The Lonely Dancer and Other Poems Part 9

The s.h.i.+p rocked long Across the weary sea, But at the last There is a port for me.

BLUE FLOWER

Blue flower waving in the wind, Say whose blue eyes Lift up your swaying fragile stem To the blue skies.

Is she a queen that lies asleep In a green hill, With all her silver ornaments Around her still?

Or is she but a simple girl, Whose boy was drowned, In some cold sea, some stormy morn, On some blue sound?

THE HEART UNSEEN

So many times the heart can break, So many ways, Yet beat along and beat along So many days.

A fluttering thing we never see, And only hear When some stern doctor to our side Presses his ear.

Strange hidden thing, that beats and beats We know not why, And makes us live, though we indeed Would rather die.

Mysterious, fighting, loving thing, So sad, so true-- I would my laughing eyes some day Might look on you.

THE s.h.i.+MMER OF THE SOUND

In the long s.h.i.+mmer of the Sound May I some day be laughing found, Part of its restless to and fro, A humble worker of the tides That round the sleepless planet flow, And in the rock and drift of things--

_(O how the sea-weed sways and swings!

Is it her hair--has she been found In the long s.h.i.+mmer of the Sound!)_

Do some small task I do not know-- O maybe help the mussel grow, Or tint the sh.e.l.l-imprisoned pearl--

A mute companion of the waves That toss within their moonlit graves-- Is it a king, or but a girl?

And, all the while, she sings and sings, And waves her wild white hands with glee, Mysterious sister of the world, That singing water called the sea.

(_O tell me was this sea-weed found In the long s.h.i.+mmer of the Sound!_)

A SONG OF SINGERS

Singers all along the street, Singing every kind of song-- One man's song is honey-sweet, One man's song is hammer-strong; Yet, however sweet the singing, However strong the hammer-swinging,-- All the bees are round that honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

Singers all along the street-- One sings Love and one sings Death, Roses sings one and little feet, And one sings wine with fevered breath; Yet all the bees are round that honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

Singers singing down the street, I believe there is a song, Could you sing it, that would beat All the sweet and all the strong; Just a simple song of pity, 'Mid the iron of the city.

Singers all the street along, There is still another song All the world is waiting, breathless, Just to hear some poet singing, Song of something gay and deathless 'Mid the grinding dark endeavour That goes on and on for ever, Something more than mere words bringing,

Something more than b.u.t.terflies, Or the sugared ancient lies, Something with the ring of truth, And the majesty of youth, Something singing "all is well"

In the blackest pit of h.e.l.l!

O we are so tired of birds, Of rainbows and the love-sick words!

Sing us but some manly tune, (Leaving out the rising moon) Sing the song of Hope Eternal In the face of Facts Infernal, And make your singing somehow prove it-- Faith so firm no doubt can move it-- Then the bees will leave the honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

THE END

Tell me, strange heart, so mysteriously beating-- Unto what end?

Body and soul so mysteriously meeting, Strange friend and friend; Hand clasped in hand so mysteriously faring, Say what and why all this dreaming and daring, This sowing and reaping and laughing and weeping, That ends but in sleeping-- Only one meaning, only--the End.

Ah! all the love, the gold glory, the singing,-- Unto what end?

Flowers of April immortally springing, Face of one's friend, Stars of the morning and moon in her quarters, s.h.i.+ning of suns and running of waters, Growing and blowing and snowing and flowing,-- Ah! where are they going?

All on one journey, all to--the End.