Acanthus and Wild Grape Part 2

And these are they who saw the Holy Grail, Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with youthful blood like ruddy wine Poured out in sacrifice. The light divine Before whose awful glow they did not quail Now beckons us; and shall our footsteps fail To follow where they set the blood-stained sign?

NOVEMBER, 1918.

HIDDEN TREASURE

O sun-browned boy with the wondering eyes, Do you see the blue of the summer skies?

Do you hear the song of the drowsy stream, As it winds by the sh.o.r.e where the birches gleam?

Then come, come away From the shadowy bay, And we'll drift with the stream where the rapids play; For we are two pirates, fierce and bold, And we'll capture the h.o.a.rd of the morning's gold.

A roving craft is our red canoe, O pirate chief with the eyes of blue; So hoist your flag with the skull on high, And out we'll sail where the treasures lie.

For in days of old Came pirates bold, With a Spanish galleon's captured gold; And their boat was wrecked on the river strand, And its treasures strewn on the silver sand.

Now steady all as we dash along, The rapids are swift but our paddles are strong; And soon we'll drift with the water's flow Where the treasure lies hid in the shallows below.

O, cool and dim, 'Neath its foam-flecked brim, Is the pool where the swallows dip and skim; So we'll plunge by the prow of our red canoe For the treasure that lies in the quivering blue.

Now home once more to the shadowy bay, For we've captured the gold of the summer's day, And emeralds green from the banks along, And silver bars from the white-throat's song.

No pirates bore Such a glittering store From the treasure s.h.i.+ps of the days of yore, As the spoils we have won on the s.h.i.+ning stream, While we drifted along in a golden dream.

A RIVER SUNSET

Red sunlight fades from wood and town, The western sky is crimson-dyed, Gaunt shadow-s.h.i.+ps drift silent down Upon the river's gleaming tide.

The hills' clear outlines melt away Or veil themselves in purple light, And burning thoughts that vexed the day Become fair visions of the night.

THE MADONNA

She s.h.i.+vered and crouched in the immigrant shed In the midst of the surging crowd; Her hands were warped with the years of toil, And her young form bent and bowed.

Her eyes looked forth with a frightened glance At the throng that round her pressed; But her face was the face of the Mother of G.o.d As she looked at the babe on her breast.

AN IDOL IN A SHOP WINDOW

Old Lohan peers through the dusty gla.s.s, From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; And he watches the hurrying crowds that pa.s.s The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, Here by the window he patiently waits For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, For his heart is bronze, and he does not know That his temple has been for a thousand years But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and the days, And the sun goes up and down the sky; But he often looks with a wistful gaze At the crowds that always pa.s.s him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream Of his poppy-land of long ago, Turn back to the sh.o.r.es of the sacred stream And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd Of human folks that pa.s.s him by; Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,-- And the sun once more goes down the sky.

IN A FOREST

Silver birch and dusky pine, Reaching up to find the light From the forest's gloomy night, From the thicket where entwine Stunted shrub and creeping vine, From the damp where witch-fire glows And the poison fungus grows, High you lift your heads, O trees, To the kisses of the breeze, To the far-off vaulted sky, To the clouds that pa.s.s you by, To the sun that s.h.i.+nes on high.

From the dusk of earthly night Strive, O soul, to reach the light.

THE GOLDEN BOWL

_On seeing a picture of a boy gazing at a golden bowl which among Eastern nations was a symbol of life._

In a dream he seems to lie Gazing at the golden bowl, Where dim visions pa.s.sing by Whisper vaguely to his soul.

Restless phantoms come and go Crowned with cypress or with bay; Sad or merry, swift or slow, Tread they down the winding way.

Still the pageant winds along,-- Youth and age and love and l.u.s.t, Till at last the motley throng Fades and crumbles into dust.

All in vain upon the bowl Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes; He shall read its hidden scroll Only when it shattered lies.

For a wondrous light shall gleam From the scattered fragments born.

Boy, dream on, for life's a dream, Followed by a golden morn.

ON A SWISS MOUNTAIN

Lad, the mighty hills are calling, Hills of promise gleaming bright, And the floods of suns.h.i.+ne falling Fill their deepest vales with light.

There the young dawn's golden fire Beckons to a brighter day, Untrod paths of youth's desire, Heights unconquered far away.

Steep and dark and spectre-haunted Winds the pathway to the height; St.u.r.dy youth with heart undaunted Deems the toiling short and light.

Short or long, an easy Master, Gives each tired toiler rest, Counts not failure or disaster If the striving be the best.

Go lad, go, 'tis Life that calls you, Mates of old must soothe their pain, Mindless of whate'er befalls you If but honour still remain.