Melodic Poems

The blue smoke leaps Like swirling clouds of birds vanishing. So my love leaps forth towards you, Vanishes and is renewed.

A rose-yellow moon in a pale sky When the sunset is faint vermilion In the mist among the tree-boughs, Art thou to me.

As a young beech-tree on the edge of a forest Stands still in the evening, Yet shudders through all its leaves in the light air And seems to fear the stars — So are you still and so tremble.

The red deer are high on the mountain, They are beyond the last pine trees. And my desires have run with them.

The white church on the hill — A Greek in a Puritan town — Was built on the brow of the hill For John Wesley's God's renown, And a conscience old set a steeple cold On its Grecian crown.

In a storm of faith on the hill Hands raised it over the bay. When the night is clear on the hill, It stands up strong and gray; But its door is old, and the tower points cold To the Milky Way.

And all her captains sailed a fleet, Long-keeled and deep, around the Horn, Where Del Fuego lies forlorn In cloudy rack or scudding sleet. On other seas of Capricorn Old voyagers knew their house-flags, borne Where Indian and Pacific meet.

Strong oils and wool from Boston bar, Bright silks from busy blue Hong Kong — And many a little mellow gong On the shore wind, cleared for Samar And all the isles of Orient song. Oh, how the wind-clipt sails would throng! Great ships—who knows now where they are?

The captains leave their white-walled homes Built out of earnings from far lands, But not to take their old commands Into the wind where water foams! The captains leave; to helmless hands Are fallen their houses on these sands; Their old wives wither in the rooms.

Their children pause, with vision spent— Dear folk! they dabble, and put away The majesties of yesterday. No vital pulse, no strong event, Sweeps in to break their life's delay; The steam-boat lands, leaves them each day Contented with their discontent.

What will you say of one Who has no heart Even to cheer you on? No heavens part, No guiding God appears To my strained eyes.

Athwart the fog of fears And hates and lies, I see no goal, I mark No ringing message flying; Only a brawl in the dark And death and the groans of the dying.

For you, your men of dreams And your strong men of deeds Crumble, and die with screams, And under hoofs like weeds Are trampled; for you, In city and on hill Voices you knew And needed are still.

And roundabout Harbor and shoal The lights of your soul Go out.

To what end, O Fatherland? I see your legions sweep Like waves up the gray strand. I hear your women weep. And the sound is as the groaning Swish of the ebbing wave — A nation's pitiful moaning Beside an open grave.

He sat in an upper chamber And painted, And the noises of the street Meant nothing to him.

When he heard bugles, and fifes, and drums, He thought of red, and yellow, and white roses Bursting in the sunshine, And smiled as he worked.

He thought only of roses, And silk.

When he could get no more silk, He stopped painting And only thought Of roses.

But they are only like fire-flies Pricking the darkness, And I lean my body against it And spread out my fingers To let it drift through them.

I am a swimmer In the damp night, Or a bird Floating over the sucking grasses.

I am a lover Tracking the silver foot-prints Of the moon. I am a young man, In Central Park, With Spring Bursting over me.

The trees push out their young leaves, Although this is not the country; And I whisper beautiful, hot words, Although I am alone,

I will put a kiss on your brow: Are you waking now? Won't you wake, sleepy one?

A kiss on your left eye; on your right — Closed tight, closed tight! Oh, you are a hard one to wake!

A kiss on your nose Where your deep breath goes, Sleepy one!

Now a kiss for each ear: Do you hear, do you hear? Wake, sleepy one!

A kiss for this cheek; a kiss for this: How many kisses you will miss! Won't you wake? Won't you wake?

Now I come to your lips that I love: Oh, you are waking! You wake and move! Sleepy one!

What is their dread? — This dark about their bed? But they are so lately come Out of the dark womb Where they were safely kept. That blackness was good; And the silence of that solitude Wherein they slept Was kind.

My staff and scrip I cast away — Light-burdened to the mountain height! Climbing the rocky steep by day, Kindling my fire against the night.

The bitter hail shall flower the peak, The icy wind shall dry my tears. Strong shall I be, who am but weak, When bright Orion spears my fears.

Under the horned moon I shall rise, Up swinging on the scarf of dawn. The sun, searching with level eyes, Shall take my hand and lead me on.

Oh, billow on billow, Oh, roar on roar, Over me wash The seas of war …

Over me — down — down — Lunges and plunges The huge gun with its one blind eye, The armored train, And, swooping out of the sky, The aeroplane.

