Custer, and Other Poems Part 4

Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle, The babe of to-day does not know it by sight.

When day leaves the border, with system and order, The child goes to bed and we put out the light.

I bow to Progression and ask no concession, Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past; So off with old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber, The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.

=Ambition's Trail=

If all the end of this continuous striving Were simply _to attain_, How poor would seem the planning and contriving The endless urging and the hurried driving Of body, heart and brain!

But ever in the wake of true achieving, There s.h.i.+nes this glowing trail-- Some other soul will be spurred on, conceiving, New strength and hope, in its own power believing, Because _thou_ didst not fail.

Not thine alone the glory, nor the sorrow, If thou doth miss the goal, Undreamed of lives in many a far to-morrow From thee their weakness or their force shall borrow-- On, on, ambitious soul.

=The Traveled Man=

Sometimes I wish the railroads all were torn out, The s.h.i.+ps all sunk among the coral strands.

I am so very weary, yea so worn out, With tales of those who visit foreign lands.

When asked to dine, to meet these traveled people, My soup seems brewed from cemetery bones.

The fish grows cold on some cathedral steeple, I miss two courses while I stare at thrones.

I'm forced to leave my salad quite untasted, Some musty, moldy temple to explore.

The ices, fruit and coffee all are wasted While into realms of ancient art I soar.

I'd rather take my chance of life and reason, If in a den of roaring lions hurled Than for a single year, ay, for one season, To dwell with folks who'd traveled round the world.

So patronizing are they, so oppressive, With pity for the ones who stay at home, So mighty is their knowledge so aggressive, I ofttimes wish they had not _ceased_ to roam.

They loathe the new, they quite detest the present; They revel in a pre-Columbian morn; Just dare to say America is pleasant, And die beneath the glances of their scorn.

They are increasing at a rate alarming, Go where I will, the traveled man is there.

And now I think that rustic wholly charming Who has not strayed beyond his meadows fair.

=Uncontrolled=

The mighty forces of mysterious s.p.a.ce Are one by one subdued by lordly man.

The awful lightning that for eons ran Their devastating and untrammeled race, Now bear his messages from place to place Like carrier doves. The winds lead on his van; The lawless elements no longer can Resist his strength, but yield with sullen grace.

His bold feet scaling heights before untrod, Light, darkness, air and water, heat and cold He bids go forth and bring him power and pelf.

And yet though ruler, king and demi-G.o.d He walks with his fierce pa.s.sions uncontrolled The conquerer of all things--save himself.

=The Tulip Bed At Greeley Square=

You know that oasis, fresh and fair In the city desert, as Greeley square?

That bright triangle of scented bloom That lies surrounded by grime and gloom?

Right in the breast of the seething town Like a gleaming gem or a wanton's gown?

Ah, wonderful things that tulip bed Unto my listening soul has said.

Over the rattle and roar of the street I hear a chorus of voices sweet,

Day and night, when I pa.s.s that way, And these are the things the voices say:

"Here, in the heart of the foolish strife, We live a simple and natural life.

"Here, in the midst of the clash and din, We know what it is to be calm within.

"Here, environed by sin and shame, We do what we can with our pure white flame.

"We do what we can with our bloom and grace, To make the city a fairer place.

"It is well to be good though the world is vile, And so through the dust and the smoke we smile,

"We are but atoms in chaos tossed, Yet never a purpose for truth was lost."

Ah, many a sermon is uttered there By the bed of blossoms in Greeley square.

And he who listens and hears aright, Is better equipped for the world's hard fight.

=Will=

You will be what you will to be; Let failure find its false content In that poor word "environment,"

But spirit scorns it, and is free,

It masters time, it conquers s.p.a.ce, It cows that boastful trickster Chance, And bids the tyrant Circ.u.mstance Uncrown and fill a servant's place.

The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew the way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene.