In sodden trenches I have heard men speak, Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things; And loved them for the stubbornness that clings Longest to laughter when Death's pulleys creak;
And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet To do abominable things with grace, Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat.
Yet now those men lay stubborn courage by, Riding dull-eyed and silent in the train To old men's stools; or sell gay-coloured socks And listen fearfully for Death; so I Love the low-laughing girls, who now again
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees, And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,— In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
Teach me, old World, your passion of slow change, Your calm of stars, watching the turn of earth, Patient of man, and never thinking strange The mad red crash of each new system’s birth.
Teach me, for I would know your beauty’s way That waits and changes with each changing sun, No dawn so fair but promises a day Of other perfectness than men have won.
Teach me, old World, not as vain men have taught, —Unpatient song, nor words of hollow brass, Nor men’s dismay whose powerfullest thought Is woe that they and worlds alike must pass.
Here, where the noises of the busy town, The ocean's plunge and roar can enter not, We stand and gaze around with tearful awe, And muse upon the consecrated spot.
No signs of life are here: the very prayers Inscribed around are in a language dead; The light of the "perpetual lamp" is spent That an undying radiance was to shed.
What prayers were in this temple offered up, Wrung from sad hearts that knew no joy on earth, By these lone exiles of a thousand years, From the fair sunrise land that gave them birth!
After three months, Virginia is still a frontier. Late at night, I close the door on my husband practicing Mozart, the dishpan fills and the network affiliates sign off one by one. Now the country stations, tuning up like crickets on radios in scattered valley kitchens: Har yall this evenin folks! (Wanting to say ‘I’m real fine’ I whisper ‘Wow.’)
Presently at our touch the teacup stirred, Then circled lazily about From A to Z. The first voice heard (If they are voices, these mute spellers-out) Was that of an engineer
Originally from Cologne. Dead in his 22nd year Of cholera in Cairo, he had KNOWN
Love, what ailed thee to leave life that was made lovely, we thought, with love? What sweet visions of sleep lured thee away, down from the light above?
What strange faces of dreams, voices that called, hands that were raised to wave, Lured or led thee, alas, out of the sun, down to the sunless grave?
Ah, thy luminous eyes! once was their light fed with the fire of day; Now their shadowy lids cover them close, hush them and hide away.
Ah, thy snow-coloured hands! once were they chains, mighty to bind me fast; Now no blood in them burns, mindless of love, senseless of passion past.
Ah, thy beautiful hair! so was it once braided for me, for me; Now for death is it crowned, only for death, lover and lord of thee.
Abortions will not let you forget. You remember the children you got that you did not get, The damp small pulps with a little or with no hair, The singers and workers that never handled the air. You will never neglect or beat Them, or silence or buy with a sweet. You will never wind up the sucking-thumb Or scuttle off ghosts that come.
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