Joyce Kilmer


    Biographical information

  1. A Blue Valentine
  2. Alarm Clocks
  3. Apology
  4. As Winds That Blow Against A Star
  5. Citizen Of The World
  6. Dave Lilly
  7. Delicatessen
  8. Easter
  9. Easter Week
  10. Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J.
  11. Folly
  12. Gates And Doors
  13. Houses
  14. In Memory
  15. In Memory Of Rupert Brooke
  16. Kings
  17. Lionel Johnson
  18. Love's Lantern
  19. Madness
  20. Main Street
  21. Martin
  22. Memorial Day
  23. Mid-Ocean In War-Time
  24. Mount Houvenkopf
  25. Multiplication
  26. Old Poets
  27. Pennies
  28. Poets
  29. Queen Elizabeth Speaks
  30. Roofs
  31. Roses
  32. Servant Girl And Grocer's Boy
  33. St. Alexis, Patron Of Beggars
  34. St. Laurence
  35. Stars
  36. Thanksgiving
  37. The Annunciation
  38. The Apartment House
  39. The Big Top
  40. The Cathedral Of Rheims
  41. The Fourth Shepherd
  42. The House With Nobody In It
  43. The New School
  44. The Proud Poet
  45. The Robe Of Christ
  46. The Rosary
  47. The Singing Girl
  48. The Snowman In The Yard
  49. The Thorn
  50. The Twelve-Forty-Five
  51. The Visitation
  52. The White Ships And The Red
  53. To A Blackbird And His Mate Who Died In The Spring
  54. To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
  55. To Certain Poets
  56. Trees
  57. Vision
  58. Waverley
  59. Wealth

    Biographical information
      Name: Alfred Joyce Kilmer
      Place and date of birth: New Brunswick, New Jersey (United States); December 6, 1886
      Place and date of death: Near Seringes-et-Nesles (France); July 30, 1918 (aged 31)

      A Blue Valentine
        (For Aline)
        Right Reverend Bishop Valentinus,
        Sometime of Interamna, which is called Ferni,
        Now of the delightful Court of Heaven,
        I respectfully salute you,
        I genuflect
        And I kiss your episcopal ring.
        It is not, Monsignore,
        The fragrant memory of your holy life,
        Nor that of your shining and joyous martyrdom,
        Which causes me now to address you.
        But since this is your august festival, Monsignore,
        It seems appropriate to me to state
        According to a venerable and agreeable custom,
        That I love a beautiful lady.
        Her eyes, Monsignore,
        Are so blue that they put lovely little blue reflections
        On everything that she looks at,
        Such as a wall
        Or the moon
        Or my heart.
        It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,
        Yet not quite like it,
        For the blueness is not transparent,
        Only translucent.
        Her soul's light shines through,
        But her soul cannot be seen.
        It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, infantile, wise
        And noble.
        She wears, Monsignore, a blue garment,
        Made in the manner of the Japanese.
        It is very blue
        I think that her eyes have made it more blue,
        Sweetly staining it
        As the pressure of her body has graciously given it form.
        Loving her, Monsignore,
        I love all her attributes;
        But I believe
        That even if I did not love her
        I would love the blueness of her eyes,
        And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
        I have never before troubled you with a request.
        The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
        are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid,
        Gallant Saint Stephen, who puts fire in my blood,
        And your brother bishop, my patron,
        The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari.
        But, of your courtesy, Monsignore,
        Do me this favour:
        When you this morning make your way
        To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
        because of her who sits upon it,
        When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady,
        I beg you, say to her:
        "Madame, a poor poet, one of your singing servants yet on earth,
        Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
        For wearing a blue gown".

      Alarm Clocks
        When Dawn strides out to wake a dewy farm
        Across green fields and yellow hills of hay
        The little twittering birds laugh in his way
        And poise triumphant on his shining arm.
        He bears a sword of flame but not to harm
        The wakened life that feels his quickening sway
        And barnyard voices shrilling "It is day!"
        Take by his grace a new and alien charm.
        But in the city, like a wounded thing
        That limps to cover from the angry chase,
        He steals down streets where sickly arc-lights sing,
        And wanly mock his young and shameful face;
        And tiny gongs with cruel fervor ring
        In many a high and dreary sleeping place.

        (For Eleanor Rogers Cox)
        For blows on the fort of evil
        That never shows a breach,
        For terrible life-long races
        To a goal no foot can reach,
        For reckless leaps into darkness
        With hands outstretched to a star,
        There is jubilation in Heaven
        Where the great dead poets are.
        There is joy over disappointment
        And delight in hopes that were vain.
        Each poet is glad there was no cure
        To stop his lonely pain.
        For nothing keeps a poet
        In his high singing mood
        Like unappeasable hunger
        For unattainable food.
        So fools are glad of the folly
        That made them weep and sing,
        And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne
        And Drummond for his king.
        They know that on flinty sorrow
        And failure and desire
        The steel of their souls was hammered
        To bring forth the lyric fire.
        Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett,
        McDonough and Hunt and Pearse
        See now why their hatred of tyrants
        Was so insistently fierce.
        Is Freedom only a Will-o'-the-wisp
        To cheat a poet's eye?
        Be it phantom or fact, it's a noble cause
        In which to sing and to die!
        So not for the Rainbow taken
        And the magical White Bird snared
        The poets sing grateful carols
        In the place to which they have fared;
        But for their lifetime's passion,
        The quest that was fruitless and long,
        They chorus their loud thanksgiving
        To the thorn-crowned Master of Song.

      As Winds That Blow Against A Star
        (For Aline)

        Now by what whim of wanton chance
        Do radiant eyes know sombre days?
        And feet that shod in light should dance
        Walk weary and laborious ways?
        But rays from Heaven, white and whole,
        May penetrate the gloom of earth;
        And tears but nourish, in your soul,
        The glory of celestial mirth.
        The darts of toil and sorrow, sent
        Against your peaceful beauty, are
        As foolish and as impotent
        As winds that blow against a star.

      Citizen Of The World
        No longer of Him be it said
        "He hath no place to lay His head."
        In every land a constant lamp
        Flames by His small and mighty camp.
        There is no strange and distant place
        That is not gladdened by His face.
        And every nation kneels to hail
        The Splendour shining through Its veil.
        Cloistered beside the shouting street,
        Silent, He calls me to His feet.
        Imprisoned for His love of me
        He makes my spirit greatly free.
        And through my lips that uttered sin
        The King of Glory enters in.

