"THE DEAD AROSE"

The dead arose. Long had they dreamed, Deep in the gra.s.s of the still grave, Of meeting their beloved once more.

They knocked at each familiar door.

They waited eagerly to see The old loved faces at the door, They waited for a voice to say The same old words it said before-- They knocked at each familiar door.

But no one answered to the dead, No voice of welcome, no kind word!

Only a little flower came out, And one small elegiac bird.

"THE BLOOM UPON THE GRAPE"

The bloom upon the grape I ask no more, Nor pampered fragrance of the soft-lipped rose, I only ask of Him who keeps the Door-- To open it for one who fearless goes Into the dark, from which, reluctant, came His innocent heart, a little laughing flame; I only ask that he who gave me sight, Who gave me hearing and who gave me breath, Give me the last gift in His flaming hand-- The holy gift of Death.

THE FRIEND

Through the dark wood There came to me a friend, Bringing in his cold hands Two words--'The End.'

His face was fair As fading autumn flowers, And the lost joy Of unforgotten hours.

His voice was sweet As rain upon a grave; 'Be brave,' he smiled.

And yet again--'be brave.'

ADORATION

Ah, if you worship anything, In deepest hush of silence bend The lone adoring knee, And only silence bring Into the sanctuary.

Trust not the fairest word Your soul to wrong: Even the Rose's bird Hath not a song Sweet as the silence Round about the Rose.

Ah, something goes, Fails, and is lost in speech That silence knows.

How should I speak The hush about my heart That holds your name Shrined in a burning core Of central flame, Like names of seraphim Mystically writ on cloud?

To speak your name aloud Were to unhallow Such a holy thing; Therefore I bring To your white feet And your immortal eyes Silence forever, But in such a wise Am silent as the quiet waters are, Hiding some holy star Amid hushed lilies In a secret lake.

Ah, if a ripple break The stillness halcyon-- The star is gone!

"AT LAST I GOT A LETTER FROM THE DEAD"

At last I got a letter from the dead, And out of it there fell a little flower,-- The violet of an unforgotten hour.

IV

SONGS FOR FRAGOLETTA

I

Fragoletta, blessed one, What think you of the light of the sun?

Do you think the dark was best, Lying snug in mother's breast?

Ah! I knew that sweetness, too, Fragoletta, before you!

But, Fragoletta, now you're born, You must learn to love the morn, Love the lovely working light, Love the miracle of sight, Love the thousand things to do-- Little girl, I envy you!-- Love the thousand things to see, Love your mother, and--love me!

And some night, Fragoletta, soon, I'll take you out to see the moon; And for the first time, child of ours, You shall--think of it!--look on flowers, And smell them, too, if you are good, And hear the green leaves in the wood Talking, talking, all together In the happy windy weather; And if the journey's not too far For little limbs so lately made, Limb upon limb like petals laid, We'll go and picnic in a star.

II

Blue eyes looking up at me, I wonder what you really see, Lying in your cradle there, Fragrant as a branch of myrrh.

Helpless little hands and feet, O so helpless! O so sweet!

Tiny tongue that cannot talk, Tiny feet that cannot walk, Nothing of you that can do Aught, except those eyes of blue.

How they open, how they close!

Eyelids of the baby-rose, Open and shut, so blue, so wise, Baby-eyelids, baby-eyes.

III

That, Fragoletta, is the rain Beating upon the window-pane; But lo! the golden sun appears, To kiss away the window's tears.

That, Fragoletta, is the wind That rattles so the window-blind; And yonder shining thing's a star, Blue eyes,--you seem ten times as far.

That, Fragoletta, is a bird That speaks, yet never says a word; Upon a cherry-tree it sings, Simple as all mysterious things; Its little life to peck and pipe As long as cherries ripe and ripe, And minister unto the need Of baby-birds that feed and feed.

This, Fragoletta, is a flower, Open and fragrant for an hour, A flower, a transitory thing, Each petal fleeting as a wing, All a May morning blows and blows, And then for everlasting goes.

IV

Blue eyes, against the whiteness pressed Of little mother's hallowed breast, The while your trembling lips are fed, Look up at mother's bended head, All benediction over you-- blue eyes looking into blue!

Fragoletta is so small, We wonder that she lives at all-- Tiny alabaster girl, Hardly bigger than a pearl; That is why we take such care, Lest someone runs away with her.

V

A BALLAD OF WOMAN _(Gratefully Dedicated to Mrs. Pankhurst_)

She bore us in her dreaming womb, And laughed into the face of Death; She laughed, in her strange agony,-- To give her little baby breath.

Then, by some holy mystery, She fed us from her sacred breast, Soothed us with little birdlike words-- To rest--to rest--to rest--to rest;

Yea, softly fed us with her life-- Her bosom like the world in May: Can it be true that men, thus fed, Feed women--as I hear them say?

Long ere we grew to girl and boy, She sewed the little things we wore, And smiled unto herself for joy-- Mysterious Portress of the Door.

Shall she who bore the son of G.o.d, And made the rose of Sappho's song, She who saved France, and beat the drum Of freedom, brook this vulgar wrong?

I wonder if such men as these Had once a sister with blue eyes, Kind as the soothing hand of G.o.d, And as the quiet heaven wise.

I wonder if they ever saw A soldier lying on a bed On some lone battle-field, and watched Some holy woman bind his head.

I wonder if they ever walked, Lost in a black and weary land, And suddenly a flower came And took them softly by the hand.