Challenge Part 7

The gra.s.s our fathers cut away Is growing on their graves to-day; The tiniest brooks that scarcely flow Eternally will come and go.

There is no kind of death to kill The sands that lie so meek and still...

But Man is great and strong and wise-- And so he dies.

III.

MOCKERY

G.o.d, I return to you on April days When along country-roads you walk with me; And my faith blossoms like the earliest tree That shames the bleak world with its yellow sprays.

My faith revives when, through a rosy haze, The clover-sprinkled hills smile quietly; Young winds uplift a bird's clean ecstacy...

For this, oh G.o.d, my joyousness and praise.

But now--the crowded streets and choking airs, The huddled thousands bruised and tossed about-- These, or the over-brilliant thoroughfares, The too-loud laughter and the empty shout; The mirth-mad city, tragic with its cares...

For this, oh G.o.d, my silence--and my doubt.

IV.

HUMILITY

Oh G.o.d, if I have ever been So filled with ignorance and sin That I have dared to use Thy name In blasphemy, in jest, in shame; If ever I have dared to flout Thy works, and mock Thy deeds with doubt, Thou must forgive me as Thou art divine For, G.o.d, the fault was Thine as well as mine.

Oh, I have used Thee, time on time, To fill a phrase, to round a rhyme; But was this wrong? Nay, in Thy heart Thou knowest the n.o.ble theme Thou art...

Was it my fault that as I sung The daring speech was on my tongue?

Nay; if my singing, G.o.d, gave Thee offense, Thou wouldst have robbed me of the lyric sense.

But dignity hath made Thee dumb, And so Thou biddest me to come And be a sonant part of Thee; To sing Thy praise in blasphemy, To be the life within the clod That points the paradox of G.o.d.

To chant, beneath a loud and lyric grief, A faith that flaunts its very disbelief.

FIFTH AVENUE--SPRING AFTERNOON

The world's running over with color, With whispers, strange fervors and April-- There's a smell in the air as if meadows Were under our feet.

Spring smiles at the commonest waysides; But she pours out her heart to the city, As one woman might to another Who meet after years...

Restless with color and perfume, The streets are a riot of blossoms.

What garden could boast of such flowers-- Not Eden itself.

Primroses, pinks and gardenias, Shame the gray town and its squalor-- Windows are flaming with jonquils; Fires of gold!

Out of a florist's some pansies Peer at the crowd, like the faces Of solemnly mischievous children Going to bed...

And women--Spring's favorite children-- Frail and phantastically fas.h.i.+oned, Pa.s.s like a race of immortals, Too radiant for earth.

The pale and the drab are transfigured, They sing themselves into the suns.h.i.+ne-- Every girl is a lyric, An urge and a lure.

And, like a challenge of trumpets, The Spring and its impulse goes through me-- Breezes and flowers and people Sing in my blood...

Breezes and flowers and people-- And under it all, oh beloved, Out of the song and the suns.h.i.+ne, Rises your face!

TRIBUTE

Never will you let me Tire of leaping pa.s.sion; Never can I grow weary Of undesired joys.

The delicate strength of your bosom; Your hands' incredible softness; The fluent curve of your body; The fierceness of your lips;

Ceaselessly do they call me-- You and your eloquent beauty Are challenge and invitation Too ravis.h.i.+ng to resist.

Always the burning summons, The sweet, imperative madness, Rides over me, like a conqueror, Careless and confident...

Even so goes Love, Trampling and invincible; With rapt and pitiless beauty, Rough-shod over the world!

SONGS OF PROTEST

_To James Oppenheim_

CHALLENGE

_The quiet and courageous night, The keen vibration of the stars, Call me, from morbid peace, to fight The world's forlorn and desperate wars._

_The air throbs like a rolling drum-- The brave hills and the singing sea, Unrest and people's faces come Like battle-trumpets, rousing me._

_And while Life's l.u.s.ty banner flies, I shall a.s.sail, with raging mirth, The scornful and untroubled skies, The cold complacency of earth._

CALIBAN IN THE COAL MINES

G.o.d, we don't like to complain We know that the mine is no lark-- But--there's the pools from the rain; But--there's the cold and the dark.

G.o.d, You don't know what it is-- You, in Your well-lighted sky, Watching the meteors whizz; Warm, with the sun always by.

G.o.d, if You had but the moon Stuck in Your cap for a lamp, Even You'd tire of it soon, Down in the dark and the damp.

Nothing but blackness above, And nothing that moves but the cars-- G.o.d, if You wish for our love, Fling us a handful of stars!