Fires of Driftwood Part 14

HER hair was gold and warm it lay Upon the pallor of her brow; Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray-- And in their depths he drowned his vow.

She wandered where the sands were wet, Weaving the sea-weed for a crown, And there at eve a monk she met-- A holy monk in cowl and gown.

She held him with her witch's stare (A sweet, child-look--it witched him well!) Upon his lip she froze the prayer, And in his ear she breathed a spell.

He babbled ever of her name And of her brow that gleamed like dawn, And of her lips--a lovely shame No holy man should think upon.

They hunted her along the sea, "Witch, Witch!" they cried and hissed their hate-- Her hair unbound fell to her knee And made a glory where she sate.

Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed, She gazed upon their bell and book; The zealous priests were fain to hide Lest they be holden by her look.

Most innocent she seemed to be ("The Devil's sly!" the fathers say) Her eyes were dreaming eyes that see Things strange and fair and far away.

They stood her in the judgment hall.

"Confess," they cried, "the blasting spell That holds yon crazed monk in thrall?"

"Good sirs," she said, "he loved me well."

They haled her to a witch's doom, They matched her s.h.i.+ning hair with flame-- But ever through the cloister's gloom The mad monk babbles of her name!

And, when the red sun droppeth down And wet sand gleameth ghostily, Men see her weave a sea-weed crown Between the twilight and the sea.

Fairy Singing

SHE was my love and the pulse of my heart; Lovely she was as the flowers that start Straight to the sun from the earth's tender breast, Sweet as the wind blowing out of the west-- Elana, Elana, my strong one, my white one, Soft be the wind blowing over your rest!

She crept to my side In the cold mist of morning.

"O wirra" she cried, "'Tis farewell now, mavourneen!

When the crescent moon hung Like a scythe in the sky, I heard in the silence The Little Folks cry.

"'Twas like a low sighing, A sobbing, a singing; It came from the west, Where the low moon was swinging: 'Elana, Elana'

Was all of their crying.

Mavrone! I must go-- To refuse them, I dare not.

Alone I must go; They have called and they care not-- Naught do they care that they call me apart From the warmth and the light and the love of your heart.

Hark! How their singing Comes winging, comes winging, Through your close arms, beloved, Straight to my heart!"

White grew her face as the thorn's tender bloom, White as the mist from the valley of doom!

Swift was her going--her head on my breast Drooped like a flower that winter has pressed-- Elana, Elana! My strong one, my white one!

Empty the arms that your beauty had blessed.

Killed in Action

MY father lived his three-score years; my son lived twenty-two; One looked long back on work well done, and one had all to do-- Yet which the better served his world, I know not, nor do you!

Life taught my father all her lore till he grew wise and gray, She did but whisper to my son before she turned away-- Yet which her deepest secret held only they two might say.

Peace brought my father restful days, with love and fame for wage; War gave my son an unmarked grave and an unwritten page-- Who shall declare which gift conveyed the greater heritage?

Spring Came In

SPRING came in with a red-wing's feather And yellow clumps of the wild marshmallow-- O happy bird, can you tell me whether In distant France they have April weather?

And little pools that are sunny and shallow?

My soul is awake and my pulse is racing-- My heart is aware that the birds are mating-- Oh, my heart's like a cloud that the wind is chasing O'er the earth's green blur with its silver tracing To that sad France where there's someone waiting!

O Spring! begone with your too-sweet clover And all your bees with honey to carry-- Come again when the war is over, Come, dear Spring, when you bring my lover!

Yet come no more, should he tarry . . . tarry!

From the Trenches

OH, to be in Canada now that Spring is merry, Happy apple blossoms gay against the smiling green; Here the lilac's purple plume and here the pink of cherry, Hillsides just a drift of bloom with clover in between!

Oh, to be in Canada! there's a road that rambles Through a leafing maple-wood and up a windy hill, Velvet p.u.s.s.y-willows press soft hands amid the brambles Fringing round a sky-filled pool where cattle drink their fill.

Oh, to be in Canada! there's a farmhouse hidden Where the hollow meets the hill and Spring's first footsteps show-- Not a drop of honey there to any bee forbidden, Not a cherry on a tree but all the robins know!

Oh, to be in Canada, now that Spring is calling Sweet, so sweet it breaks the heart to let its sweetness through, Oh, to breast the windy hill while yet the dew is falling-- Waking all the meadow-larks to carol in the blue!

Smile upon us, Canada! None shall fail who love you While they hold a memory of your fields where flowers are-- High the task to keep unstained the skies that bend above you, Proud the life that s.h.i.+elds you from the flaming wind of war!

The Reasons

THEY sat before a dugout In the unfamiliar quiet of silenced guns.

And one said: "Now that it's over What about a bit of truth?

Let us say why we came to fight-- No frills-- You first, old Fire-eater!"--

One with a whimsical face spoke freely; "I?--I sought some stir, Some urge in living, Some sense in dying.

I sought a mountain top With a view!"