Part 5

O little heart of God, Sweet intruding stranger, You are laughing in my human breast, A Christ-child in a manger.

Heart, dear heart of God, Beside you now I kneel, Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine, Where God has set His seal.

Wild thundering heart of God Out of my doubt I come, And my foolish feet with prophets' feet, March with the prophets' drum.

The Empty Boats

Why do I see these empty boats, sailing on airy seas? One haunted me the whole night long, swaying with every breeze, Returning always near the eaves, or by the skylight glass: There it will wait me many weeks, and then, at last, will pass. Each soul is haunted by a ship in which that soul might ride And climb the glorious mysteries of Heaven's silent tide In voyages that change the very metes and bounds of Fate-- O empty boats, we all refuse, that by our windows wait!

With a Bouquet of Twelve Roses

I saw Lord Buddha towering by my gate Saying: "Once more, good youth, I stand and wait." Saying: "I bring you my fair Law of Peace And from your withering passion full release; Release from that white hand that stabbed you so. The road is calling. With the wind you go, Forgetting her imperious disdain-- Quenching all memory in the sun and rain."

"Excellent Lord, I come. But first," I said, "Grant that I bring her these twelve roses red. Yea, twelve flower kisses for her rose-leaf mouth, And then indeed I go in bitter drouth To that far valley where your river flows In Peace, that once I found in every rose."

St. Francis of Assisi

Would I might wake St. Francis in you all, Brother of birds and trees, God's Troubadour, Blinded with weeping for the sad and poor; Our wealth undone, all strict Franciscan men, Come, let us chant the canticle again Of mother earth and the enduring sun. God make each soul the lonely leper's slave; God make us saints, and brave.

Buddha

Would that by Hindu magic we became Dark monks of jeweled India long ago, Sitting at Prince Siddartha's feet to know The foolishness of gold and love and station, The gospel of the Great Renunciation, The ragged cloak, the staff, the rain and sun, The beggar's life, with far Nirvana gleaming: Lord, make us Buddhas, dreaming.

A Prayer to All the Dead Among Mine Own People

Are these your presences, my clan from Heaven? Are these your hands upon my wounded soul? Mine own, mine own, blood of my blood be with me, Fly by my path till you have made me whole!

To Reformers in Despair

'Tis not too late to build our young land right, Cleaner than Holland, courtlier than Japan, Devout like early Rome, with hearths like hers, Hearths that will recreate the breed called man.

Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket

I am unjust, but I can strive for justice. My life's unkind, but I can vote for kindness. I, the unloving, say life should be lovely. I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.

Man is a curious brute--he pets his fancies-- Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury. So he will be, tho' law be clear as crystal, Tho' all men plan to live in harmony.

Come, let us vote against our human nature, Crying to God in all the polling places To heal our everlasting sinfulness And make us sages with transfigured faces.

The following verses were written on the evening of March the first, nineteen hundred and eleven, and printed next morning in the Illinois State Register.

They celebrate the arrival of the news that the United States Senate had declared the election of William Lorimer good and valid, by a vote of forty-six to forty.

To the United States Senate

And must the Senator from Illinois Be this squat thing, with blinking, half-closed eyes? This brazen gutter idol, reared to power Upon a leering pyramid of lies?

And must the Senator from Illinois Be the world's proverb of successful shame, Dazzling all State house flies that steal and steal, Who, when the sad State spares them, count it fame?

If once or twice within his new won hall His vote had counted for the broken men; If in his early days he wrought some good-- We might a great soul's sins forgive him then.

But must the Senator from Illinois Be vindicated by fat kings of gold? And must he be belauded by the smirched, The sleek, uncanny chiefs in lies grown old?

Be warned, O wanton ones, who shielded him-- Black wrath awaits. You all shall eat the dust. You dare not say: "To-morrow will bring peace; Let us make merry, and go forth in lust."