Part 38 (1/2)

It will look down, even as the burning flower Smiles upon June, long after I am gone.

Dust-footed Time will never tell its hour, Through dusty Time its rose will draw men on,

Through dusty Time its beauty shall make plain Man, and, Without, a spirit scattering grain.

JOHN MASEFIELD

THE TILLING

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart, Dragging the harrow, Pain, And turning the old year's tillage Under the sod again.

So, well do I know the Tiller Will bring once more the grain; For grief comes never to the strong-- Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong-- But from them spring a hidden throng Of seeds, for new life fain.

So heavily do I let the hoofs Trample the deeps of me; For only thus is spirit Brought to fecundity.

But when the ox is stabled And the harrow set aside, With calm I watch a new world grow, Sweetly green, up out of woe, And, glad of the Tiller, then I know He too is satisfied.

CALE YOUNG RICE

SAFE

Now shall your beauty never fade; For it was budding when you pa.s.sed Beyond this glare, into the shade Of fairer gardens unforecast, Where, by the dreaded Gardener's spade, Beauty, transplanted once, shall ever last.

Now never shall that glorious breast Wither, those deft hands lose their art, Nor those glad shoulders be oppressed By failing breath or fluttering heart, Nor, from the cheek by dawn possessed, The subtle ecstasy of hue depart.

Forever shall you be your best,-- Nay, far more luminously s.h.i.+ne Than when our comrades.h.i.+p was blessed By what on earth seemed most divine, Before your body pa.s.sed to rest With what I then supposed this heart of mine.

Now shall your bud of beauty blow Far lovelier than I knew before When, such a little time ago, I looked upon your face, and swore That Helen's never moved men so When her white, magic hands enkindled war.

As you sweep on from power to power Shall every earthward thought you think Irradiate my lonely hour Till I shall taste the golden drink Of Life, and see the full-blown flower, Whose opening bud was mine, beyond the brink.

ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

SORROW IN A GARDEN

Here in this ancient garden When Winter days had flown I came, with Comrade Sorrow To dwell with her alone.

Here in this sweet seclusion Far from the World's cold stare What exquisite communings Sorrow and I would share!

What banquets of remembrance!

What luxury of tears!

With Sorrow in a garden Through the rose-scented years!

But one day when she called me I did not hear her voice; I only heard the lilies Which sang ”Rejoice, rejoice!”

The world was gold and azure The air was sweet with birds; My garden laughed with rapture How could I hear her words?

For June was in the garden And June was in my heart, And since that hour pale Sorrow And I have dwelt apart.