Part 2 (1/2)

HOUSEMATES

This little flickering planet Is such a lonely spark Among the million mighty fires That blaze in the outer dark,

The homeless waste about us Leaves such a narrow span To this dim lodging for a night, This bivouac of man,

That all the heavens wonder In all their alien stars To see us wreck our fellows.h.i.+p In mad fraternal wars.

POMP AND CIRc.u.mSTANCE

With a shout of trumpets and roll of drums, Down the road the music comes And all my heart leaps up to greet The steady tread of the marching feet.

Blare of bugle and shriek of fife...

This is the triumphing wine of life!

My senses reel and my glad heart sings, My spirit soars on jubilant wings.

Fluttering banners and gonfalons Cover with beauty the murderous guns; 'T is sweet to live, 't were great to die With this vast music marching by.

For all my heart leaps up to greet The steady tread of the marching feet When down the road the music comes With a shout of trumpets and roll of drums.

THE HIDDEN WEAVER

There where he sits in the cold, in the gloom, Of his far-away place by his thundering loom, He weaves on the shuttles of day and of night The shades of our sorrow and shapes of delight.

He has wrought him a glimmering garment to fling Over the sweet swift limbs of the Spring, He has woven a fabric of wonder to be For a blue and a billowy robe to the sea, He has fas.h.i.+oned in sombre funereal dyes A tissue of gold for the midnight skies.

But sudden the woof turns all to red.

Has he lost his craft? Has he snapped his thread?

Sudden the web all sanguine runs.

Does he hear the yell of the thirsting guns?

While the scarlet crimes and the crimson sins Grow from the dizzying outs and ins Of the shuttle that spins, does he see it and feel?

Or is he the slave of a tyrannous wheel?

Inscrutable faces, mysterious eyes, Are watching him out of the drifting skies; Exiles of chaos crowd through the gloom Of the uttermost cold to that thundering room And whisper and peer through the dusk to mark What thing he is weaving there in the dark.

Will he leave the loom that he won from them And rend his fabric from hem to hem?

Is he weaving with daring and skill sublime A wonderful winding-sheet for time?

Ah, but he sits in a darkling place, Hiding his hands, hiding his face, Hiding his art behind the s.h.i.+ne Of the web that he weaves so long and fine.

Loudly the great wheel hums and rings And we hear not even the song that he sings.