Part 16

Our Ruth died in the springtime, With the spade I turned the sod, We buried her by the brier rose, Her life is hid with God.

The Child:

All summer long in the garden No roses came to the tree. Father, was it for sorrow, Sorrow for thee and me?

The Father:

Roses grew in the garden, I saw them at morning and even, Shadows of earthly roses They bloomed for fingers in heaven.

* * * * *

The air is very clear and still, The moonlight falls from half the sphere; The shadow from the silver hill Fills half the vale, and half is clear As the moon's self with cloudless snow; By the dead stream the alders throw Their shadows, shot with tingling spars; On the sheer height the elm trees glow: Their tops are tangled with the stars.

* * * * *

The Child:

Father, the coals are dying, See! I have heated the spade, Let me throw the door wide open, I will not be afraid.

The Father:

Let me kiss you once on the forehead, And once on your darling eyes; We may see them both at the dawning, In the dales of Paradise.

The Child:

And if I only see them, I will tell them how you smiled; For the wolf, you know, is angry, And I am a little child.

Death:

Undaunted spirits, I give thee peace, For a world of dread-- Calm. For desperate toil-- Rest. Thou who didst say, When the waters of poverty Waxed deep, deep, What we bear is best; Just ones, I give thee sleep.

First Traveller:

Keep up your spirits, I know There's a cabin under the hill, The fellow will make a roaring fire; We'll heat our hands and drink our fill And go warm to our heart's desire!

Second Traveller:

The door is open,--Heigho! This pair will claim neither crown nor groat, The man has gripped his garden spade As if he would dig his grave in the snow; The boy has the face of a saint, I trow; His brow says, "I was not afraid!"

First Traveller:

Ah well, these things must be, you know! Gather your sables around your throat; Give us that story about the monk, His niece, and the wandering conjurer, Just to keep our blood astir.

The Angels:

The heart of God, The worlds and man, Are fashioned and moulded, In a subtle plan; Passion outsurges, Sweeps far but converges: Nothing is lost, Sod or stone, But comes to its own; Bear well thy joy, 'Tis mixed with alloy, Bear well thy grief, 'Tis a rich full sheaf: Gather the souls that have passed in the night, Theirs is the peace and the light.

* * * * *

The moon is gone, the dawning brings A deeper dark with silver blent, Above the wells where, myriad, springs Light from the crimson orient; The elms are born, the shadows creep, Tremble and melt away--one sweep The great soft color floods and flows, Where under snow the roses sleep; The morn has turned the snow to rose.

LINES IN MEMORY OF EDMUND MORRIS

Dear Morris--here is your letter-- Can my answer reach you now? Fate has left me your debtor, You will remember how; For I went away to Nantucket, And you to the Isle of Orleans, And when I was dawdling and dreaming Over the ways and means Of answering, the power was denied me, Fate frowned and took her stand; I have your unanswered letter Here in my hand. This--in your famous scribble, It was ever a cryptic fist, Cuneiform or Chaldaic Meanings held in a mist.