Poetry

My far cry, though no one should echo⁠— Though no one to listen should stand, I shall dare with my burden the darkness And I shall not retreat from this land; Though I’m hurled ’neath the feet of the millions, Who struggle their places to keep, The sea-nymphs still bathe with my Fancy And the Dryads still sweeten my sleep.

Though I’m crushed, cast away and forgotten⁠— Though I’m buried in the dust of their cars, I can see through their madness above me⁠— I can feel the quick pulse of the stars; Though my head be the foot-stool of tyrants, Though my back be a step to their throne, I still dwell with the kings of Orion And I walk with the sun-queen alone.

Though the fire of my youth should consume me⁠— Though my body a brimstone should be, I can draw on the clouds for their water And behold! I’ve of water a sea; And though roofless, and friendless, and hopeless, And loveless, and godless I stand, The waves of my Life shall continue To murmur and laugh on the Strand.

My soul and I, upon the peak Of Sanneen grim and grey, Sat musing in the twilight of A sombre summer day.

“Great Saturn and the Moon are gone Together o’er the sea; But will great Saturn e’er return Should he elope with thee?

Ah well, who knows? when thou art gone I, too, shall sink within the brine⁠— I, too, shall sail above this peak And signal yonder groves of pine.

Behold the melancholy sky Of this forgotten land; On this side are the valleys bleak, On this, the desert sand.”

“I hear the moaning of the wind,” My sad companion said; “The snow is gathering in me And the night is overhead.

Long have we dwelt together, friend, In our sweet ennui; But were I now to take my leave, Alas, what would I be?”

“O, think not of departing, Ah, too young I am to die; I’ll find the magic wings; and there Still hangs a friendly sky.

Let us above these pines, and clouds, And scents awhile yet dwell;⁠— Where wouldst thou go, if thou wert now To sigh a last farewell?”

Thou seest the busy elements Dissolving one by one The souls that are acquitted, For the all-absorbing sun.

Let’s sing the song of darkness then; Thy prison is the Whole;⁠— What canst thou do, where wilt thou go, What wilt thou be, my Soul?

I

If I should worship at thine ancient shrine, Where thy good sons, incensed by love of war, Now clamor, as their fathers did of yore⁠— If I should sacrifice what is not mine, Nor any living god’s, nor even thine⁠— If for the sake of honor I must pour This cup of life upon thy barren shore, How will it fare then with my love divine?

No! let thy sons go forth to burn and slay: Let them for love of thee and glory smear And tear the love of all that’s pure and dear; Let them this loveless love in rage display; I can not join them; no, I can not cheer As they beneath my window pass today.

II

What care I for the tears the maudlin crowd Sheds o’er my bier⁠—for praise of Church and State⁠— For glory that remains within the gate Of worldly things⁠—for men’s esteem avowed⁠— For freedom that is not with love endowed⁠— For fame that lingers oft and comes too late, When these the sorrow of my love create And haunt her with the shadow of my shroud?

How cowardly, self-centered have I grown⁠— How dead to true and noble feelings all? Why not, when they the human soul enthrall⁠— Why not, when they the beast in man enthrone? I cling to love, and with love I will fall, Unwept, unsung, unhonored and unknown.

III

What will these kings and war-lords of the land And all their ministers of murder fell Do with their arms and fleets⁠—all tools of

The ghost of Winter stalks amidst the boughs Of Spring and drags along his icy shroud; The corn flowers and the wheat, with broken vows, Are now beneath the storm untimely bowed.

O Winter, thou wert buried on the hills; Thine epitaph was written with melted snow; Thy skeleton is in the barren rills, Where once thy silvery life-blood used to flow.

Why visitest the glimpses of the sun So soon, what message bring’st thou from the dead? Why rudely interrupt the children’s fun And havoc among the Guests of Summer spread?

Behold, the branches shiver, the blossoms fall; The lilac in the leaves a shelter seeks; Thy savage winds the Queen of May appal⁠— They pale with summer’s dust her rosy cheeks.

Withhold the solemn music of thy gale Until the golden notes of Spring are spun; The opera in the trees is but begun, O, drown it not with thy benighted wail.

For thee May’s winged madonnas will not sing, Nor in thy presence will they now appear: Begone, that their sweet voices we may hear⁠— Begone, the world today belongs to Spring.

I strolled upon the Brooklyn Bridge one day, Beneath the storm; None but a lad in rags upon the way I saw;⁠—there on a bench he lay Heedless of form.

He seemingly was reading what the Shower Was publishing upon the Bridge and down the Bay; Yet he was writing, writing at this hour⁠— Writing in a careless sort of way.

Upon a pad he scribbled and as fast the rain Retouched, effaced, corrected and revised. Was he recording Nature’s solemn strain, Or sketching choristers therein disguised?

Whatever it be, I found myself quite by his side; My nod and smile he pocketed and wrote again; “Read me your drizzling stuff,” I said, and he replied: “I’ve written a check in payment for this shower of rain.”