      Dave Lilly
        There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used
        to be full of trout,
        But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished
        I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago,
        And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.
        There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North
        Adams road,
        And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and
        He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think.
        And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.
        Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares
        very much;
        They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such.
        But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish;
        He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.
        The other night I was walking up the hill from
        And I came to the brook I mentioned,
        and I stopped on the bridge and sat down.
        I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white
        And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.
        And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to
        me I could feel
        The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel.
        And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought
        to land
        By a twist and flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.
        I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all
        There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout.
        But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak
        And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.
        It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone
        fished that brook;
        And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your
        But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set
        I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.
        I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle
        of rye
        And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.
        I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave
        And put some flowers on it -- but this will be better for Dave.

        Why is that wanton gossip Fame
        So dumb about this man's affairs?
        Why do we titter at his name
        Who come to buy his curious wares?
        Here is a shop of wonderment.
        From every land has come a prize;
        Rich spices from the Orient,
        And fruit that knew Italian skies,
        And figs that ripened by the sea
        In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,
        Strange pungent meats from Germany,
        And currants from a Grecian hill.
        He is the lord of goodly things
        That make the poor man's table gay,
        Yet of his worth no minstrel sings
        And on his tomb there is no bay.
        Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised,
        This trafficker in humble sweets,
        Because his little shops are raised
        By thousands in the city streets.
        Yet stars in greater numbers shine,
        And violets in millions grow,
        And they in many a golden line
        Are sung, as every child must know.
        Perhaps Fame thinks his worried eyes,
        His wrinkled, shrewd, pathetic face,
        His shop, and all he sells and buys
        Are desperately commonplace.
        Well, it is true he has no sword
        To dangle at his booted knees.
        He leans across a slab of board,
        And draws his knife and slices cheese.
        He never heard of chivalry,
        He longs for no heroic times;
        He thinks of pickles, olives, tea,
        And dollars, nickles, cents and dimes.
        His world has narrow walls, it seems;
        By counters is his soul confined;
        His wares are all his hopes and dreams,
        They are the fabric of his mind.
        Yet -- in a room above the store
        There is a woman -- and a child
        Pattered just now across the floor;
        The shopman looked at him and smiled.
        For, once he thrilled with high romance
        And tuned to love his eager voice.
        Like any cavalier of France
        He wooed the maiden of his choice.
        And now deep in his weary heart
        Are sacred flames that whitely burn.
        He has of Heaven's grace a part
        Who loves, who is beloved in turn.
        And when the long day's work is done,
        (How slow the leaden minutes ran!)
        Home, with his wife and little son,
        He is no huckster, but a man!
        And there are those who grasp his hand,
        Who drink with him and wish him well.
        O in no drear and lonely land
        Shall he who honors friendship dwell.
        And in his little shop, who knows
        What bitter games of war are played?
        Why, daily on each corner grows
        A foe to rob him of his trade.
        He fights, and for his fireside's sake;
        He fights for clothing and for bread:
        The lances of his foemen make
        A steely halo round his head.
        He decks his window artfully,
        He haggles over paltry sums.
        In this strange field his war must be
        And by such blows his triumph comes.
        What if no trumpet sounds to call
        His armed legions to his side?
        What if, to no ancestral hall
        He comes in all a victor's pride?
        The scene shall never fit the deed.
        Grotesquely wonders come to pass.
        The fool shall mount an Arab steed
        And Jesus ride upon an ass.
        This man has home and child and wife
        And battle set for every day.
        This man has God and love and life;
        These stand, all else shall pass away.
        O Carpenter of Nazareth,
        Whose mother was a village maid,
        Shall we, Thy children, blow our breath
        In scorn on any humble trade?
        Have pity on our foolishness
        And give us eyes, that we may see
        Beneath the shopman's clumsy dress
        The splendor of humanity!

        The air is like a butterfly
        With frail blue wings.
        The happy earth looks at the sky
        And sings.

      Easter Week
        (In memory of Joseph Mary Plunkett)

        ("Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
        It's with O'Leary in the grave.")

        William Butler Yeats.

        "Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
        It's with O'Leary in the grave."
        Then, Yeats, what gave that Easter dawn
        A hue so radiantly brave?
        There was a rain of blood that day,
        Red rain in gay blue April weather.
        It blessed the earth till it gave birth
        To valour thick as blooms of heather.
        Romantic Ireland never dies!
        O'Leary lies in fertile ground,
        And songs and spears throughout the years
        Rise up where patriot graves are found.
        Immortal patriots newly dead
        And ye that bled in bygone years,
        What banners rise before your eyes?
        What is the tune that greets your ears?
        The young Republic's banners smile
        For many a mile where troops convene.
        O'Connell Street is loudly sweet
        With strains of Wearing of the Green.
        The soil of Ireland throbs and glows
        With life that knows the hour is here
        To strike again like Irishmen
        For that which Irishmen hold dear.
        Lord Edward leaves his resting place
        And Sarsfield's face is glad and fierce.
        See Emmet leap from troubled sleep
        To grasp the hand of Padraic Pearse!
        There is no rope can strangle song
        And not for long death takes his toll.
        No prison bars can dim the stars
        Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
        Romantic Ireland is not old.
        For years untold her youth will shine.
        Her heart is fed on Heavenly bread,
        The blood of martyrs is her wine.

      Father Gerard Hopkins, S. J.
        Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously,
        And match and blend thy words with curious art?
        For Song, one saith, is but a human heart
        Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free.
        Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee!
        Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart
        From all who traffic in Apollo's mart,
        On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be!
        Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God,
        Singing His praise when other songs are done.
        But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod,
        Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won?
        O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod!
        O happy moth, that flew into the Sun!

        (For A. K. K.)

        What distant mountains thrill and glow
        Beneath our Lady Folly's tread?
        Why has she left us, wise in woe,
        Shrewd, practical, uncomforted?
        We cannot love or dream or sing,
        We are too cynical to pray,
        There is no joy in anything
        Since Lady Folly went away.
        Many a knight and gentle maid,
        Whose glory shines from years gone by,
        Through ignorance was unafraid
        And as a fool knew how to die.
        Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne
        And broke the ranks of Hell with her,
        And Folly's smile shone brightly on
        Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper.
        Our minds are troubled and defiled
        By study in a weary school.
        O for the folly of the child!
        The ready courage of the fool!
        Lord, crush our knowledge utterly
        And make us humble, simple men;
        And cleansed of wisdom, let us see
        Our Lady Folly's face again.

