Part 54

In the eclipses of your soul, and when you cry "O God! give more of rest and less of night," My words may rest you; and mayhap a light Shall flash from them bright o'er thy spirit's sky; Then think of me as one who passes by. A few brief hours -- a golden August day, We met, we spake -- I pass fore'er away. Let ev'ry word of mine be golden ray To brighten thy eclipses; and then wilt pray That he who passes thee shall meet thee yet In the "Beyond" where souls may ne'er forget.

A Reverie [`"O Songs!" I said:']

"O Songs!" I said: "Stop sounding in my soul Just for a little while and let me sleep, Resting my head on the breast Of Silence;" but the rhythmic roll Of a thousand songs swept on and on, And a far Voice said: "When thou art dead Thy restless heart shall rest."

And the songs will never let me sleep. I plead with them; but o'er the deep They still will roll On, and on, and on, Their music never gone. Ah! world-tired soul! Just for a little while, Just like a poor, tired child Beneath its Mother's smile -- Only to fall asleep! Silence! be mother to me! But -- No! No! No! The waves will ebb and flow. I wonder is it best To never, never rest Down on the shores of this strange Below?

Only a Dream

Only a Dream! It floated thro' The sky of a lonely sleep As floats a gleam Athwart the Blue Of a golden clouded Deep.

Only a Dream! I calmly slept. Meseems I called a name; I woke; and, waking, I think I wept And called -- and called the same.

Only a Dream! Graves have no ears; They give not back the dead; They will not listen to the saddest tears That ever may be shed.

Only a Dream! Graves keep their own; They have no hearts to hear; But the loved will come From their Heaven-Home To smile on the sleeper's tear.

The Poet

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives; Ah me! God makes him so -- The sea hath its ebb and flow, He sings his songs -- but yet he only gives In the waves of the words of his art Only the ~foam~ of his heart.

Its sea rolls on forever, evermore, Beautiful, vast, and deep; Only his ~shallowest~ thoughts touch the shore Of Speech; his ~deepest~ sleep.

The foam that crests the wave is pure and white; The ~foam~ is not the ~wave~; The wave is not the sea -- ~it rolls~ forever on; The winding shores will crave A kiss from ev'ry wavelet on the deep; ~Some come~; some always ~sleep~.

The Child of the Poet

The sunshine of thy Father's fame Sleeps in the shadows of thy eyes, And flashes sometimes when his name Like a lost star seeks its skies.

In the horizons of thy heart His memory shines for aye, A light that never shall depart Nor lose a single ray.

Thou passest thro' the crowds unknown, So gentle, so sweet, and so shy; Thy heart throbs fast and sometimes may grow low; Then alone Art the star in thy Father's sky.

'Tis fame enough for thee to bear his name -- Thou couldst not ask for more; Thou art the jewel of thy Father's fame, He waiteth on the bright and golden shore; He prayeth in the great Eternity Beside God's throne for thee.

The Poet Priest

~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~, I believe they call him great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire; They, silent, come and wait, And wonder when he opens wide the gate Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire Is lit on many altars of many dreams -- They wait to catch the gleams -- And then they say, In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand." And so his way Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair; And people say: "How happy he must be to win and wear Praise ev'ry day!" And all the while he stands far out the crowd, Strangely ~alone~. Is it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud -- No matter which, his spirit maketh moan; And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense Creeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand: If all the world would kneel down at his feet And give acclaim -- He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No! The breath of fame is sweet -- but far more sweet Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart; God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep Along the words of merely human art; It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep, Far-off and from so far away -- It filleth night and day." ~Not~ as of one who ever, ever cares For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me, And in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee In Prayers -- and thou shalt meet with me.

Wilt Pray for Me?

Wilt pray for me? They tell me I have Fame; I plead with thee, Sometimes just fold my name In beautiful "Hail Marys"! And you give me more Than all the world besides. It praises Poets for the well-sung lay; But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray. It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride; Some win such crowns and wear; Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.

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The living child of a dead Poet is like a faintly glowing Sanctuary lamp, which sheds its rays in the beautiful Temple whence the great Presence hath departed. -- Abram J. Ryan