
Flung through the loom that is shuttled by tempests at play,
Myriad the forms you have taken for hovel or palace—
Broken and cast them away!
You who shall cling to a love that is fearful and pities,
Titans of flame were your comrades to blight and consume!
Have you not roared over song-hallowed, sword-stricken cities,
And fled in the smoke of their doom?
For, ancient and new, you are flame, you are dust, you are spirit and dew,
Swirled into flesh, and the winds of the world are your breath!
The song of the thrush in the hush of the dawn is not younger than you—
And yet you are older than Death!
Titans of flame were your comrades to blight and consume!
Have you not roared over song-hallowed, sword-stricken cities,
And fled in the smoke of their doom?
22
Swirled into flesh, and the winds of the world are your breath!
The song of the thrush in the hush of the dawn is not younger than you—
And yet you are older than Death!
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IX
TRIUMPH
SEE how the blue-girt hills are spread
With regal cloth of gold;
How, panoplied in haughty red,
The frosted maples stand;
The golden rod, with torch alight,
Makes glory up the wold—
As though a monarch's bannered might
Were marching up the land!
With regal cloth of gold;
How, panoplied in haughty red,
The frosted maples stand;
The golden rod, with torch alight,
Makes glory up the wold—
As though a monarch's bannered might
Were marching up the land!
Now should ecstatic bugles fret
The hush, and drums should roll;
The shawms of all the breezes set
The scarlet leaves a-dance!
And now should flash in vatic rhyme
The battles of the Soul—
To welcome to the realm of Time
The Vanquisher of Chance!
The hush, and drums should roll;
The shawms of all the breezes set
The scarlet leaves a-dance!
And now should flash in vatic rhyme
The battles of the Soul—
To welcome to the realm of Time
The Vanquisher of Chance!
For, though there rolls no gilded car
That spurns the shaken earth,
And shout no captains, flinging far
The law to parlous spears;
With throbbing hearts for smitten drums,
Up through the Gates of Birth—
The Victor comes! The Victor comes!
To claim the ripened years!
That spurns the shaken earth,
And shout no captains, flinging far
The law to parlous spears;
With throbbing hearts for smitten drums,
Up through the Gates of Birth—
The Victor comes! The Victor comes!
To claim the ripened years!
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X
HERITAGE
OH, there are those, a sordid clan,
With pride in gaud and faith in gold,
Who prize the sacred soul of man
For what his hands have sold.
With pride in gaud and faith in gold,
Who prize the sacred soul of man
For what his hands have sold.
And these shall deem thee humbly bred:
They shall not hear, they shall not see
The kings among the lordly dead
Who walk and talk with thee!
They shall not hear, they shall not see
The kings among the lordly dead
Who walk and talk with thee!
A tattered cloak may be thy dole
And thine the roof that Jesus had:
The broidered garment of the soul
Shall keep thee purple-clad!
And thine the roof that Jesus had:
The broidered garment of the soul
Shall keep thee purple-clad!
The blood of men hath dyed its brede,
And it was wrought by holy seers
With sombre dream and golden deed
And pearled with women's tears.
And it was wrought by holy seers
With sombre dream and golden deed
And pearled with women's tears.
With Eld thy chain of days is one:
The seas are still Homeric seas;
Thy sky shall glow with Pindar's sun,
The stars of Socrates!
The seas are still Homeric seas;
Thy sky shall glow with Pindar's sun,
The stars of Socrates!
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Unaged the ancient tide shall surge,
The old Spring burn along the bough:
For thee, the new and old converse
In one eternal Now!
The old Spring burn along the bough:
For thee, the new and old converse
In one eternal Now!
I give thy feet the hopeful sod,
Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath;
The glory of the search for God
Be thine in life and death!
Thy mouth, the priceless boon of breath;
The glory of the search for God
Be thine in life and death!
Unto thy flesh, the soothing dust;
Thy soul, the gift of being free:
The torch my fathers gave in trust,
Thy father gives to thee!
Thy soul, the gift of being free:
The torch my fathers gave in trust,
Thy father gives to thee!
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XI
LULLABY
SUN-FLOOD, moon-gleam
Ebb and flow;
Twinkle-footed star flocks
Come and go:
Eager little Stranger,
Sleep and grow!
Ebb and flow;
Twinkle-footed star flocks
Come and go:
Eager little Stranger,
Sleep and grow!
Yearning in the moon-lift
Surge the seas;
Southering, the sun-lured
Gray goose flees:
Eager with the same urge,
You and these!
Surge the seas;
Southering, the sun-lured
Gray goose flees:
Eager with the same urge,
You and these!
Canopied in splendor—
Red, gold, blue—
With the tender Autumn
Cooing through;
Oh, the mighty cradle
Rocking you!
Red, gold, blue—
With the tender Autumn
Cooing through;
Oh, the mighty cradle
Rocking you!
| The Stranger at the Gate | |