      Gates And Doors
        (For Richardson Little Wright)

        There was a gentle hostler
        (And blessed be his name!)
        He opened up the stable
        The night Our Lady came.
        Our Lady and Saint Joseph,
        He gave them food and bed,
        And Jesus Christ has given him
        A glory round his head.
        So let the gate swing open
        However poor the yard,
        Lest weary people visit you
        And find their passage barred;
        Unlatch the door at midnight
        And let your lantern's glow
        Shine out to guide the traveler's
        To you across the snow.
        There was a courteous hostler
        (He is in Heaven to-night)
        He held Our Lady's bridle
        And helped her to alight;
        He spread clean straw before her
        Whereon she might lie down,
        And Jesus Christ has given him
        An everlasting crown.
        Unlock the door this evening
        And let your gate swing wide,
        Let all who ask for shelter
        Come speedily inside.
        What if your yard be narrow?
        What if your house be small?
        There is a Guest is coming
        Will glorify it all.
        There was a joyous hostler
        Who knelt on Christmas morn
        Beside the radiant manger
        Wherein his Lord was born.
        His heart was full of laughter,
        His soul was full of bliss
        When Jesus, on His Mother's lap,
        Gave him His hand to kiss.
        Unbar your heart this evening
        And keep no stranger out,
        Take from your soul's great portal
        The barrier of doubt.
        To humble folk and weary
        Give hearty welcoming,
        Your breast shall be to-morrow
        The cradle of a King.

        (For Aline)

        When you shall die and to the sky
        Serenely, delicately go,
        Saint Peter, when he sees you there,
        Will clash his keys and say:
        "Now talk to her, Sir Christopher!
        And hurry, Michelangelo!
        She wants to play at building,
        And you've got to help her play!"
        Every architect will help erect
        A palace on a lawn of cloud,
        With rainbow beams and a sunset roof,
        And a level star-tiled floor;
        And at your will you may use the skill
        Of this gay angelic crowd,
        When a house is made you will throw it down,
        And they'll build you twenty more.
        For Christopher Wren and these other men
        Who used to build on earth
        Will love to go to work again
        If they may work for you.
        "This porch," you'll say, "should go this way!"
        And they'll work for all they're worth,
        And they'll come to your palace every morning,
        And ask you what to do.
        And when night comes down on Heaven-town
        (If there should be night up there)
        You will choose the house you like the best
        Of all that you can see:
        And its walls will glow as you drowsily go
        To the bed up the golden stair,
        And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep
        A room in your house for me.

      In Memory
        Serene and beautiful and very wise,
        Most erudite in curious Grecian lore,
        You lay and read your learned books, and bore
        A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs.
        The song within your heart could never rise
        Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.
        Nor could you look on Beauty's face before
        A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes.
        Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder;
        Love is a poignant and accustomed pain.
        It is a burst of Heavenshaking thunder;
        It is a linnet's fluting after rain.
        Love's voice is through your song; above and under
        And in each note to echo and remain.
        Because Mankind is glad and brave and young,
        Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow,
        All joys and passions that Mankind may know
        By you were nobly felt and nobly sung.
        Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung
        By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so,
        Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe,
        A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung.
        So did the ghosts of toiling children hover
        About the piteous portals of your mind;
        Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover
        The angry scar to which the world was blind:
        And it was grief that made Mankind your lover,
        And it was grief that made you love Mankind.
        Before Christ left the Citadel of Light,
        To tread the dreadful way of human birth,
        His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth
        And those who saw it wept with joy and fright.
        "Thou art Apollo, than the sun more bright!"
        They cried. "Our music is of little worth,
        But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth
        Thou god of song, thou lord of lyric might!".
        O singing pilgrim! who could love and follow
        Your lover Christ, through even love's despair,
        You knew within the cypressdarkened hollow
        The feet that on the mountain are so fair.
        For it was Christ that was your own Apollo,
        And thorns were in the laurel on your hair.

      In Memory Of Rupert Brooke
        In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
        His body lies that was so fair and young.
        His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
        His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
        But let no cloud of lamentation be
        Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
        We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
        We keep the vision of his chivalry.
        So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,
        Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
        To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
        With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
        And David rests beneath Eternal wings,
        Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

        (For the Rev. James B. Dollard)

        The Kings of the earth are men of might,
        And cities are burned for their delight,
        And the skies rain death in the silent night,
        And the hills belch death all day!
        But the King of Heaven, Who made them all,
        Is fair and gentle, and very small;
        He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall --
        Let them think of Him to-day!

      Lionel Johnson
        (For the Rev. John J. Burke, C. S. P.)

        There was a murkier tinge in London's air
        As if the honest fog blushed black for shame.
        Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim,
        And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire.
        The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere,
        But in their midst a radiant lily came
        Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame,
        Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair.
        And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King",
        Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land?
        Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing
        To take in his thine emulative hand?
        Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring
        Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand?

      Love's Lantern
        (For Aline)

        Because the road was steep and long
        And through a dark and lonely land,
        God set upon my lips a song
        And put a lantern in my hand.
        Through miles on weary miles of night
        That stretch relentless in my way
        My lantern burns serene and white,
        An unexhausted cup of day.
        O golden lights and lights like wine,
        How dim your boasted splendors are.
        Behold this little lamp of mine;
        It is more starlike than a star!

        (For Sara Teasdale)

        The lonely farm, the crowded street,
        The palace and the slum,
        Give welcome to my silent feet
        As, bearing gifts, I come.
        Last night a beggar crouched alone,
        A ragged helpless thing;
        I set him on a moonbeam throne --
        Today he is a king.
        Last night a king in orb and crown
        Held court with splendid cheer;
        Today he tears his purple gown
        And moans and shrieks in fear.
        Not iron bars, nor flashing spears,
        Not land, nor sky, nor sea,
        Nor love's artillery of tears
        Can keep mine own from me.
        Serene, unchanging, ever fair,
        I smile with secret mirth
        And in a net of mine own hair
        I swing the captive earth.

      Main Street
        (For S. M. L.)
        I like to look at the blossomy track of the moon upon the sea,
        But it isn't half so fine a sight as Main Street used to be
        When it all was covered over with a couple of feet of snow,
        And over the crisp and radiant road the ringing sleighs would go.
        Now, Main Street bordered with autumn leaves, it
        was a pleasant thing,
        And its gutters were gay with dandelions early in the Spring;
        I like to think of it white with frost or dusty in the heat,
        Because I think it is humaner than any other street.
        A city street that is busy and wide is ground by
        a thousand wheels,
        And a burden of traffic on its breast is all it ever feels:
        It is dully conscious of weight and speed and of work that never
        But it cannot be human like Main Street, and recognise its friends.
        There were only about a hundred teams on Main Street
        in a day,
        And twenty or thirty people, I guess, and some children out to play.
        And there wasn't a wagon or buggy, or a man or a girl or a boy
        That Main Street didn't remember, and somehow seem to enjoy.
        The truck and the motor and trolley car and the
        elevated train
        They make the weary city street reverberate with pain:
        But there is yet an echo left deep down within my heart
        Of the music the Main Street cobblestones made beneath a butcher's
        God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across
        the sky,
        That's the path that my feet would tread whenever I have to die.
        Some folks call it a Silver Sword, and some a Pearly Crown,
        But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.

