Colors of Life Part 8

But day returns, Light and the garish life, and we are brave, For Truth sinks wanly down into her grave.

Yet the heart yearns.

IN MARCH

On a soaked fence-post a little blue-backed bird, Opening her sweet throat, has stirred A million music-ripples in the air That curl and circle everywhere.

They break not shallow at my ear, But quiver far within. Warm days are near!

TO THE FLOWERS AT CHURCH

Soft little daughters of the mead, The random bush, the wanton weed, That lived to love, and loved to breed, Who hither bound you?

You're innocent of all the screed That blows around you.

Sweet daffodils so laughing yellow, Beneath a bending p.u.s.s.y-willow, You need not try to gulp and swallow The Apostles' Creed, Or shudder at the fates that follow Adam's deed.

Big b.l.o.o.d.y hymns the choir sings, And blows it to the King of Kings, The while you dream of humble things That wander there Where first you spread your golden wings On summer air;

Like Jesus, simple and divine, In beauty, not in raiment fine, Who asked no high or holier shrine In which to pray, Than garden groves of Palestine 'Neath olives gray.

His name, I think, would still be bright Though churches were unbuilded quite, And they whose hearts are toward the height Should simple be, And lift their heads into the light As straight as ye.

TO THE LITTLE BED AT NIGHT

Good-night, little bed, with your patient white pillow, Your light little spread, and your blanket of yellow!

I wonder what leaves you so pensive to-night-- The breezes are tender, the stars are so bright, I should think you would wrinkle a little and smile, And be happy to think we can sleep for a while.

Are you waiting for something? Or are you just seeming To listen so breathlessly, hushed, as though dreaming A form that is fresher than breezes so light, A coming more precious than stars to the night, Who shall mould you as soft as the breast of a billow, And crown with all beauty your patient white pillow?

Good-night, little bed--are you lonely so late?

We will lie down together, together we'll wait.

IN A DUNGEON OF RUSSIA

_Scene_: A cell leading to the gallows.

_Characters_: A n.o.ble lady, who is an a.s.sa.s.sin.

A common murderer.

The chilling gray, a ghost of mortal dawn, Has touched them, and they know the hour. The guard s.h.i.+fts guiltily his shoes upon the stone.

They raise their eyes in languid terror; but The moment pa.s.ses, and 'tis still again-- Save, in some piteous way she moves her throat.

There is a wandering of her burning eyes, Until they fix, and strangely stare upon The face of her companion. They would plead Against the heavy horror of his look; For not an idiot's corpse could strike the soul More sick with wonder.

"O look up and speak To me!"--Her voice is startling to the walls-- "Speak any word against this gloom!"

He moves A blood-deserted eye, but answers not.

"Tell if 'twas cold and filthy where you lay!"

"Ay, filthy cold! 'Twas cold enough to keep The carrion from rotting on these bones!

They never kill us--never 'til we hang!"

He spoke a brutal tongue against the gloom.

And there was heard far off a step, a voice.

The guard stood up; a quiver moved her limbs.

"Give me some simple word. Give me your hand In comrades.h.i.+p. We die together--and The while we breathe--we are each other's world."

"No--not your world, my lady! Though we die, I have no grace to give a hand to you.

My hand is thick and dirty--yours is pale!"

"You say 'my lady' in the very tomb!

Will even death not laugh this weakness off Your tongue? To think n.o.bility abides This hour! _My lady!_ O, it is a curse That whips me at the grave! I was not born-- Can I not even die, a human soul?"

"Yes, you can die! And better--you can kill!

'Tis not your ladys.h.i.+p--the gallows' rope Snaps that to nothing! Death? Not death alone Can laugh at your n.o.bility--I laugh.

No--not your piteous ladys.h.i.+p--that dies.

It is your crime that daunts me--That shall live!

To plant, with this fine delicate little hand, Small heavy death into the very heart Of time-defended tyranny--that lives!

The future is all life for you. For me-- A gla.s.sy look, a yell into the air, And I am gone! No life springs up from me!

I am the dirt that drank the drippings of A guilty murder--that is why I sit Like sickness here, and goad you with my shame!

I'll take your hand. I'll tell you I was starved, Wrecked, shattered to the bones with drunken hunger, And I killed for gold. I'll tell you this-- Your crime shall live to blot the memory Of mine, and me, and all the insane tribe Of us, who having strength in poverty Will not lie down and starve--blot off the world Our having been--the crime of our killed hopes, And gradual infamy!"

The fever gleam Was in his eyes--the future! There it burned A moment, while he stood to see the door Swing darkly open, and the guard salute.

She stood beside him. And together in High union of their fainting hearts, they faced The hour that brought them to their level graves.

March, 1912.

TO A TAWNY THRUSH

Pine spirit!

Breath and voice of a wild glade!

In the wild forest near it, In the cool hemlock or the leafy limb, Whereunder Thou didst run and wander Thro' the sun and shade, An elvish echo and a shadow dim, There in the twilight thou dost lift thy song, And give the stilly woods a silver tongue.

Out of what liquid is thy laughing made?