Part 4

(For Aline)

From what old ballad, or from what rich frame Did you descend to glorify the earth? Was it from Chaucer's singing book you came? Or did Watteau's small brushes give you birth?

Nothing so exquisite as that slight hand Could Raphael or Leonardo trace. Nor could the poets know in Fairyland The changing wonder of your lyric face.

I would possess a host of lovely things, But I am poor and such joys may not be. So God who lifts the poor and humbles kings Sent loveliness itself to dwell with me.

Martin

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.

Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!

The Apartment House

Severe against the pleasant arc of sky The great stone box is cruelly displayed. The street becomes more dreary from its shade, And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die. Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie, Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade. How worse than folly is their labor made Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!

Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face Gleam from a window far above the street. This is a house of homes, a sacred place, By human passion made divinely sweet. How all the building thrills with sudden grace Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!

As Winds That Blow Against A Star

(For Aline)

Now by what whim of wanton chance Do radiant eyes know sombre days? And feet that shod in light should dance Walk weary and laborious ways?

But rays from Heaven, white and whole, May penetrate the gloom of earth; And tears but nourish, in your soul, The glory of celestial mirth.

The darts of toil and sorrow, sent Against your peaceful beauty, are As foolish and as impotent As winds that blow against a star.

St. Laurence

Within the broken Vatican The murdered Pope is lying dead. The soldiers of Valerian Their evil hands are wet and red.

Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits, His cassock is his only mail. The troops of Hell have burst the gates, But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.

They have encompassed him with steel, They spit upon his gentle face, He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal The Church's hidden treasure-place.

Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight, Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee! Since thou hast fought the goodly fight A martyr's death is fixed for thee.

St. Laurence, pray for us to bear The faith which glorifies thy name. St. Laurence, pray for us to share The wounds of Love's consuming flame.

To A Young Poet Who Killed Himself

When you had played with life a space And made it drink and lust and sing, You flung it back into God's face And thought you did a noble thing. "Lo, I have lived and loved," you said, "And sung to fools too dull to hear me. Now for a cool and grassy bed With violets in blossom near me."

Well, rest is good for weary feet, Although they ran for no great prize; And violets are very sweet, Although their roots are in your eyes. But hark to what the earthworms say Who share with you your muddy haven: "The fight was on -- you ran away. You are a coward and a craven.

"The rug is ruined where you bled; It was a dirty way to die! To put a bullet through your head And make a silly woman cry! You could not vex the merry stars Nor make them heed you, dead or living. Not all your puny anger mars God's irresistible forgiving.