        When I am tired of earnest men,
        Intense and keen and sharp and clever,
        Pursuing fame with brush or pen
        Or counting metal disks forever,
        Then from the halls of Shadowland
        Beyond the trackless purple sea
        Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand
        Beside my desk and talk to me.
        Still on his delicate pale face
        A quizzical thin smile is showing,
        His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,
        His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.
        He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,
        A suit to match his soft grey hair,
        A rakish stick, a knowing hat,
        A manner blithe and debonair.
        How good that he who always knew
        That being lovely was a duty,
        Should have gold halls to wander through
        And should himself inhabit beauty.
        How like his old unselfish way
        To leave those halls of splendid mirth
        And comfort those condemned to stay
        Upon the dull and sombre earth.
        Some people ask: "What cruel chance
        Made Martin's life so sad a story?"
        Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,
        And wore an overcoat of glory.
        A fleck of sunlight in the street,
        A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,
        Such visions made each moment sweet
        For this receptive ancient child.
        Because it was old Martin's lot
        To be, not make, a decoration,
        Shall we then scorn him, having not
        His genius of appreciation?
        Rich joy and love he got and gave;
        His heart was merry as his dress;
        Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave
        Who did not gain, but was, success!

      Memorial Day
        "Dulce et decorum est"

        The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
        But not of war it sings to-day.
        The road is rhythmic with the feet
        Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
        The roses blossom white and red
        On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
        Flags wave above the honored dead
        And martial music cleaves the sky.
        Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
        They kept the faith and fought the fight.
        Through flying lead and crimson steel
        They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
        May we, their grateful children, learn
        Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
        Who went through fire and death to earn
        At last the accolade of God.
        In shining rank on rank arrayed
        They march, the legions of the Lord;
        He is their Captain unafraid,
        The Prince of Peace... Who brought a sword.

      Mid-Ocean In War-Time
        (For My Mother)

        The fragile splendour of the level sea,
        The moon's serene and silver-veiled face,
        Make of this vessel an enchanted place
        Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
        Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be
        Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,
        And the old stars, in their unending race,
        Shall heed and envy young humanity.
        And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
        These waters blush a strange and awful red.
        Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
        Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
        And these stars smile their immemorial way
        On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!
      UpMount Houvenkopf
        Serene he stands, with mist serenely crowned,
        And draws a cloak of trees about his breast.
        The thunder roars but cannot break his rest
        And from his rugged face the tempests bound.
        He does not heed the angry lightning's wound,
        The raging blizzard is his harmless guest,
        And human life is but a passing jest
        To him who sees Time spin the years around.
        But fragile souls, in skyey reaches find
        High vantage-points and view him from afar.
        How low he seems to the ascended mind,
        How brief he seems where all things endless are;
        This little playmate of the mighty wind
        This young companion of an ancient star.

        (For S. M. E.)

        I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well;
        I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell;
        O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light!
        O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight!
        I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train,
        And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain.
        O King, O Friend, O Lover! What sorer grief can be
        In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee?
        But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land
        I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand.
        Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night,
        And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might.
        Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet,
        Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street:
        The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go,
        O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so?

      Old Poets
        (For Robert Cortez Holliday)

        If I should live in a forest
        And sleep underneath a tree,
        No grove of impudent saplings
        Would make a home for me.
        I'd go where the old oaks gather,
        Serene and good and strong,
        And they would not sigh and tremble
        And vex me with a song.
        The pleasantest sort of poet
        Is the poet who's old and wise,
        With an old white beard and wrinkles
        About his kind old eyes.
        For these young flippertigibbets
        A-rhyming their hours away
        They won't be still like honest men
        And listen to what you say.
        The young poet screams forever
        About his sex and his soul;
        But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe,
        And polishes its bowl.
        There should be a club for poets
        Who have come to seventy year.
        They should sit in a great hall drinking
        Red wine and golden beer.
        They would shuffle in of an evening,
        Each one to his cushioned seat,
        And there would be mellow talking
        And silence rich and sweet.
        There is no peace to be taken
        With poets who are young,
        For they worry about the wars to be fought
        And the songs that must be sung.
        But the old man knows that he's in his chair
        And that God's on His throne in the sky.
        So he sits by the fire in comfort
        And he lets the world spin by.

        A few long-hoarded pennies in his hand
        Behold him stand;
        A kilted Hedonist, perplexed and sad.
        The joy that once he had,
        The first delight of ownership is fled.
        He bows his little head.
        Ah, cruel Time, to kill
        That splendid thrill!
        Then in his tear-dimmed eyes
        New lights arise.
        He drops his treasured pennies on the ground,
        They roll and bound
        And scattered, rest.
        Now with what zest
        He runs to find his errant wealth again!
        So unto men
        Doth God, depriving that He may bestow.
        Fame, health and money go,
        But that they may, new found, be newly sweet.
        Yea, at His feet
        Sit, waiting us, to their concealment bid,
        All they, our lovers, whom His Love hath hid.
        Lo, comfort blooms on pain, and peace on strife,
        And gain on loss.
        What is the key to Everlasting Life?
        A blood-stained Cross.

        Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
        That the wind sways above a ruined shrine.
        Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells
        Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
        Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath
        Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod.
        They shall not live who have not tasted death.
        They only sing who are struck dumb by God.

      Queen Elizabeth Speaks
        My hands were stained with blood, my heart was
        proud and cold,
        My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold.
        So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,
        Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod.

        (For Amelia Josephine Burr)

        The road is wide and the stars are out
        and the breath of the night is sweet,
        And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
        But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my
        And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling
        I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to
        All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
        The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of
        Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
        A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas
        Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
        He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
        But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
        If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do
        him wrong,
        For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
        And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
        Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.
        They say that life is a highway and its milestones
        are the years,
        And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with
        It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
        But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

        (For Katherine Bregy)

        I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,
        For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.
        I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,
        From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red
        rose tree.
        But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet
        I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.
        There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,
        And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the
        Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,
        That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold.
        Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,
        A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.
        A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face,
        And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery
        He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I,
        And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.

      Servant Girl And Grocer's Boy
        Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"
        Her soul spoke thus (I know it did):

        "O king of realms of endless joy,
        My own, my golden grocer's boy,
        I am a princess forced to dwell
        Within a lonely kitchen cell,
        While you go dashing through the land
        With loveliness on every hand.
        Your whistle strikes my eager ears
        Like music of the choiring spheres.
        The mighty earth grows faint and reels
        Beneath your thundering wagon wheels.
        How keenly, perilously sweet
        To cling upon that swaying seat!
        How happy she who by your side
        May share the splendors of that ride!
        Ah, if you will not take my hand
        And bear me off across the land,
        Then, traveller from Arcady,
        Remain awhile and comfort me.
        What other maiden can you find
        So young and delicate and kind?"
        Her lips' remark was: "Oh, you kid!"
        Her soul spoke thus (I know it did).

