General William Booth Enters into Heaven : and other poems Part 2

Of the pilgrim bound to the road.

He would rob no man of his own.

Your heart is another's I know, Your honor is his alone.

The feasts of a long drawn love, The feasts of a wedded life, The harvests of patient years, And hearthstone and children and wife:

These are your lords I know.

These can never be mine-- This is the price I pay For the foolish search for the shrine:

This is the price I pay For the joy of my midnight prayers, Kneeling beneath the moon With hills for my altar stairs;

This is the price I pay For the throb of the mystic wings, When the dove of G.o.d comes down And beats round my heart and sings;

This is the price I pay For the light I shall some day see At the ends of the infinite earth When truth shall come to me.

And what if my body die Before I meet the truth?

The road is dear, more dear Than love or life or youth.

The road, it is the road, Mystical, endless, kind, Mother of visions vast, Mother of soul and mind;

Mother of all of me But the blood that cries for a mate-- That cries for a farewell kiss From the child of G.o.d at the gate.

Honor Among Scamps

We are the smirched. Queen Honor is the spotless.

We slept thro' wars where Honor could not sleep.

We were faint-hearted. Honor was full-valiant.

We kept a silence Honor could not keep.

Yet this late day we make a song to praise her.

We, codeless, will yet vindicate her code.

She who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars.

The merchants drive her out upon the road.

She makes a throne of sod beside our campfire.

We give the maiden-queen our rags and tears.

A battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, To keep her safe until the better years.

The Gamblers

Life's a jail where men have common lot.

Gaunt the one who has, and who has not.

All our treasures neither less nor more, Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door.

Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink.

She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, Tho' he win a b.u.t.ton or a stick, Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace-- HIS the glory, MINE is the disgrace.

Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite Love of hearty words and maids polite.

"Love's a gamble," say you. I deny.

Love's a gift. I love you till I die.

Gamblers fight like rats. I will not play.

All I ever had I gave away.

All I ever coveted was peace Such as comes if we have jail release.

Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, Cards make not the children cease to weep.

Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day-- Watch the cataract of suns.h.i.+ne play Down the wall, and dance upon the floor.

Sun, come down and break the dungeon door!

Of such gold dust could I make a key,-- Turn the bolt--how soon we would be free!

Over borders we would hurry on Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, Azure rivers flowing, flowing past.

G.o.d HAS GREAT ESTATES JUST PAST THE LINE, GREEN FARMS FOR ALL, AND MEAT AND CORN AND WINE.

On the Road to Nowhere

On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow When you left your father's house With your cheeks aglow?

Eyes so strained and eager To see what you might see?

Were you thief or were you fool Or most n.o.bly free?

Were the tramp-days knightly, True sowing of wild seed?

Did you dare to make the songs Vanquished workmen need?

Did you waste much money To deck a leper's feast?

Love the truth, defy the crowd Scandalize the priest?

On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow?

Stupids find the nowhere-road Dusty, grim and slow.

Ere their sowing's ended They turn them on their track, Look at the caitiff craven wights Repentant, hurrying back!

Grown ashamed of nowhere, Of rags endured for years, l.u.s.t for velvet in their hearts, Pierced with Mammon's spears, All but a few fanatics Give up their darling goal, Seek to be as others are, Stultify the soul.

Reapings now confront them, Glut them, or destroy, Curious seeds, grain or weeds Sown with awful joy.

Hurried is their harvest, They make soft peace with men.

Pilgrims pa.s.s. They care not, Will not tramp again.

O nowhere, golden nowhere!

Sages and fools go on To your chaotic ocean, To your tremendous dawn.

Far in your fair dream-haven, Is nothing or is all . . .

They press on, singing, sowing Wild deeds without recall!

Upon Returning to the Country Road