The Story Of A Round-House And Other Poems Part 20

All the woods hushed--save for a dripping rose, All the woods dun--save where a glow-worm glows.

Br.i.m.m.i.n.g the quiet woods with holiness, The lone brown birds will hymn her till the dawn, The delicate, shy, dappled deer will press Soft pitying muzzles on her swathed lawn.

The little pretty rabbits running by.

Will pause among the dewy gra.s.s to peep, Their thudding hearts affrighted to espy The maiden Dian lying there asleep.

Brown, l.u.s.trous, placid eyes of sylvan things Will wonder at the quiet in her face, While from the th.o.r.n.y branch the singer brings Beauty and peace to that immortal place.

Until the grey dawn sets the woods astir The pure birds' thrilling psalm will mourn for her.

C. L. M.

In the dark womb where I began My mother's life made me a man.

Through all the months of human birth Her beauty fed my common earth.

I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir, But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave She cannot see the life she gave.

For all her love, she cannot tell Whether I use it ill or well, Nor knock at dusty doors to find Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave's gates could be undone, She would not know her little son, I am so grown. If we should meet She would pa.s.s by me in the street, Unless my soul's face let her see My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind My debt to her and womankind?

What woman's happier life repays Her for those months of wretched days?

For all my mouthless body leeched Ere Birth's releasing h.e.l.l was reached?

What have I done, or tried, or said In thanks to that dear woman dead?

Men triumph over women still, Men trample women's rights at will, And man's l.u.s.t roves the world untamed.

O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed.

WASTE

No rose but fades: no glory but must pa.s.s: No hue but dims: no precious silk but frets.

Her beauty must go underneath the gra.s.s, Under the long roots of the violets.

O, many glowing beauties Time has hid In that dark, blotting box the villain sends.

He covers over with a coffin-lid Mothers and sons, and foes and lovely friends.

Maids that were redly-lipped and comely-skinned, Friends that deserved a sweeter bed than clay, All are as blossoms blowing down the wind, Things the old envious villain sweeps away.

And though the mutterer laughs and church bells toll, Death brings another April to the soul.

THIRD MATE

All the sheets are clacking, all the blocks are whining, The sails are frozen stiff and the wetted decks are s.h.i.+ning; The reef's in the topsails, and it's coming on to blow, And I think of the dear girl I left long ago.

Grey were her eyes, and her hair was long and bonny, Golden was her hair, like the wild bees' honey.

And I was but a dog, and a mad one to despise, The gold of her hair and the grey of her eyes.

There's the sea before me, and my home's behind me, And beyond there the strange lands where n.o.body will mind me, No one but the girls with the paint upon their cheeks, Who sell away their beauty to whomsoever seeks.

There'll be drink and women there, and songs and laughter, Peace from what is past and from all that follows after; And a fellow will forget how a woman lies awake, Lonely in the night watch crying for his sake.

Black it blows and bad and it howls like slaughter, And the s.h.i.+p she shudders as she takes the water.

Hissing flies the spindrift like a wind-blown smoke, And I think of a woman and a heart I broke.

THE WILD DUCK

Twilight. Red in the west.

Dimness. A glow on the wood.

The teams plod home to rest.

The wild duck come to glean.

O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool; What things have the farm ducks seen That they cry so--huddle and cry?

Only the soul that goes.

Eager. Eager. Flying.

Over the globe of the moon, Over the wood that glows.

Wings linked. Necks a-strain, A rush and a wild crying.

A cry of the long pain In the reeds of a steel lagoon.

In a land that no man knows.

CHRISTMAS, 1903

O, the sea breeze will be steady, and the tall s.h.i.+p's going trim, And the dark blue skies are paling, and the white stars burning dim; The long night watch is over, and the long sea-roving done, And yonder light is the Start Point light, and yonder comes the sun.

O, we have been with the Spaniards, and far and long on the sea; But there are the twisted chimneys, and the gnarled old inns on the quay.

The wind blows keen as the day breaks, the roofs are white with the rime, And the church-bells ring as the sun comes up to call men in to Prime.