[THE SENTINEL]
EACH flower is a sentinel of God,
And ev'ry tree and ev'ry grassblade. Not
An unseen little stem, but that will stand
And wait and shine, and never ask wherefore
It came and why it has to wither. Thou
Art such a sentinel, O Heart! Thou hast
To stand and bloom and love beside the others,
And wither when thy work is done, the spot
Being given to another, whereupon
Thou standest. And that other heart is growing
And blooming into life beneath thy shade,
As strong as thine, as ruby-red as thine,
To wither and to fall beneath the scythe,
As thine has done. Why ask and why despair?
Why not be happy with the sun, the dew,
The other flowery hearts that, full of life
Unfold their petals, which are deep like thine,
And rich as thine? Ye are to be a glorious
And many-coloured meadow. Is it not
Enough? And must ye grumble? Must ye strive
To take away the light and dew, that fall
Not to your share? Behold the scythe! And sow
Thy seed and ask not where it falls. The wind
Of fate has carried it away, to place
Another sentinel, as unknown, as
Unsought for as thyself, in a far land,
To live when thou art gone, to bloom into
Some unexpected beauty with thy strength,
Thy blood, the thoughts that were companions once
To thee and that the wind hath blown so far
Away. Thou shalt not say unto thy seed:
"Fly thither!" It obeyeth not thy will.
Thou shalt not long to be another plant;
Thy tragedy is useless, and thy will
Is nought. With all thy strength thou art but what
Is wanted—tree or grassblade—never ask
Wherefore? Here is no answer. Fate itself
Knows not wherefore it blows, or tells thee not,
But takes thy noblest self to other climes
And leaves thee to the scythe. Complain not! Mourn not!
Long not to live another day, when thou
Art called, but bow thy head without a sigh,
In gentle acquiescence, sentinel!
[LETHE]
WHEN dark thy childhood, tears and grief have filled
Thy swelling heart, that understood too much,
Yet not enough to be forgiving, when
The sun was pale, and darkness lonely, when
The fear of unknown evil made thy lips
Turn cold, and wonder changed to horror, then
To dumb despair, to childhood's hopelessness,
More hopeless than old age's iron clutch
Of unbelief, the shadow of the past
Will cast a pall o'er all thy life, then say:
Go down, Remembrance, into Lethe, go!
When work was hard and sacrifice in vain,
And stones were hurled at thee, thy flowers trodden
Into the soil, that, soaked with all thy blood,
Could not resist, and giving way would swallow
Thy noblest thoughts, and teach thee to undo
Thyself, gainsay thyself, as if a coward
Were crouching on thy shoulders, making thee
Believe that all thy heroism was
A sham—then say: Go down to Lethe, Thought,
And darken not the hour when I rise
Out of myself, out of the past, into
The open day of wide forgetfulness.
When shame has crept into the rocky strength,
Into the pure recess a spotless soul
Had lent thee, and with fiery coals has burnt
A mark no rivers wash away, no winds
Can cool, that sends a shudder through thy heart,
Like snakes of cold disgust, then say again:
Go down to Lethe, not to rise and sting.
But when those eyes, that were thy sun, are shut,
When blind with tears thy gaze hath yet behold
The angel wings that carried through unknown
Untold of space thy life, thy heart, thy hope—
No Lethe then! And no forgetfulness!
But open wide thy soul: It is the sun,
The sun that sends its beauteous rays into
The dark, into the cold, into the night
And terror of thy life. If grief hath ploughed
The soil, fear not! The corn is rising, young
And green and full of hope; the sun hath called;
The sun shines full into that heart that was
So torn, so weak, that could not lift itself
Unto the heavens. They are open now,
Flooded with light; take not thine eyes away,
Bend not thy look unto the earth again,
But rise on shining wings toward the rays
That draw thee, call thee, bear thee to the light!