      St. Alexis, Patron Of Beggars
        We who beg for bread as we daily tread
        Country lane and city street,
        Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway
        To the saint with the vagrant feet.
        Our altar light is a buttercup bright,
        And our shrine is a bank of sod,
        But still we share St. Alexis' care,
        The Vagabond of God.
        They gave him a home in purple Rome
        And a princess for his bride,
        But he rowed away on his wedding day
        Down the Tiber's rushing tide.
        And he came to land on the Asian strand
        Where the heathen people dwell;
        As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed
        And he saved their souls from hell.
        Bowed with years and pain he came back again
        To his father's dwelling place.
        There was none to see who this tramp might be,
        For they knew not his bearded face.
        But his father said, "Give him drink and bread
        And a couch underneath the stair."
        So Alexis crept to his hole and slept.
        But he might not linger there.
        For when night came down on the seven-hilled town,
        And the emperor hurried in,
        Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near
        Who will cleanse us of our sin,"
        Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain,
        For his soul had fled afar,
        From his fleshly home he had gone to roam
        Where the gold-paved highways are.
        We who beg for bread as we daily tread
        Country lane and city street,
        Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway
        To the saint with the vagrant feet.
        Our altar light is a buttercup bright,
        And our shrine is a bank of sod,
        But still we share St. Alexis' care,
        The Vagabond of God!

      St. Laurence
        Within the broken Vatican
        The murdered Pope is lying dead.
        The soldiers of Valerian
        Their evil hands are wet and red.
        Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits,
        His cassock is his only mail.
        The troops of Hell have burst the gates,
        But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.
        They have encompassed him with steel,
        They spit upon his gentle face,
        He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal
        The Church's hidden treasure-place.
        Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight,
        Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!
        Since thou hast fought the goodly fight
        A martyr's death is fixed for thee.
        St. Laurence, pray for us to bear
        The faith which glorifies thy name.
        St. Laurence, pray for us to share
        The wounds of Love's consuming flame.

        (For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.)

        Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air,
        Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair?
        As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through,
        Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too?
        Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes,
        Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.
        Now and then a winged child turns his merry face
        Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place!
        Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!)
        In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.
        Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry,
        Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.
        Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men,
        Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.
        Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are,
        Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.

        (For John Bunker)

        The roar of the world is in my ears.
        Thank God for the roar of the world!
        Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
        Against me always hurled!
        Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,
        And the sting of His chastening rod!
        Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,
        And Oh, thank God for God!

      The Annunciation
        (For Helen Parry Eden)

        "Hail Mary, full of grace," the Angel saith.
        Our Lady bows her head, and is ashamed;
        She has a Bridegroom Who may not be named,
        Her mortal flesh bears Him Who conquers death.
        Now in the dust her spirit grovelleth;
        Too bright a Sun before her eyes has flamed,
        Too fair a herald joy too high proclaimed,
        And human lips have trembled in God's breath.
        O Mother-Maid, thou art ashamed to cover
        With thy white self, whereon no stain can be,
        Thy God, Who came from Heaven to be thy Lover,
        Thy God, Who came from Heaven to dwell in thee.
        About thy head celestial legions hover,
        Chanting the praise of thy humility.

      The Apartment House
        Severe against the pleasant arc of sky
        The great stone box is cruelly displayed.
        The street becomes more dreary from its shade,
        And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.
        Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie,
        Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.
        How worse than folly is their labor made
        Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!
        Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face
        Gleam from a window far above the street.
        This is a house of homes, a sacred place,
        By human passion made divinely sweet.
        How all the building thrills with sudden grace
        Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!

      The Big Top
        The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering
        to my heart
        And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay.
        I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art,
        And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care
        I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players
        brave and fair,
        Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng.
        It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air
        And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.
        Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill
        Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face
        To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will
        As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.
        Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet
        and a knife,
        And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round
        a ring,
        By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life;
        And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high
        For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter
        are the same.
        They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth,
        And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's
        For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.
        But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no
        form of loveliness,
        Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live,
        Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress
        What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?
        Well -- here in the little side-show tent to-day
        some people stand,
        One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin,
        And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand,
        And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.
        You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world
        to look;
        You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear;
        Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book.
        O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!

      The Cathedral Of Rheims
        He who walks through the meadows of Champagne
        At noon in Fall, when leaves like gold appear,
        Sees it draw near
        Like some great mountain set upon the plain,
        From radiant dawn until the close of day,
        Nearer it grows
        To him who goes
        Across the country. When tall towers lay
        Their shadowy pall
        Upon his way,
        He enters, where
        The solid stone is hollowed deep by all
        Its centuries of beauty and of prayer.
        Ancient French temple! thou whose hundred kings
        Watch over thee, emblazoned on thy walls,
        Tell me, within thy memory-hallowed halls
        What chant of triumph, or what war-song rings?
        Thou hast known Clovis and his Frankish train,
        Whose mighty hand Saint Remy's hand did keep
        And in thy spacious vault perhaps may sleep
        An echo of the voice of Charlemagne.
        For God thou has known fear, when from His side
        Men wandered, seeking alien shrines and new,
        But still the sky was bountiful and blue
        And thou wast crowned with France's love and pride.
        Sacred thou art, from pinnacle to base;
        And in thy panes of gold and scarlet glass
        The setting sun sees thousandfold his face;
        Sorrow and joy, in stately silence pass
        Across thy walls, the shadow and the light;
        Around thy lofty pillars, tapers white
        Illuminate, with delicate sharp flames,
        The brows of saints with venerable names,
        And in the night erect a fiery wall.
        A great but silent fervour burns in all
        Those simple folk who kneel, pathetic, dumb,
        And know that down below, beside the Rhine --
        Cannon, horses, soldiers, flags in line --
        With blare of trumpets, mighty armies come.
        Suddenly, each knows fear;
        Swift rumours pass, that every one must hear,
        The hostile banners blaze against the sky
        And by the embassies mobs rage and cry.
        Now war has come, and peace is at an end.
        On Paris town the German troops descend.
        They are turned back, and driven to Champagne.
        And now, as to so many weary men,
        The glorious temple gives them welcome, when
        It meets them at the bottom of the plain.
        At once, they set their cannon in its way.
        There is no gable now, nor wall
        That does not suffer, night and day,
        As shot and shell in crushing torrents fall.
        The stricken tocsin quivers through the tower;
        The triple nave, the apse, the lonely choir
        Are circled, hour by hour,
        With thundering bands of fire
        And Death is scattered broadcast among men.
        And then
        That which was splendid with baptismal grace;
        The stately arches soaring into space,
        The transepts, columns, windows gray and gold,
        The organ, in whose tones the ocean rolled,
        The crypts, of mighty shades the dwelling places,
        The Virgin's gentle hands, the Saints' pure faces,
        All, even the pardoning hands of Christ the Lord
        Were struck and broken by the wanton sword
        Of sacrilegious lust.
        O beauty slain, O glory in the dust!
        Strong walls of faith, most basely overthrown!
        The crawling flames, like adders glistening
        Ate the white fabric of this lovely thing.
        Now from its soul arose a piteous moan,
        The soul that always loved the just and fair.
        Granite and marble loud their woe confessed,
        The silver monstrances that Popes had blessed,
        The chalices and lamps and crosiers rare
        Were seared and twisted by a flaming breath;
        The horror everywhere did range and swell,
        The guardian Saints into this furnace fell,
        Their bitter tears and screams were stilled in death.
        Around the flames armed hosts are skirmishing,
        The burning sun reflects the lurid scene;
        The German army, fighting for its life,
        Rallies its torn and terrified left wing;
        And, as they near this place
        The imperial eagles see
        Before them in their flight,
        Here, in the solemn night,
        The old cathedral, to the years to be
        Showing, with wounded arms, their own disgrace.

