War

When through our bodies our two spirits burn
Escaping, and no more our true eyes turn
Outwards, and no more hands to fond hands yearn;

Then over those poor grassy heaps we'll meet
One morning, tasting still the morning's sweet,
Sensible still of light, dark, rain, cold, heat;

And see 'neath the green dust that dust of gray
Which was our useless bodies laid away,
Mocked still with menace of a Judgment Day.

We then that waiting dust at last will call,
Each to the other's,--"Rise up at last, O small
Ashes that first-love held loveliest of all!

"'Tis Judgment Day, arise!" And they will arise,
The dust will lift, and spine, ribs, neck, head, knees
At the sound remember their old unities,

And stand there, yours with mine, as once they stood<...

O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast,
    From thee in more than pristine beauty rise,
    Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs
    Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd
Each hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'd
    Our fresh, gay morn of Youth; - the Heart's high prize,
    Friendship, - and all that charm'd us in the eyes
    Of yet unutter'd Love. - So pleasures past,
That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime,
    Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed Mind
    When Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time,
Shudder and fade; - and cypress buds we find
    Ordain'd Life's blighted roses to supply,
    While but reflected shine the golden lights of Joy.

They said that I was strange. I could not bear
Confinement, and I lov'd to feel the wind
Blowing upon my forehead, and when morn
Came like an inspiration from the East,
And the cool earth, awaking like a star
In a new element, sent out its voice,
And tempted me with music, and the breath
Of a delicious perfume, and the dye
Of the rich forests and the pastures green,
To come out and be glad - I would not stay
To bind my gushing spirit with a book.

Fourteen bright summers - and my heart had grown
Impatient in its loneliness, and yearn'd
For something that was like itself, to love.
She came - the stately Isabel - as proud
And beautiful, and gentle as my dream;
And with my wealth of feeling, lov'd I her.
Older by years, and wiser of the world,
She ...

The youth in the woods spent the whole day long,
    The whole day long;
For there he had heard such a wonderful song,
    Wonderful song.

Willow-wood gave him a flute so fair,
    A flute so fair, -
To try, if within were the melody rare,
    Melody rare.

Melody whispered and said: "I am here!"
    Said: "I am here!"
But while he was listening, it fled from his ear,
    Fled from his ear.

Oft when he slept, it to him crept,
    It to him crept;
And over his forehead in love it swept,
    In love it swept.

When he would seize it, his sleep took flight,
    His sleep took flight;
The melody hung in the pallid night,
    In the pallid night.

"Lord, O my God, take me therein,
    Take me therein!
The mel...

If one poor burdened toiler o'er life's road,
    Who meets us by the way,
Goes on less conscious of his galling load,
    Then life, indeed, does pay.

If we can show one troubled heart the gain
    That lies alway in loss,
Why, then, we too are paid for all the pain
    Of bearing life's hard cross.

If some despondent soul to hope is stirred,
    Some sad lip made to smile,
By any act of ours, or any word,
    Then, life has been worth while.

Her hands are filled with what I lack,
And on her arms are pictures,
Looking like files of ants forsaking the battalions,
Or hail inlaid by broken clouds on green lawns.

She fears the arrows of her proper eyes
And has her hands in armour.

She has stretched her hands in a cup to me,
Begging for my heart.
She has circled me with the black magic of her brows
And shot small arrows at me.

The black curl that lies upon her temple
Is a scorpion pointing his needle at the stars.

Her eyes seem tight, tight shut;
But I believe she is awake.

From the Arabic of Yazid Ebn Moauia (seventh century).

He came to the desert of London town
Gray miles long;
He wandered up and he wandered down,
Singing a quiet song.
He came to the desert of London town,
Mirk miles broad;
He wandered up and he wandered down,
Ever alone with God.
There were thousands and thousands of human kind
In this desert of brick and stone;
But some were deaf and some were blind,
And he was there alone.
At length the good hour came; he died
As he had lived, alone.
He was not missed from the desert wide;
Perhaps he was found at the throne.

Thin-legged, thin-chested, slight unspeakably,
Neat-footed and weak-fingered:    in his face -
Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race,
Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea,
The brown eyes radiant with vivacity -
There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,
A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace
Of passion and impudence and energy.
Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,
Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,
Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist:
A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,
And something of the Shorter-Catechist.

“ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE!” You hear the people shouting.
The walls of Mammon tremble ere they fall.
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! Is this a time for doubting?
The poets have been prophets after all.

ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The cry is growing stronger!
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! It echoes o’er the wave!
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The Wealthy dead no longer
Shall rule us through their children from the grave!

ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The knell of Retrogression!
The greatest triumph of the tongue and pen!
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The right of long possession
Is right no longer in the minds of men!

ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! There’s lightning in the thunder!
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The reign of Greed is o’er!
ONE-MAN-ONE-VOTE! The cursed Vote of Plunder
Shall rule the plundered slaves of earth no more.

ONE-MAN-...

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. -
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.

Men ginerly, to all intents -
Although they're apt to grumble some -
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come -
    That is, the commonality
    Of men that's lived as long as me
    Has watched the world enugh to learn
    They're not the boss of this concern.

With SOME, of course, it's different -
I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball; -
    But all the same, the rain, some way,
    Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
    Er, when they railly WANTED it,
    It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!

I sat me down in my easy chair,
    To read, as usual, the morning papers;
But--who shall describe my look of despair,
    When I came to Lefroy's "destructive" capers!
That he--that, of all live men, Lefroy
Should join in the cry "Destroy, destroy!"
Who, even when a babe, as I've heard said,
On Orange conserve was chiefly fed,
And never, till now, a movement made
That wasn’t manfully retrograde!
Only think--to sweep from the light of day
Mayors, maces, criers and wigs away;
To annihilate--never to rise again--
A whole generation of aldermen,
Nor leave them even the accustomed tolls,
To keep together their bodies and souls!--
At a time too when snug posts and places
    Are falling away from us one by one,
Crash--crash--like the mummy-cases

Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell: Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters,
I've a Tale to tell.

Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters,
That is what I am.

Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle,
Mouth a semicircle,
That's the proper style.

Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases,
So the Tale begins.

There was a Pig that sat alone
Beside a ruined Pump:
By day and night he made his moan,
It would have stirred a heart of stone
To see him wring his ho...

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)

Say not - "She once was fair;" because the years
Have changed her beauty to a holier thing,
No girl hath such a lovely face as hers,
That hoards the sweets of many a vanished spring,
Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal,
Culling perfections as each came to flower,
Bearing on each rare lineament the seal
Of being exquisite from hour to hour.

These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn,
Guarding the soul within from every stain,
No baseness since the first day she was born
Behind those star-lit brows could access again,
Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair,
Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense,
And with all lovely shapes of earth and air
Feeding her wisdom and her innoce...