Part 3

This is the price I pay For the throb of the mystic wings, When the dove of God comes down And beats round my heart and sings;

This is the price I pay For the light I shall some day see At the ends of the infinite earth When truth shall come to me.

And what if my body die Before I meet the truth? The road is dear, more dear Than love or life or youth.

The road, it is the road, Mystical, endless, kind, Mother of visions vast, Mother of soul and mind;

Mother of all of me But the blood that cries for a mate-- That cries for a farewell kiss From the child of God at the gate.

Honor Among Scamps

We are the smirched. Queen Honor is the spotless. We slept thro' wars where Honor could not sleep. We were faint-hearted. Honor was full-valiant. We kept a silence Honor could not keep.

Yet this late day we make a song to praise her. We, codeless, will yet vindicate her code. She who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars. The merchants drive her out upon the road.

She makes a throne of sod beside our campfire. We give the maiden-queen our rags and tears. A battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, To keep her safe until the better years.

The Gamblers

Life's a jail where men have common lot. Gaunt the one who has, and who has not. All our treasures neither less nor more, Bread alone comes thro' the guarded door. Cards are foolish in this jail, I think, Yet they play for shoes, for drabs and drink. She, my lawless, sharp-tongued gypsy maid Will not scorn with me this jail-bird trade, Pets some fox-eyed boy who turns the trick, Tho' he win a button or a stick, Pencil, garter, ribbon, corset-lace-- HIS the glory, MINE is the disgrace.

Sweet, I'd rather lose than win despite Love of hearty words and maids polite. "Love's a gamble," say you. I deny. Love's a gift. I love you till I die. Gamblers fight like rats. I will not play. All I ever had I gave away. All I ever coveted was peace Such as comes if we have jail release. Cards are puzzles, tho' the prize be gold, Cards help not the bread that tastes of mold, Cards dye not your hair to black more deep, Cards make not the children cease to weep.

Scorned, I sit with half shut eyes all day-- Watch the cataract of sunshine play Down the wall, and dance upon the floor. Sun, come down and break the dungeon door! Of such gold dust could I make a key,-- Turn the bolt--how soon we would be free! Over borders we would hurry on Safe by sunrise farms, and springs of dawn, Wash our wounds and jail stains there at last, Azure rivers flowing, flowing past. GOD HAS GREAT ESTATES JUST PAST THE LINE, GREEN FARMS FOR ALL, AND MEAT AND CORN AND WINE.

On the Road to Nowhere

On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow When you left your father's house With your cheeks aglow? Eyes so strained and eager To see what you might see? Were you thief or were you fool Or most nobly free?

Were the tramp-days knightly, True sowing of wild seed? Did you dare to make the songs Vanquished workmen need? Did you waste much money To deck a leper's feast? Love the truth, defy the crowd Scandalize the priest? On the road to nowhere What wild oats did you sow? Stupids find the nowhere-road Dusty, grim and slow.

Ere their sowing's ended They turn them on their track, Look at the caitiff craven wights Repentant, hurrying back! Grown ashamed of nowhere, Of rags endured for years, Lust for velvet in their hearts, Pierced with Mammon's spears, All but a few fanatics Give up their darling goal, Seek to be as others are, Stultify the soul. Reapings now confront them, Glut them, or destroy, Curious seeds, grain or weeds Sown with awful joy. Hurried is their harvest, They make soft peace with men. Pilgrims pass. They care not, Will not tramp again.

O nowhere, golden nowhere! Sages and fools go on To your chaotic ocean, To your tremendous dawn. Far in your fair dream-haven, Is nothing or is all . . . They press on, singing, sowing Wild deeds without recall!

Upon Returning to the Country Road

Even the shrewd and bitter, Gnarled by the old world's greed, Cherished the stranger softly Seeing his utter need. Shelter and patient hearing, These were their gifts to him, To the minstrel, grimly begging As the sunset-fire grew dim. The rich said "You are welcome." Yea, even the rich were good. How strange that in their feasting His songs were understood! The doors of the poor were open, The poor who had wandered too, Who had slept with ne'er a roof-tree Under the wind and dew. The minds of the poor were open, Their dark mistrust was dead. They loved his wizard stories, They bought his rhymes with bread. Those were his days of glory, Of faith in his fellow-men. Therefore, to-day the singer Turns beggar once again.

The Angel and the Clown

I saw wild domes and bowers And smoking incense towers And mad exotic flowers In Illinois. Where ragged ditches ran Now springs of Heaven began Celestial drink for man In Illinois.

There stood beside the town Beneath its incense-crown An angel and a clown In Illinois. He was as Clowns are: She was snow and star With eyes that looked afar In Illinois.

I asked, "How came this place Of antique Asian grace Amid our callow race In Illinois?" Said Clown and Angel fair: "By laughter and by prayer, By casting off all care In Illinois."

Springfield Magical

In this, the City of my Discontent, Sometimes there comes a whisper from the grass, "Romance, Romance--is here. No Hindu town Is quite so strange. No Citadel of Brass By Sinbad found, held half such love and hate; No picture-palace in a picture-book Such webs of Friendship, Beauty, Greed and Fate!"

In this, the City of my Discontent, Down from the sky, up from the smoking deep Wild legends new and old burn round my bed While trees and grass and men are wrapped in sleep. Angels come down, with Christmas in their hearts, Gentle, whimsical, laughing, heaven-sent; And, for a day, fair Peace have given me In this, the City of my Discontent!

Incense