Challenge Part 8

ANY CITY

Into the staring street She goes on her nightly round, With weary and tireless feet Over the wretched ground.

A thing that man never spurns, A thing that all men despise; Into her soul there burns The street with its pitiless eyes.

She needs no charm or wile, She carries no beauty or power, But a tawdry and casual smile For a tawdry and casual hour.

The street with its pitiless eyes Follows wherever she lurks, But she is hardened and wise-- She rattles her bracelets and smirks...

She goes with her sordid array, Luring, without a lure; She is man's hunger and prey-- His l.u.s.t and its hideous cure.

All that she knows are the lies, The evil, the squalor, the scars; The street with its pitiless eyes, The night with its pitiless stars.

LANDSCAPES

(_For Clement R. Wood_)

The rain was over, and the brilliant air Made every little blade of gra.s.s appear Vivid and startling--everything was there With sharpened outlines, eloquently clear, As though one saw it in a crystal sphere.

The rusty sumac with its struggling spires; The golden-rod with all its million fires; (A million torches swinging in the wind) A single poplar, marvellously thinned, Half like a naked boy, half like a sword; Clouds, like the haughty banners of the Lord; A group of pansies with their shrewish faces, Little old ladies cackling over laces; The quaint, unhurried road that curved so well; The prim petunias with their rich, rank smell; The lettuce-birds, the creepers in the field-- How bountifully were they all revealed!

How arrogantly each one seemed to thrive-- So frank and strong, so radiantly alive!

And over all the morning-minded earth There seemed to spread a sharp and kindling mirth, Piercing the stubborn stones until I saw The toad face heaven without shame or awe, The ant confront the stars, and every weed Grow proud as though it bore a royal seed; While all the things that die and decompose Sent forth their bloom as richly as the rose...

Oh, what a liberal power that made them thrive And keep the very dirt that died, alive.

And now I saw the slender willow-tree No longer calm or drooping listlessly, Letting its languid branches sway and fall As though it danced in some sad ritual; But rather like a young, athletic girl, Fearless and gay, her hair all out of curl, And flying in the wind--her head thrown back, Her arms flung up, her garments flowing slack, And all her rus.h.i.+ng spirits running over...

What made a sober tree seem such a rover-- Or made the staid and stalwart apple-trees, That stood for years knee-deep in velvet peace, Turn all their fruit to little worlds of flame, And burn the trembling orchard there below.

What lit the heart of every golden-glow-- Oh, why was nothing weary, dull or tame?...

Beauty it was, and keen, compa.s.sionate mirth That drives the vast and energetic earth.

And, with abrupt and visionary eyes, I saw the huddled tenements arise.

Here where the merry clover danced and shone Sprang agonies of iron and of stone; There, where green Silence laughed or stood enthralled, Cheap music blared and evil alleys sprawled.

The roaring avenues, the shrieking mills; Brothels and prisons on those kindly hills-- The menace of these things swept over me; A threatening, unconquerable sea...

A stirring landscape and a generous earth!

Freshening courage and benevolent mirth-- And then the city, like a hideous sore...

_Good G.o.d, and what is all this beauty for?_

TWO FUNERALS

I.

Upon a field of shrieking red A mighty general stormed and fell.

They raised him from the common dead And all the people mourned him well.

"Swiftly," they cried, "let honors come, And Glory with her deathless bays; For him let every m.u.f.fled drum And grieving bugle thrill with praise.

Has he not made the whole world fear The very lifting of his sword-- Has he not slain his thousands here To glorify the Law and Lord!

Then make his bed of sacred sod; To greater deeds no man can win"...

_And each amused and ancient G.o.d Began to grin._

II.

Facing a cold and sneering sky, Cold as the sneering hearts of men, A man began to prophesy, To speak of love and faith again.

Boldly he spoke, and bravely dared The savage jest, the kindlier stone; The armies mocked at him; he fared To battle gaily--and alone.

Alone he fought; alone, to move A world whose wars would never cease-- And all his blows were struck for love, And all his fighting was for peace...

They tortured him with thorns and rods, They hanged him on a frowning hill-- _And all the old and heartless G.o.ds Are laughing still._

SUNDAY

It was Sunday-- Eleven in the morning; people were at church-- Prayers were in the making; G.o.d was near at hand-- Down the cramped and narrow streets of quiet Lawrence Came the tramp of workers marching in their hundreds; Marching in the morning, marching to the grave-yard, Where, no longer fiery, underneath the gra.s.ses, Callous and uncaring, lay their friend and sister.

In their hands they carried wreaths and drooping flowers, Overhead their banners dipped and soared like eagles--

Aye, but eagles bleeding, stained with their own heart's-blood-- Red, but not for glory--red, with wounds and travail, Red, the buoyant symbol of the blood of all the world...

So they bore their banners, singing toward the grave-yard, So they marched and chanted, mingling tears and tributes, So, with flowers, the dying went to deck the dead.

Within the churches people heard The sound, and much concern was theirs-- G.o.d might not hear the Sacred Word-- G.o.d might not hear their prayers!

_Should such things be allowed these slaves-- To vex the Sabbath peace with Song, To come with chants, like marching waves, That proudly swept along..._

_Suppose G.o.d turned to these--and heard!

Suppose He listened unawares-- G.o.d might forget the Sacred Word, G.o.d might forget their prayers!_

And so (oh, tragic irony) The blue-clad Guardians of the Peace Were sent to sweep them back--to see The ribald song should cease;

To scatter those who came and vexed G.o.d with their troubled cries and cares.

Quiet--so G.o.d might hear the text; The sleek and unctuous prayers!

Up the rapt and singing streets of little Lawrence, Came the stolid soldiers; and, behind the blue-coats, Grinning and invisible, bearing unseen torches, Rode red hordes of anger, sweeping all before them.

l.u.s.t and Evil joined them--Terror rode among them; Fury fired its pistols; Madness stabbed and yelled...

Through the wild and bleeding streets of shuddering Lawrence, Raged the heedless panic, hour-long and bitter.

Pa.s.sion tore and trampled; men once mild and peaceful, Fought with savage hatred in the name of Law and Order.

And, below the outcry, like the sea beneath the breakers, Mingling with the anguish, rolled the solemn organ...

Eleven in the morning--people were at church-- Prayers were in the making--G.o.d was near at hand-- It was Sunday!