      The Fourth Shepherd
        (For Thomas Walsh)


        On nights like this the huddled sheep
        Are like white clouds upon the grass,
        And merry herdsmen guard their sleep
        And chat and watch the big stars pass.
        It is a pleasant thing to lie
        Upon the meadow on the hill
        With kindly fellowship near by
        Of sheep and men of gentle will.
        I lean upon my broken crook
        And dream of sheep and grass and men --
        O shameful eyes that cannot look
        On any honest thing again!
        On bloody feet I clambered down
        And fled the wages of my sin,
        I am the leavings of the town,
        And meanly serve its meanest inn.
        I tramp the courtyard stones in grief,
        While sleep takes man and beast to her.
        And every cloud is calling "Thief!"
        And every star calls "Murderer!"


        The hand of God is sure and strong,
        Nor shall a man forever flee
        The bitter punishment of wrong.
        The wrath of God is over me!
        With ashen bread and wine of tears
        Shall I be solaced in my pain.
        I wear through black and endless years
        Upon my brow the mark of Cain.


        Poor vagabond, so old and mild,
        Will they not keep him for a night?
        And She, a woman great with child,
        So frail and pitiful and white.
        Good people, since the tavern door
        Is shut to you, come here instead.
        See, I have cleansed my stable floor
        And piled fresh hay to make a bed.
        Here is some milk and oaten cake.
        Lie down and sleep and rest you fair,
        Nor fear, O simple folk, to take
        The bounty of a child of care.


        On nights like this the huddled sheep --
        I never saw a night so fair.
        How huge the sky is, and how deep!
        And how the planets flash and glare!
        At dawn beside my drowsy flock
        What winged music I have heard!
        But now the clouds with singing rock
        As if the sky were turning bird.
        O blinding Light, O blinding Light!
        Burn through my heart with sweetest pain.
        O flaming Song, most loudly bright,
        Consume away my deadly stain!


        The stable glows against the sky,
        And who are these that throng the way?
        My three old comrades hasten by
        And shining angels kneel and pray.
        The door swings wide -- I cannot go --
        I must and yet I dare not see.
        Lord, who am I that I should know --
        Lord, God, be merciful to me!


        O Whiteness, whiter than the fleece
        Of new-washed sheep on April sod!
        O Breath of Life, O Prince of Peace,
        O Lamb of God, O Lamb of God!

      The House with Nobody in it
        Whenever I walk to Suffern along the Erie track
        I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
        I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
        And look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.
        I never have seen a haunted house, but I hear there are such things;
        That they hold the talk of spirits, their mirth and sorrowings.
        I know this house isn't haunted, and I wish it were, I do;
        For it wouldn't be so lonely if it had a ghost or two.
        This house on the road to Suffern needs a dozen panes of glass,
        And somebody ought to weed the walk and take a scythe to the grass.
        It needs new paint and shingles, and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
        But what it needs the most of all is some people living inside.
        If I had a lot of money and all my debts were paid
        I'd put a gang of men to work with brush and saw and spade.
        I'd buy that place and fix it up the way it used to be
        And I'd find some people who wanted a home and give it to them free.
        Now, a new house standing empty, with staring window and door,
        Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish, like a hat on its block in the store.
        But there's nothing mournful about it; it cannot be sad and lone
        For the lack of something within it that it has never known.
        But a house that has done what a house should do,
        a house that has sheltered life,
        That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
        A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up his stumbling feet,
        Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.
        So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
        I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
        Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
        For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

      The New School
        (For My Mother)

        The halls that were loud with the merry tread of
        young and careless feet
        Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday,
        And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street
        Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.
        The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the
        tennis-racquet and balls
        Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never
        And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls
        A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.
        For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an
        And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword,
        And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and
        And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.
        They have taken their youth and mirth away
        from the study and playing-ground
        To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky;
        Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are
        And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.
        And after the golden day has come and the war is
        at an end,
        A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead.
        And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend,
        A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.
        And there will be ghosts in the old school,
        brave ghosts with laughing eyes,
        On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly
        They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies,
        A flame that they took with strong young hands
        from the altar-fires of God.

      The Proud Poet
        (For Shaemas O Sheel)
        One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed,
        His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime.
        "Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said,
        "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!"
        "You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell
        For the idea you express I will not listen to:
        I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well,
        Without having to pay attention to orators like you.
        "When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work
        You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.
        There was Byron who left all his ladyloves to fight against the Turk,
        And David, the Singing King of the Jews,
        who was born with a sword in his hand.
        It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died,
        And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong;
        And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride,
        Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song.
        "And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart
        As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry.
        It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart,
        It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be.
        It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing
        That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth.
        For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king,
        And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth.
        "There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind,
        Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night;
        For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind,
        And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight.
        And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long,
        He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all,
        Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song,
        And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall.
        "And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score
        Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain.
        And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for,
        Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain.
        It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun
        And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men:
        But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done,
        Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again".

