Part 7 (2/2)

Crush them, Beloved, drink the lethe deep; Song being dead, what else is left but sleep?

XXIII

_Truth_

Up from the soul, as a blade of gra.s.s from the sod, Springs the intent of the prayer as a cry to G.o.d.

Blossoms may veil it or visions with ways uncouth, He sees the ultimate gra.s.s-blade, the heart of Truth.

XXIV

_The Philosopher_

The grim immensities are mine, The sunlight on the brook is theirs; I drink the lees of bitter wine, Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.

I stammer, all afire to tell The thoughts that urge for life like pain; For them words brim the shallow well Like easy drops of summer rain.

And which, ah, Heaven, which is best-- The little lute for every mood, Or, shrinking coldly from life's test, The heights and depths of solitude?

XXV

_Prayers_

Prayers that were birds winging wide, Daring the flame of the sun, How have you faltered and died, Now the day's done!

Prayers must be brave for the dark, Strong for the chill of the star, Fearing no fate to embark Over the bar.

Prayers of the sun and the moon, Prayers for the sky and the nest, All must reach haven so soon-- Which shall reach rest?

XXVI

_A South-Sea Lover Scorned_

When the red coral of your lip is pale As the bleached sea-sand, ah, wearily, wearily, Will you behold your face, your fingers frail, Gnarled like a wind-blown tree; your star-bright eyes Blind as a cloudy midnight without moon.

No more fair necklaces nor scarlet dyes Can make you cruel to men, for soon, so soon, Your heart will bear the years--ah, wearily, wearily.

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