The Three Taverns Part 9

He took a frayed hat from his head, And "Peace on Earth" was what he said.

"A morsel out of what you're worth, And there we have it: Peace on Earth.

Not much, although a little more Than what there was on earth before.

I'm as you see, I'm Ichabod, -- But never mind the ways I've trod; I'm sober now, so help me G.o.d."

I could not pa.s.s the fellow by.

"Do you believe in G.o.d?" said I; "And is there to be Peace on Earth?"

"Tonight we celebrate the birth,"

He said, "of One who died for men; The Son of G.o.d, we say. What then?

Your G.o.d, or mine? I'd make you laugh Were I to tell you even half That I have learned of mine today Where yours would hardly seem to stay.

Could He but follow in and out Some anthropoids I know about, The G.o.d to whom you may have prayed Might see a world He never made."

"Your words are flowing full," said I; "But yet they give me no reply; Your fountain might as well be dry."

"A wiser One than you, my friend, Would wait and hear me to the end; And for His eyes a light would s.h.i.+ne Through this unpleasant sh.e.l.l of mine That in your fancy makes of me A Christmas curiosity.

All right, I might be worse than that; And you might now be lying flat; I might have done it from behind, And taken what there was to find.

Don't worry, for I'm not that kind.

'Do I believe in G.o.d?' Is that The price tonight of a new hat?

Has He commanded that His name Be written everywhere the same?

Have all who live in every place Identified His hidden face?

Who knows but He may like as well My story as one you may tell?

And if He show me there be Peace On Earth, as there be fields and trees Outside a jail-yard, am I wrong If now I sing Him a new song?

Your world is in yourself, my friend, For your endurance to the end; And all the Peace there is on Earth Is faith in what your world is worth, And saying, without any lies, Your world could not be otherwise."

"One might say that and then be shot,"

I told him; and he said: "Why not?"

I ceased, and gave him rather more Than he was counting of my store.

"And since I have it, thanks to you, Don't ask me what I mean to do,"

Said he. "Believe that even I Would rather tell the truth than lie -- On Christmas Eve. No matter why."

His unshaved, educated face, His inextinguishable grace, And his hard smile, are with me still, Deplore the vision as I will; For whatsoever he be at, So droll a derelict as that Should have at least another hat.

Late Summer

(Alcaics)

Confused, he found her lavis.h.i.+ng feminine Gold upon clay, and found her inscrutable; And yet she smiled. Why, then, should horrors Be as they were, without end, her playthings?

And why were dead years hungrily telling her Lies of the dead, who told them again to her?

If now she knew, there might be kindness Clamoring yet where a faith lay stifled.

A little faith in him, and the ruinous Past would be for time to annihilate, And wash out, like a tide that washes Out of the sand what a child has drawn there.

G.o.d, what a s.h.i.+ning handful of happiness, Made out of days and out of eternities, Were now the pulsing end of patience -- Could he but have what a ghost had stolen!

What was a man before him, or ten of them, While he was here alive who could answer them, And in their teeth fling confirmations Harder than agates against an egg-sh.e.l.l?

But now the man was dead, and would come again Never, though she might honor ineffably The flimsy wraith of him she conjured Out of a dream with his wand of absence.

And if the truth were now but a mummery, Meriting pride's implacable irony, So much the worse for pride. Moreover, Save her or fail, there was conscience always.

Meanwhile, a few misgivings of innocence, Imploring to be sheltered and credited, Were not amiss when she revealed them.

Whether she struggled or not, he saw them.

Also, he saw that while she was hearing him Her eyes had more and more of the past in them; And while he told what cautious honor Told him was all he had best be sure of,

He wondered once or twice, inadvertently, Where s.h.i.+fting winds were driving his argosies, Long anch.o.r.ed and as long unladen, Over the foam for the golden chances.

"If men were not for killing so carelessly, And women were for wiser endurances,"

He said, "we might have yet a world here Fitter for Truth to be seen abroad in;

"If Truth were not so strange in her nakedness, And we were less forbidden to look at it, We might not have to look." He stared then Down at the sand where the tide threw forward

Its cold, unconquered lines, that unceasingly Foamed against hope, and fell. He was calm enough, Although he knew he might be silenced Out of all calm; and the night was coming.

"I climb for you the peak of his infamy That you may choose your fall if you cling to it.

No more for me unless you say more.

All you have left of a dream defends you:

"The truth may be as evil an augury As it was needful now for the two of us.

We cannot have the dead between us.

Tell me to go, and I go." -- She pondered:

"What you believe is right for the two of us Makes it as right that you are not one of us.

If this be needful truth you tell me, Spare me, and let me have lies hereafter."

She gazed away where shadows were covering The whole cold ocean's healing indifference.

No s.h.i.+p was coming. When the darkness Fell, she was there, and alone, still gazing.

An Evangelist's Wife

"Why am I not myself these many days, You ask? And have you nothing more to ask?

I do you wrong? I do not hear your praise To G.o.d for giving you me to share your task?

"Jealous -- of Her? Because her cheeks are pink, And she has eyes? No, not if she had seven.

If you should only steal an hour to think, Sometime, there might be less to be forgiven.