      The Robe Of Christ
        (For Cecil Chesterton)

        At the foot of the Cross on Calvary
        Three soldiers sat and diced,
        And one of them was the Devil
        And he won the Robe of Christ.
        When the Devil comes in his proper form
        To the chamber where I dwell,
        I know him and make the Sign of the Cross
        Which drives him back to Hell.
        And when he comes like a friendly man
        And puts his hand in mine,
        The fervour in his voice is not
        From love or joy or wine.
        And when he comes like a woman,
        With lovely, smiling eyes,
        Black dreams float over his golden head
        Like a swarm of carrion flies.
        Now many a million tortured souls
        In his red halls there be:
        Why does he spend his subtle craft
        In hunting after me?
        Kings, queens and crested warriors
        Whose memory rings through time,
        These are his prey, and what to him
        Is this poor man of rhyme,
        That he, with such laborious skill,
        Should change from role to role,
        Should daily act so many a part
        To get my little soul?
        Oh, he can be the forest,
        And he can be the sun,
        Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest
        When the weary day is done.
        I saw him through a thousand veils,
        And has not this sufficed?
        Now, must I look on the Devil robed
        In the radiant Robe of Christ?
        He comes, and his face is sad and mild,
        With thorns his head is crowned;
        There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,
        And in each hand a wound.
        How can I tell, who am a fool,
        If this be Christ or no?
        Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!
        Those eyes that love me so!
        I see the Robe -- I look -- I hope --
        I fear -- but there is one
        Who will direct my troubled mind;
        Christ's Mother knows her Son.
        O Mother of Good Counsel, lend
        Intelligence to me!
        Encompass me with wisdom,
        Thou Tower of Ivory!
        "This is the Man of Lies," she says,
        "Disguised with fearful art:
        He has the wounded hands and feet,
        But not the wounded heart."
        Beside the Cross on Calvary
        She watched them as they diced.
        She saw the Devil join the game
        And win the Robe of Christ.

      The Rosary
        Not on the lute, nor harp of many strings
        Shall all men praise the Master of all song.
        Our life is brief, one saith, and art is long;
        And skilled must be the laureates of kings.
        Silent, O lips that utter foolish things!
        Rest, awkward fingers striking all notes wrong!
        How from your toil shall issue, white and strong,
        Music like that God's chosen poet sings?
        There is one harp that any hand can play,
        And from its strings what harmonies arise!
        There is one song that any mouth can say, --
        A song that lingers when all singing dies.
        When on their beads our Mother's children pray
        Immortal music charms the grateful skies.

      The Singing Girl
        (For the Rev. Edward F. Garesche, S. J.)

        There was a little maiden
        In blue and silver drest,
        She sang to God in Heaven
        And God within her breast.
        It flooded me with pleasure,
        It pierced me like a sword,
        When this young maiden sang: "My soul
        Doth magnify the Lord."
        The stars sing all together
        And hear the angels sing,
        But they said they had never heard
        So beautiful a thing.
        Saint Mary and Saint Joseph,
        And Saint Elizabeth,
        Pray for us poets now
        And at the hour of death.

      The Snowman In The Yard
        (For Thomas Augustine Daly)

        The Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars
        and steps of stone,
        And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across
        the seas;
        In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own,
        And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.
        Now I have only a little house, and only a little
        And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred;
        But when Winter comes, I have something there
        that the Judge and the Hales have not,
        And it's better worth having than all their wealth --
        it's a snowman in the yard.
        The Judge's money brings architects to make his
        mansion fair;
        The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow;
        The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere,
        And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.
        But I have something no architect or gardener ever
        A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands:
        And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow
        is laid
        For the tiny house with the trampled yard,
        the yard where the snowman stands.
        They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away
        in tears
        To toil and suffer their life-time through,
        because of the sin they sinned,
        The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years,
        To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce
        their flesh with the icy wind.
        But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour
        for our bread,
        Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred:
        And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red,
        For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.

      The Thorn
        (For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)

        The garden of God is a radiant place,
        And every flower has a holy face:
        Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,
        But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.
        David is the song upon God's lips,
        And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips:
        And Gabriel's the breath of His command,
        But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand.
        The Ivory Tower is fair to see,
        And may her walls encompass me!
        But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might,
        Saint Michael, show me how to fight!

      The Twelve-Forty-Five
        (For Edward J. Wheeler)

        Within the Jersey City shed
        The engine coughs and shakes its head,
        The smoke, a plume of red and white,
        Waves madly in the face of night.
        And now the grave incurious stars
        Gleam on the groaning hurrying cars.
        Against the kind and awful reign
        Of darkness, this our angry train,
        A noisy little rebel, pouts
        Its brief defiance, flames and shouts --
        And passes on, and leaves no trace.
        For darkness holds its ancient place,
        Serene and absolute, the king
        Unchanged, of every living thing.
        The houses lie obscure and still
        In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
        Our lamps intensify the dark
        Of slumbering Passaic Park.
        And quiet holds the weary feet
        That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
        What though we clang and clank and roar
        Through all Passaic's streets? No door
        Will open, not an eye will see
        Who this loud vagabond may be.
        Upon my crimson cushioned seat,
        In manufactured light and heat,
        I feel unnatural and mean.
        Outside the towns are cool and clean;
        Curtained awhile from sound and sight
        They take God's gracious gift of night.
        The stars are watchful over them.
        On Clifton as on Bethlehem
        The angels, leaning down the sky,
        Shed peace and gentle dreams. And I --
        I ride, I blasphemously ride
        Through all the silent countryside.
        The engine's shriek, the headlight's glare,
        Pollute the still nocturnal air.
        The cottages of Lake View sigh
        And sleeping, frown as we pass by.
        Why, even strident Paterson
        Rests quietly as any nun.
        Her foolish warring children keep
        The grateful armistice of sleep.
        For what tremendous errand's sake
        Are we so blatantly awake?
        What precious secret is our freight?
        What king must be abroad so late?
        Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night
        And we rush forth to give him fight.
        Or else, perhaps, we speed his way
        To some remote unthinking prey.
        Perhaps a woman writhes in pain
        And listens -- listens for the train!
        The train, that like an angel sings,
        The train, with healing on its wings.
        Now "Hawthorne!" the conductor cries.
        My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.
        He hurries yawning through the car
        And steps out where the houses are.
        This is the reason of our quest!
        Not wantonly we break the rest
        Of town and village, nor do we
        Lightly profane night's sanctity.
        What Love commands the train fulfills,
        And beautiful upon the hills
        Are these our feet of burnished steel.
        Subtly and certainly I feel
        That Glen Rock welcomes us to her
        And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
        And smile, because she knows the train
        Has brought her children back again.
        We carry people home -- and so
        God speeds us, wheresoe'er we go.
        Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale
        Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.
        In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern stand
        Houses that wistfully demand
        A father -- son -- some human thing
        That this, the midnight train, may bring.
        The trains that travel in the day
        They hurry folks to work or play.
        The midnight train is slow and old
        But of it let this thing be told,
        To its high honor be it said
        It carries people home to bed.
        My cottage lamp shines white and clear.
        God bless the train that brought me here.

      The Visitation
        (For Louise Imogen Guiney)

        There is a wall of flesh before the eyes
        Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King.
        It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring
        Before mankind the Glory of the skies.
        Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise
        And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing,
        With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming.
        She knows her hidden God, and prophesies.
        Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry
        Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath.
        Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry,
        Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth.
        And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry
        Within our hearts, that we may conquer death.

