Margaret Steele Anderson
Dust on the page, from these forgetful years! I brush it off, to see the fading date Written in boyish hand; to find through tears
Ah, it was he I heard at early dawn, From the high hilltop and the dew-wet hollow, While I was yet as tender as a fawn.
(A painting by Whistler.) A thing of flesh and blood? Not so! Yet what you are I do not know.
The chime of silver bells; the sweet Wild rush of fairy wings and feet; The fluting birds of dawn; the small
From yonder hedge, from yonder spray, He calls me onward and away; Broad lies the world and fair to see,
Tainted with death? Ah then, the taint is sweet! As if God took the essences of life And burned them in a brazier at his feet,
Vision of light, above triumphal car Vision of guidance, star of ev'ry star And throned saint within the great white Rose,
Up to the little grave, with blossoms kept, They went together; and one hid her face, And spoke aloud the boy's dear name, and wept.
Wisdom am I when thou art but a fool; My part the man, when thou hast played the clod; Hast lost thy garden? When the eve is cool,
I thank thee, Life, that though I be This poor and broken thing to see, I still can look with pure delight
Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes How brood and burn the restless mysteries! Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
Roses about my way, and roses still! 0, I must pick and have my very fill! Red for my heart and white upon my hair
("Nor does being weary imply that there is any place to rest.") Yea, by your wants bestead, You come Myself to know;
So, then! Wilt use me as a garment? Well, 'Tis man's high impudence to think he may; But I, who am as old as heav'n and hell,
Child, lover, servant, master of Romance, To you she showed, not splendid of attire, With gaud and grace, but all to your desire
With the old gods thou walkest, 'mid the leaf And bloom of ancient morning and of light; Thou die'st with Christ, and with the nailed thief
At night it is not strange that thou art dead; I give thee to the stars, the moonlight snow; But ah, when desolate I lift my head,
The falling of a leaf upon thy way, The flutter of a bird along thy sky, Thou God, to whom the ages are a day,
Ah, love, why love you tears? What beauty in the rue? Do you not know the years
A wild spring upland all this charmed page, Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage, Mad, chaste, and lovely! This, a darker spot
(For a friend who mourns its passing.) He took the earth as earth had been his throne; And beauty as the red rose for his eye;
The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill; I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake; And roaming mournfully from hill to hill
Dawn, midnight, noonday? What are times to thee Man's Grief art thou, that moanest with the light, And starest dumb at evening, and at night
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow?
Fades the great pyramid, the blank walls fade! And thou, immortal boy, dost walk with me Along that grove from out whose deeper shade
Oh no, not this! This is a Roman face, Superb, composed, with such a matron grace As that of great Cornelia, never thee.
You eat the heart of life like some great beast, You blacken the sweet sky, that God made blue! You are the death's-head set amid the feast,
The bride, she wears a white, white rose, the plucking, it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath, and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you,
I am a virgin, whom no man hath known, And all desire to know. The figure I Of mortal dream and mortal prophecy.
The night would sadden us with wind and rain Let's to sweet Comedy and scorn the night! Let's read together: how, by silver light,
"0, was it on that awful road, The way of death, you came?" "It was a little road," he said,
(The Lord God speaks to a youth.) Bend now thy body to the common weight! (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn!
Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices, My Lord, my Lord! Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices,
("I believe ... in the resurrection of the body.") How young you are, for such lone majesty Of silence and repose!
Demeter? 'Tis a name! For in thy face A myriad women find their mourning-place! Thou, sitting lonely on the wayside stone,
O friendly, that I never knew for friend, O flame, that never warmed me from the cold, O light, that never beckoned to an end,
They sing the race, the song is wildly sweet; But thou, my harp, oh thou shalt sing the goal! The distant goal, that draws the bleeding feet
Dost thou burn low and tremble, all but die? And dost thou fear in darkness to be whirled? Nay, flame, thou art mine immortality,
When I see other women's sons at play, God, pity me, lest I should turn away In rage and grief, and should not dare to look
How splendid and how vain in thee The ancient quest, Italy! Too strange that wreath, too strangely worn,
You are the first wild violet of the year; Young grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day.
Light through a little veil is all thy trace Of halo, blessed Child! The sorrow of the world is in thy face,
Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine And in thy house he shall grow up. Nor know the lash of life, nor cup
This is your cup, the cup assigned to you From the beginning. Yea, my child, I know How much of that dark drink is your own, brew
When, wild and spent, I fly before Some steadfast Fate, serene, malign, Let me not think, Lord, I implore
The laurel withers on your brow, victor, weary of the race! And you, who sit in mighty place,
Lord of all strength, behold, I am but frail! Lord of all harvest, few the grapes and pale Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, Lord,
No child, no mortal child am I, No angel from the blue on high, And, though I gayly dance and shout,
Get you away! Is not the rose at flow'r? And list that song! The bird is in the sky! Ah, foolish one, I know your final hour,
(On a fragment by De Bussy.) Thy slender form I think I see On winter hills of Tuscany,
That haunting air had some far strain of it, That morning rose hath flung it back to met The wind of spring, the ancient, awful sea.
Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet November's leaves, or raving winds, that beat The heart's own doors, or rain's long ache and fret!
When on the spring's enchanting blue You trace your slender leaves and few, Then do I wish myself re-born
"Thou hast not lived! No aim of earth Thy body serves, nor home nor birth; No children's eyes look up to thee
But that one air for all that throng! And yet How wondrously the magic strain went through Those thousand hearts! I saw young eyes, that knew
Pass, pass, you fiery spirit! Never bland And halting never! Hosted round to-night, At the great wall, with spears of lifted light,
Stand up, you Strong! Touch glasses! To the Weak! The Weak who fight: or habit or disease, Birth, chance, or ignorance, or awful wreak
(News Item: "It remains true that two hundred English and American men were sacrificed for as many peasant women.") Once more I read, writ out in blood and tears, Across this midnight page of sea and sky,
Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill! Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn For our iniquity, that we have worn
(At the Exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum, March, 1910.) So sharp the sword, so airy the defence! As 'twere a play, or delicate pretence!
Mine is the shape forever set between The thought and form, the vision and the deed; The hidden light, the glory all unseen,
