The Little Book of Modern Verse Part 12

Love's Ritual. [Charles Hanson Towne]

Breathe me the ancient words when I shall find Your spirit mine; if, seeking you, life wins New wonder, with old splendor let us bind Our hearts when Love's high sacrament begins.

Exalt my soul with pomp and pageantry, Sing the eternal songs all lovers sing; Yea, when you come, gold let our vestments be, And lamps of silver let us softly swing.

But if at last, (hark how I whisper, Love!) You from my temple and from me should turn, I pray you chant no psalm my grief above, Over the body of Pain let no light burn.

Go forth in silence, quiet as a dove, Drift, with no sign, from our exultant place; We need no 'Ite' at the death of Love, And none should come to look on Love's white face.

Grey Rocks, and Greyer Sea. [Charles G. D. Roberts]

Grey rocks, and greyer sea, And surf along the sh.o.r.e -- And in my heart a name My lips shall speak no more.

The high and lonely hills Endure the darkening year -- And in my heart endure A memory and a tear.

Across the tide a sail That tosses, and is gone -- And in my heart the kiss That longing dreams upon.

Grey rocks, and greyer sea, And surf along the sh.o.r.e -- And in my heart the face That I shall see no more.

"Grandmither, think not I forget". [Willa Sibert Cather]

Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An' wander the old ways again, an' tread them up and down.

I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pa.s.s, Wi'out I mind how good ye were unto a little la.s.s; I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through Wi'out I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you.

An' if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap 't is that I'd change wi' ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine.

I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow Wi'out I wonder why it was ye loved the la.s.sie so.

Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score -- I never thought I should come back and ask ye now for more.

Grandmither, gie me your still white hands that lie upon your breast, For mine do beat the dark all night and never find me rest; They grope among the shadows an' they beat the cold black air, They go seekin' in the darkness, an' they never find him there, They never find him there.

Grandmither, gie me your sightless eyes, that I may never see His own a-burnin' full o' love that must not s.h.i.+ne for me.

Grandmither, gie me your peaceful lips, white as the kirkyard snow, For mine be tremblin' wi' the wish that he must never know.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-stopped ears, that I may never hear My lad a-singin' in the night when I am sick wi' fear; A-singin' when the moonlight over a' the land is white -- Ah, G.o.d! I'll up and go to him, a-singin' in the night, A-callin' in the night.

Grandmither, gie me your clay-cold heart, that has forgot to ache, For mine be fire wi'in my breast an' yet it cannot break.

Wi' every beat it's callin' for things that must not be, -- So can ye not let me creep in an' rest awhile by ye?

A little la.s.s afeard o' dark slept by ye years agone -- An' she has found what night can hold 'twixt sunset an' the dawn: So when I plant the rose an' rue above your grave for ye, Ye'll know it's under rue an' rose that I would like to be, That I would like to be.

When I am dead and Sister to the Dust. [Elsa Barker]

When I am dead and sister to the dust; When no more avidly I drink the wine Of human love; when the pale Proserpine Has covered me with poppies, and cold rust Has cut my lyre-strings, and the sun has thrust Me underground to nourish the world-vine, -- Men shall discover these old songs of mine, And say: This woman lived -- as poets must!

This woman lived and wore life as a sword To conquer wisdom; this dead woman read In the sealed Book of Love and underscored The meanings. Then the sails of faith she spread, And faring out for regions unexplored, Went singing down the River of the Dead.

Little Gray Songs from St. Joseph's. [Grace Fallow Norton]

I

With ca.s.sock black, baret and book, Father Saran goes by; I think he goes to say a prayer For one who has to die.

Even so, some day, Father Saran May say a prayer for me; Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells, Should pray unceasingly.

They kneel who pray: how may I kneel Who face to ceiling lie, Shut out by all that man has made From G.o.d who made the sky?

They lift who pray -- the low earth-born -- A humble heart to G.o.d: But O, my heart of clay is proud -- True sister to the sod.

I look into the face of G.o.d, They say bends over me; I search the dark, dark face of G.o.d -- O what is it I see?

I see -- who lie fast bound, who may Not kneel, who can but seek -- I see mine own face over me, With tears upon its cheek.

II

If my dark grandam had but known, Or yet my wild grandsir, Or the lord that lured the maid away That was my sad mother,

O had they known, O had they dreamed What gift it was they gave, Would they have stayed their wild, wild love, Nor made my years their slave?

Must they have stopped their hungry lips From love at thought of me?

O life, O life, how may we learn Thy strangest mystery?

Nay, they knew not, as we scarce know; Their souls, O let them rest; My life is pupil unto pain -- With him I make my quest.

III

My little soul I never saw, Nor can I count its days; I do not know its wondrous law And yet I know its ways.