      The White Ships And The Red
        (For Alden March)

        With drooping sail and pennant
        That never a wind may reach,
        They float in sunless waters
        Beside a sunless beach.
        Their mighty masts and funnels
        Are white as driven snow,
        And with a pallid radiance
        Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
        Here is a Spanish galleon
        That once with gold was gay,
        Here is a Roman trireme
        Whose hues outshone the day.
        But Tyrian dyes have faded,
        And prows that once were bright
        With rainbow stains wear only
        Death's livid, dreadful white.
        White as the ice that clove her
        That unforgotten day,
        Among her pallid sisters
        The grim Titanic lay.
        And through the leagues above her
        She looked aghast, and said:
        "What is this living ship that comes
        Where every ship is dead?"
        The ghostly vessels trembled
        From ruined stern to prow;
        What was this thing of terror
        That broke their vigil now?
        Down through the startled ocean
        A mighty vessel came,
        Not white, as all dead ships must be,
        But red, like living flame!
        The pale green waves about her
        Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
        By the great scarlet stream that flowed
        From out her wounded side.
        And all her decks were scarlet
        And all her shattered crew.
        She sank among the white ghost ships
        And stained them through and through.
        The grim Titanic greeted her
        "And who art thou?" she said;
        "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
        Arrayed in living red?
        We are the ships of sorrow
        Who spend the weary night,
        Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
        Obscure and still and white."
        "Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
        "Though I sink through the sea,
        A ruined thing that was a ship,
        I sink not as did ye.
        For ye met with your destiny
        By storm or rock or fight,
        So through the lagging centuries
        Ye wear your robes of white.
        "But never crashing iceberg
        Nor honest shot of foe,
        Nor hidden reef has sent me
        The way that I must go.
        My wound that stains the waters,
        My blood that is like flame,
        Bear witness to a loathly deed,
        A deed without a name.
        "I went not forth to battle,
        I carried friendly men,
        The children played about my decks,
        The women sang -- and then --
        And then -- the sun blushed scarlet
        And Heaven hid its face,
        The world that God created
        Became a shameful place!
        "My wrong cries out for vengeance,
        The blow that sent me here
        Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
        Has reached Jehovah's ear.
        Not all the seven oceans
        Shall wash away that stain;
        Upon a brow that wears a crown
        I am the brand of Cain."
        When God's great voice assembles
        The fleet on Judgment Day,
        The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
        In sea and strait and bay.
        Though they have lain for ages
        Beneath the changeless flood,
        They shall be white as silver,
        But one -- shall be like blood.

      To A Blackbird And His Mate Who Died In The Spring
        (For Kenton)

        An iron hand has stilled the throats
        That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
        And dammed the flood of silver notes
        That drenched the world in melody.
        The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
        For their wild choristers' returning,
        But no swift wings flash through the tree.
        Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
        Shall Silence take you in her net?
        And shall Death quell that radiant song
        Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
        Burst the frail web about you clinging
        And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
        Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.
        The scented morning of the year
        Is old and stale now ye are gone.
        No friendly songs the children hear
        Among the bushes on the lawn.
        When babies wander out a-Maying
        Will ye, their bards, afar be straying?
        Unhymned by you, what is the dawn?
        Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die.
        Above the stars is set your nest.
        Through Heaven's fields ye sing and fly
        And in the trees of Heaven rest.
        And little children in their dreaming
        Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming
        And smile, by your clear music blest.

      To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself
        When you had played with life a space
        And made it drink and lust and sing,
        You flung it back into God's face
        And thought you did a noble thing.
        "Lo, I have lived and loved," you said,
        "And sung to fools too dull to hear me.
        Now for a cool and grassy bed
        With violets in blossom near me."
        Well, rest is good for weary feet,
        Although they ran for no great prize;
        And violets are very sweet,
        Although their roots are in your eyes.
        But hark to what the earthworms say
        Who share with you your muddy haven:
        "The fight was on -- you ran away.
        You are a coward and a craven.
        "The rug is ruined where you bled;
        It was a dirty way to die!
        To put a bullet through your head
        And make a silly woman cry!
        You could not vex the merry stars
        Nor make them heed you, dead or living.
        Not all your puny anger mars
        God's irresistible forgiving.
        "Yes, God forgives and men forget,
        And you're forgiven and forgotten.
        You might be gaily sinning yet
        And quick and fresh instead of rotten.
        And when you think of love and fame
        And all that might have come to pass,
        Then don't you feel a little shame?
        And don't you think you were an ass?"

      To Certain Poets
        Now is the rhymer's honest trade
        A thing for scornful laughter made.
        The merchant's sneer, the clerk's disdain,
        These are the burden of our pain.
        Because of you did this befall,
        You brought this shame upon us all.
        You little poets mincing there
        With women's hearts and women's hair!
        How sick Dan Chaucer's ghost must be
        To hear you lisp of "Poesie"!
        A heavy-handed blow, I think,
        Would make your veins drip scented ink.
        You strut and smirk your little while
        So mildly, delicately vile!

        Your tiny voices mock God's wrath,
        You snails that crawl along His path!
        Why, what has God or man to do
        With wet, amorphous things like you?
        This thing alone you have achieved:
        Because of you, it is believed
        That all who earn their bread by rhyme
        Are like yourselves, exuding slime.
        Oh, cease to write, for very shame,
        Ere all men spit upon our name!
        Take up your needles, drop your pen,
        And leave the poet's craft to men!

        (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden)

        I think that I shall never see
        A poem lovely as a tree.
        A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
        Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
        A tree that looks at God all day,
        And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
        A tree that may in Summer wear
        A nest of robins in her hair;
        Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
        Who intimately lives with rain.
        Poems are made by fools like me,
        But only God can make a tree.

        (For Aline)

        Homer, they tell us, was blind and could not see the beautiful
        Looking up into his own and reflecting the joy of his dream,
        Yet did he seem
        Gifted with eyes that could follow the gods to their holiest places.
        I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden,
        Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen,
        Yet have I seen
        All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.

        When, on a novel's newly printed page
        We find a maudlin eulogy of sin,
        And read of ways that harlots wander in,
        And of sick souls that writhe in helpless rage;
        Or when Romance, bespectacled and sage,
        Taps on her desk and bids the class begin
        To con the problems that have always been
        Perplexed mankind's unhappy heritage;
        Then in what robes of honor habited
        The laureled wizard of the North appears!
        Who raised Prince Charlie's cohorts from the dead,
        Made Rose's mirth and Flora's noble tears,
        And formed that shining legion at whose head
        Rides Waverley, triumphant o'er the years!

        (For Aline)

        From what old ballad, or from what rich frame
        Did you descend to glorify the earth?
        Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came?
        Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth?
        Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand
        Could Raphael or Leonardo trace.
        Nor could the poets know in Fairyland
        The changing wonder of your lyric face.
        I would possess a host of lovely things,
        But I am poor and such joys may not be.
        So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings
        Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me.