Part 2

In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die.

O mothers who failed to tell The mazes of heaven and hell, Who failed to advise, implore Your daughters at Love's strange door, What will you do this day? Your dear ones are hidden away, As good as chained to the bed, Hid like the mad, or the dead:-- The glories of endless years Drowned in their harlot-tears: The children they hoped to bear, Grandchildren strong and fair, The life for ages to be, Cut off like a blasted tree, Murdered in filth in a day, Somehow, by the merchant gay!

In liberty's name we cry For these women about to die.

What shall be said of a state Where traps for the white brides wait? Of sellers of drink who play The game for the extra pay? Of statesmen in league with all Who hope for the girl-child's fall? Of banks where hell's money is paid And Pharisees all afraid Of pandars that help them sin? When will our wrath begin?

Where is David, the Next King of Israel?

Where is David? . . . O God's people, Saul has passed, the good and great. Mourn for Saul the first-anointed-- Head and shoulders o'er the state.

He was found among the Prophets: Judge and monarch, merged in one. But the wars of Saul are ended And the works of Saul are done.

Where is David, ruddy shepherd, God's boy-king for Israel? Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty, Singing where still waters dwell?

Prophet, find that destined minstrel Wandering on the range to-day, Driving sheep and crooning softly Psalms that cannot pass away.

"David waits," the prophet answers, "In a black notorious den, In a cave upon the border With four hundred outlaw men.

"He is fair, and loved of women, Mighty-hearted, born to sing: Thieving, weeping, erring, praying, Radiant royal rebel-king.

"He will come with harp and psaltry, Quell his troop of convict swine, Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals, Witching them with words divine--

"They will ram the walls of Zion! They will win us Salem hill, All for David, Shepherd David-- Singing like a mountain rill!"

On Reading Omar Khayyam

In the midst of the battle I turned, (For the thunders could flourish without me) And hid by a rose-hung wall, Forgetting the murder about me; And wrote, from my wound, on the stone, In mirth, half prayer, half play:-- "Send me a picture book, Send me a song, to-day."

I saw him there by the wall When I scarce had written the line, In the enemy's colors dressed And the serpent-standard of wine Writhing its withered length From his ghostly hands o'er the ground, And there by his shadowy breast The glorious poem I found.

This was his world-old cry: Thus read the famous prayer: "Wine, wine, wine and flowers And cup-bearers always fair!" 'Twas a book of the snares of earth Bordered in gold and blue, And I read each line to the wind And read to the roses too: And they nodded their womanly heads And told to the wall just why For wine of the earth men bleed, Kingdoms and empires die. I envied the grape stained sage: (The roses were praising him.) The ways of the world seemed good And the glory of heaven dim. I envied the endless kings Who found great pearls in the mire, Who bought with the nation's life The cup of delicious fire.

But the wine of God came down, And I drank it out of the air. (Fair is the serpent-cup, But the cup of God more fair.) The wine of God came down That makes no drinker to weep. And I went back to battle again Leaving the singer asleep.

The Beggar's Valentine

Kiss me and comfort my heart Maiden honest and fine. I am the pilgrim boy Lame, but hunting the shrine;

Fleeing away from the sweets, Seeking the dust and rain, Sworn to the staff and road, Scorning pleasure and pain;

Nevertheless my mouth Would rest like a bird an hour And find in your curls a nest And find in your breast a bower:

Nevertheless my eyes Would lose themselves in your own, Rivers that seek the sea, Angels before the throne:

Kiss me and comfort my heart, For love can never be mine: Passion, hunger and pain, These are the only wine

Of the pilgrim bound to the road. He would rob no man of his own. Your heart is another's I know, Your honor is his alone.

The feasts of a long drawn love, The feasts of a wedded life, The harvests of patient years, And hearthstone and children and wife:

These are your lords I know. These can never be mine-- This is the price I pay For the foolish search for the shrine:

This is the price I pay For the joy of my midnight prayers, Kneeling beneath the moon With hills for my altar stairs;