Down — down — The army proudly swinging Under gay flags, The glorious dead heaped up like rags,

A church with bronze bells ringing, A city all towers, Gardens of lovers and flowers, The round world swinging In the light of the sun:

All broken, undone, All down — under Black surges of thunder …

Oh, billow on billow Oh, roar on roar, Over me wash The seas of war …

As I lie roofed in, screened in, From the pattering rain, The summer rain —

You search the rocks for a footing, dragging scrawny roots You bare your thin breast to the storms, and fling out wild arms behind you; You throw back your witch-like head, with wisps of hair stringing the wind.

You fight with the snows, You rail and shriek at the tempests. Old before your time, you challenge the cold stars.

Be still, be satisfied! Stand straight like your brothers in the valley, The soft green valley of summer down below.

Why front the endless winter of the peak? Why seize the lightning in your riven hands? Why cut the driven wind and shriek aloud?

So when they said the moon is dead I did not even shake my head; I only laughed because I know It isn't so.

Only the other night I watched and saw how light He leaped down from the skies. And then, with crinkling eyes, That seemed to say, "I'm coming," He danced and started humming So gaily and so brightly That Wendy, who sleeps lightly, She's our canary, woke And scolded when she spoke.

But on he came — so near That he could almost peer Into my room and see Wendy, the toys and me. Closer he came, until His hands were on the sill — They stretched and tried to get My pail, my soldier set, And, as he touched my broom, He jumped into the room.

I knew then right away He had come down to play — And so without a word, For mother might have heard, Making no talk or noise, We played with all my toys. I never had such fun Before with anyone.

After awhile he had to go — I tired him, I'm afraid; And then I knew why I liked him so When he played.

For his face — as fat as a face could be — Was jolly, and powdered white; And I knew why the stars had to wink when he Laughed all night.

I saw him dancing along a wall, And jumping lightly down — And I knew he wasn't a moon at all, But a clown!

So when they tell me corn-starch makes you strong, And sitting still is good for tired eyes; I think that very likely they are wrong; And lots of other things that sound so wise Are only lies.

The floors they use are made of clouds; And there are crowds and crowds and crowds Who sing and dance till seven. But then they must all keep still because God and the Dream-man and Santa Claus Sleep in the big House of Heaven.

God, he sleeps on the first two floors, And the Dream-man sleeps above him and snores, A tired out story-teller; And Santa Claus, who hates the noise, He sleeps on the roof with all of his toys; And the angels live in the cellar.

Now, the angels never sleep a wink; They're much too busy to stop to think Or play on harps and guitars. They're always cleaning the sun at night, And all day long, to keep it bright, They polish the moon and the stars.

So lie the ripened cotton fields Along the slopes. The sun has browned And curled their leaves; the rows stretch out Enlaced with knots along the ground.

Above the rough red field of earth Soft flecks of white droop from the bolls. Far of the groups of pickers loom Like burdened, disembodied souls —

My brother tree, my brother tree, My heart is open to thee — Reveal me all thy secrets.

Beloved tree, beloved tree, I have shattered all my pride. I love thee, brother, as myself. Oh, explain to me thy wonders.

Beloved one, adored one, I will not babble of it among fools — I will tell it only to the unspoiled: Reveal to me thy being.

I have watched thy leaves in sunshine, I have heard them in the storm. My heart drank a droplet of thy holy joy and wonder, One drop from the ocean of thy wonder.

So late it was I worked with you And was a part of what you were! I knew the keen, brave dream you knew; I felt you stir

Like some live thing beneath my hand. Now gray time thickens in the breach, And, as self fails, I understand Your upward reach.

The work goes on, the dream goes on! We are the tide-waves, nothing more; Our separate lives beat and are gone Upon the shore.

The church thrice veiled — in rain, In the shadow of the years, In the grace of old design; Dim dwellings, blind with tears, Rotting either side

The winding passage way, To where the river crosses Weeping, under gray And limpid heavens weeping.

Gardens I have seen Through archéd doors, whose gratings Ever cry the keen Dim melodies of lace Long used and rare, gardens With an old-time grace

Vibrating, dimly trembling In the music of the rain. Roses I have seen drip a faint Perfume, and lilacs train

A quivering loveliness From door to archéd door, Passing by in flower carts; While waters ever pour O'er the white stones of the fountain, Melting icily away Half way up the mountain;

Where to mingle tears with tears, Their clothes misshapen, sobbing, Two or three old women, In wooden sabots hobbling, Meet to fill their pitchers,