Dreams in War Time

Amy Lowell

I wandered through a house of many rooms.

It grew darker and darker,

Until, at last, I could only find my way

By passing my fingers along the wall.

Suddenly my hand shot through an open window,

And the thorn of a rose I could not see

Pricked it so sharply

That I cried aloud.

I dug a grave under an oak-tree.

With infinite care, I stamped my spade

Into the heavy grass.

The sod sucked it,

And I drew it out with effort,

Watching the steel run liquid in the moonlight

As it came clear.

I stooped, and dug, and never turned,

For behind me,

On the dried leaves,

My own face lay like a white pebble,

Waiting.

III

I gambled with a silver money.

The dried seed-vessels of “honesty”

Were stacked in front of me.

Dry, white years slipping through my fingers

One by one.

One by one, gathered by the Croupier.

“Faites vos jeux, Messieurs.”

I staked on the red,

And the black won.

Dry years,

Dead years;

But I had a system,

I always staked on the red.

I painted the leaves of bushes red

And shouted: “Fire! fire!”

But the neighbors only laughed.

“We cannot warm our hands at them,” they said.

Then they cut down my bushes,

And made a bonfire,

And danced about it.

But I covered my face and wept,

For ashes are not beautiful

Even in the dawn.

I followed a procession of singing girls

Who danced to the glitter of tambourines.

Where the street turned at a lighted corner,

I caught the purple dress of one of the dancers,

But, as I grasped it, it tore,

And the purple dye ran from it

Like blood

Upon the ground.

I wished to post a letter,

But although I paid much,

Still the letter was overweight.

“What is in this package?” said the clerk,

“It is very heavy.”

“Yes,” I said,

“And yet it is only a dried fruit.”

VII

I had made a kite,

On it I had pasted golden stars

And white torches,

And the tail was spotted scarlet like a tiger-lily,

And very long.

I flew my kite,

And my soul was contented

Watching it flash against the concave of the sky.

My friends pointed at the clouds;

They begged me to take in my kite.

But I was happy

Seeing the mirror shock of it

Against the black clouds.

Then the lightning came

And struck the kite.

It puffed—blazed—fell.

But still I walked on,

In the drowning rain,

Slowly winding up the string.

588

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The Two Hermits by Kahlil Gibran

Upon a lonely mountain, there lived two hermits who worshipped God
and loved one another.

Now these two hermits had one earthen bowl, and this was their only
possession.

One day an evil spirit entered into the heart of the older hermit
and he came to the younger and said, “It is long that we have
lived together. The time has come for us to part. Let us divide
our possessions.”

Then the younger hermit was saddened and he said, “It grieves
me, Brother, that thou shouldst leave me. But if thou must needs
go, so be it,” and he brought the earthen bowl and gave it to him
saying, “We cannot divide it, Brother, let it be thine.”

Then the older hermit said, “Charity I will not accept. I will
take nothing but mine own. It must be divided.”

And the younger one said, “If the bowl be broken, of what use would
it be to thee or to me? If it be thy pleasure let us rather cast
a lot.”

But the older hermit said again, “I will have but justice and mine
own, and I will not trust justice and mine own to vain chance. The
bowl must be divided.”

Then the younger hermit could reason no further and he said, “If
it be indeed thy will, and if even so thou wouldst have it let us
now break the bowl.”

But the face of the older hermit grew exceedingly dark, and he
cried, “O thou cursed coward, thou wouldst not fight.”