The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 27

Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying, In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming?

We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying; Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! -- Where is he now, the dark boy slender Who taught me bare-back, stirrup and reins?

I loved him; he loved me; my beautiful, tender Tamer of horses on gra.s.s-grown plains.

Where is he now whose eyes swam brighter, Softer than love, in his turbulent charms; Who taught me to strike, and to fall, dear fighter, And gathered me up in his boyhood arms; Taught me the rifle, and with me went riding, Suppled my limbs to the horseman's war; Where is he now, for whom my heart's biding, Biding, biding -- but he rides far!

O love that pa.s.ses the love of woman!

Who that hath felt it shall ever forget, When the breath of life with a throb turns human, And a lad's heart is to a lad's heart set?

Ever, forever, lover and rover -- They shall cling, nor each from other shall part Till the reign of the stars in the heavens be over, And life is dust in each faithful heart!

They are dead, the American gra.s.ses under; There is no one now who presses my side; By the African chotts I am riding asunder, And with great joy ride I the last great ride.

I am fey; I am fain of sudden dying; Thousands of miles there is no one near; And my heart -- all the night it is crying, crying In the bosoms of dead lads darling-dear.

Hearts of my music -- them dark earth covers; Comrades to die, and to die for, were they; In the width of the world there were no such rovers -- Back to back, breast to breast, it was ours to stay; And the highest on earth was the vow that we cherished, To spur forth from the crowd and come back never more, And to ride in the track of great souls perished Till the nests of the lark shall roof us o'er.

Yet lingers a horseman on Altai highlands, Who hath joy of me, riding the Tartar glissade; And one, far faring o'er orient islands Whose blood yet glints with my blade's accolade; North, west, east, I fling you my last hallooing, Last love to the b.r.e.a.s.t.s where my own has bled; Through the reach of the desert my soul leaps pursuing My star where it rises a Star of the Dead.

Comrades. [Richard Hovey]

Comrades, pour the wine to-night For the parting is with dawn!

Oh, the clink of cups together, With the daylight coming on!

Greet the morn With a double horn, When strong men drink together!

Comrades, gird your swords to-night, For the battle is with dawn!

Oh, the clash of s.h.i.+elds together, With the triumph coming on!

Greet the foe, And lay him low, When strong men fight together!

Comrades, watch the tides to-night, For the sailing is with dawn!

Oh, to face the spray together, With the tempest coming on!

Greet the sea With a shout of glee, When strong men roam together!

Comrades, give a cheer to-night, For the dying is with dawn!

Oh, to meet the stars together, With the silence coming on!

Greet the end As a friend a friend, When strong men die together!

Calverly's. [Edwin Arlington Robinson]

We go no more to Calverly's, For there the lights are few and low; And who are there to see by them, Or what they see, we do not know.

Poor strangers of another tongue May now creep in from anywhere, And we, forgotten, be no more Than twilight on a ruin there.

We two, the remnant. All the rest Are cold and quiet. You nor I, Nor fiddle now, nor flagon-lid, May ring them back from where they lie.

No fame delays oblivion For them, but something yet survives: A record written fair, could we But read the book of scattered lives.

There'll be a page for Leffingwell, And one for Lingard, the Moon-calf; And who knows what for Clavering, Who died because he couldn't laugh?

Who knows or cares? No sign is here, No face, no voice, no memory; No Lingard with his eerie joy, No Clavering, no Calverly.

We cannot have them here with us To say where their light lives are gone, Or if they be of other stuff Than are the moons of Ilion.

So, be their place of one estate With ashes, echoes, and old wars, -- Or ever we be of the night, Or we be lost among the stars.

Uriel. [Percy MacKaye]

(In memory of William Vaughn Moody)

I

Uriel, you that in the ageless sun Sit in the awful silences of light, Singing of vision hid from human sight, -- Prometheus, beautiful rebellious one!

And you, Deucalion, For whose blind seed was brought the illuming spark, Are you not gathered, now his day is done, Beside the brink of that relentless dark -- The dark where your dear singer's ghost is gone?

II

Imagined beings, who majestic blend Your forms with beauty! -- questing, unconfined, The mind conceived you, though the quenched mind Goes down in dark where you in dawn ascend.

Our songs can but suspend The ultimate silence: yet could song aspire The realms of mortal music to extend And wake a Sibyl's voice or Seraph's lyre -- How should it tell the dearness of a friend?

III

The simplest is the inexpressible; The heart of music still evades the Muse, And arts of men the heart of man suffuse, And saddest things are made of silence still.

In vain the senses thrill To give our sorrows glorious relief In pyre of verse and pageants volatile, And I, in vain, to speak for him my grief Whose spirit of fire invokes my waiting will.

IV

To him the best of friends.h.i.+p needs must be Uttered no more; yet was he so endowed That Poetry because of him is proud And he more n.o.ble for his poetry, Wherefore infallibly I obey the strong compulsion which this verse Lays on my lips with strange austerity -- Now that his voice is silent -- to rehea.r.s.e For my own heart how he was dear to me.

V

Not by your gradual sands, elusive Time, We measure your gray sea, that never rests; The bleeding hour-gla.s.ses in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s Mete with quick pangs the ebbing of our prime, And drip, like sudden rime In March, that melts to runnels from a pane The south breathes on -- oblivion of sublime Crystallizations, and the ruthless wane Of glittering stars, that scarce had range to climb.

VI

Darkling those constellations of his soul Glimmered, while racks of stellar lightning shot The white, creative meteors of thought Through that last night, where -- clad in cloudy stole -- Beside his ebbing shoal Of life-blood, stood Saint Paul, blazing a theme Of living drama from a fiery scroll Across his stretched vision as in dream -- When Death, with blind dark, blotted out the whole.