Anthology of Massachusetts Poets Part 14

Four friends who walked in Concord's pleasant ways Long years ago. They dwelt and worked apart, But now the world has crowned them with its bays, And holds them close forever to its heart.

O, sacred hill! There Genius, guarding stays, And from its slopes shall never Love depart!

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE SWORD OF ARTHUR

A CASTLE stands in Yorks.h.i.+re (Oh, the hill is fair and green!) And far beneath it lies a cave No living man has seen.

It is the cave enchanted (Oh, seek it ere ye die!) And there King Arthur and his knights In dreamless slumber lie.

One time a peasant found it (Oh, the years have hurried well!) It was the day of fate for him, And this is what befell:

Upon a couch of crystal (Oh, heart be pure and strong!) He saw the King, and, close beside, The armored knights athrong.

And all of them were sleeping (Praise G.o.d, who sendeth rest!) The sleep that comes when strife is done And ended every quest.

Beside the good King Arthur (How high is your desire?) His sword within its scabbard lay, The sword with blade of fire.

Now had the peasant known it (Oh, if we all could know!)

He should have drawn that wondrous blade Before he turned to go.

If but his hand had touched it (The sword still lieth there!) He would have felt in every vein A lofty purpose thrill.

If but his hand had drawn it (The sword still lieth there!) A kingly way he would have walked, Wherever he might fare.

But no; he fled affrighted (Oh, pitiful the cost!) And then he knew; but lo! the way Into the cave was lost.

He searched forever after (All this was long ago!) But nevermore that crystal cave His eager eyes could know.

Pray G.o.d ye have the vision (Oh, search in every land!) To seize the sword that Arthur bore When it lies at your hand.

JOHN CLAIR MINOT

THE DIVINE FOREST

IF there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more, If trunks of trees seem sentinels, For what their vigil no man tells.

And if you clasp these guardian trees Nothing there is to hurt or please; Only the dead roof of the forest drops Gently down and never stops And roofs you in and roofs you under, Mute and away from life's dim thunder; And if there come eternal spring It is but more disheartening, For Autumn takes the Spring and Summer-- Autumn that is the latest comer-- With the Springtime's misty wonder And the Summer's yield of gold, Weighs you down and weighs you under To where the blackened leaves are mold. . .

The lone gift of the forest is ever new: Eternity where dwell not you.

The forest, accepting, heeds you not; Accepting all-you are forgot.

If there be leaves on the forest floor, Dead leaves there are and nothing more.

Once the forest spoke but now is silent, Save in the skyward branches whence no sound Seems to touch ear of any man below-- Or else no longer the man knows how to hear.

Such men build roofs to keep the forest out, Yet all their roofs are built of the forest's self;

Only they make the dead tree a s.h.i.+eld against the living.

Such lapsing of the forest then they use And turn it into countless lowly dwellings; Sometimes they even cut the living down To leaven the dead roofs they would erect.

Though some of these low roofs are lovely there Beneath the guardians.h.i.+p of forest trees, And some yearn upward as with thought of wings, Yet the eyes of the dwellers therein are dark To the upper forest and they Fearful of the windy freedom of its top.

They have forgotten That the greatest roof is but a banner And that it was a tree that made a Cross.

CHARLES R. MURPHY

MAGIC

TO W.S.B.

I RAN into the sunset light As hard as I could run: The treetops bowed in sheer delight As if they loved the sun: And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Were joined as they were one.

And down the streaming golden sky A lark came circling with a cry Of wonder-weaving joy: And all the arch of heaven rang Where meadowlands of dreaming hang As when I was a boy.

And through the ringing solitude In pulsing lovely amplitude A mist hung in a shroud, As though the light of loneliness Turned pure delight to holiness, And bathed it in a cloud.

I stripped my laughing body bare And plunged into that holy air That washed me like a sea, And raced against its silver tide That stroked my eager glancing side And made my spirit free.

Across the limits of the land The wind and I swept hand and hand Beyond the golden glow.

We danced across the ocean plain Like thrushes singing in the rain A song of long ago.

And on into the silver night We strove to win the race with light And bring the vision home, And bring the wonder home again Unto the sleeping eyes of men Across the singing foam.

And down the river of the world Our glowing, limbs in glory swirled As spring within a flower, And stars in music of delight Streamed gayly down our shoulders white Like petals in a shower.

And tears of awful wonder ran Adown my cheeks to hear the clan Of beauty chaunting white The prayer too deep for living word, Or sight of man or winging bird, Or music over forest heard At falling of the night.

And dropping slowly as the dew On gra.s.ses that the winds renew In urge of flooding fire, And softly as the hus.h.i.+ng boughs The gentle airs of dawn arouse To cradle morning's quire.

The murmur of the singing leaves Around the secret Flame, Like mating swallows 'neath the eaves In rustling silence came, And flowing through the silent air Creation fluttered in a prayer Descending on a spiral stair, And calling me by name.

It nestled in my dreaming eyes Like heaven in a lake, And softened hope into surprise For very beauty's sake, And silence blossomed into morn, Whose fragrant rosy-breasted dawn Could scarcely bear to break.

I sang into the morning light As loud as I could sing, The treetops bowed in sheer delight Before the slanting wing.

And all the songs of little birds Who laughed and cried in silver words Adored the Risen Spring.

EDWARD J. O'BRIEN

MICHAEL PAT

TO ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

OLD Michael Pat he said to me He saw an angel in a tree.

He knew I'd never, never doubt him, For what would heaven be without them.

The angel laughed for very glee And sang out loud: "Heigh! come with me!"

Old Michael felt a creeping kind Of wonder in his humble mind, And, hardly knowing what to say, Ran where the angel showed the way.

The lambs were running on the hills, Glad laughter echoed from the rills, And many hidden little birds Talked pleasant things in singing words.

He followed up a mountain then And saw a crowd of singing men Approaching to a Crown of Light Wherein they took a fresh delight.

He danced and sang and whooped and crew To see the Lord of all he knew Surrounded by the living songs Of stars and men in countless throngs, And then he died to life again, And shovelled with the strength of ten.

He taught me how to say my letters, And take my hat off to my betters, And when I asked for fairy stories, He told me of angelic glories.

He was a lovely farmer, he Had seen an angel in a tree.