THE HELPING HAND
Mother, my head is bloody, my breast is red with scars.
Well, foolish son, I told you so, why went you to the wars?
Mother, my soul is crucified, my thirst is past belief.
How are you crucified, my son, betwixt a thief and thief?
Mother, I feel the terror and the loveliness of life.
Tell me of the children, son, and tell me of the wife.
Mother, your face is but a face among a million more.
You're standing on the deck, my son, and looking at the shore.
I lean against the wall, mother, and struggle hard for breath.
You must have heard the step, my son, of the patrolman Death.
Mother, my soul is weary, where is the way to God?
Well, kiss the crucifix, my son, and pass beneath the rod.
THE DOOR
This is the room that thou wast ushered in.
Wouldst thou, perchance, a larger freedom win?
Wouldst thou escape for deeper or no breath?
There is no door but death.
Do shadows crouch within the mocking light?
Stand thou! but if thy terrored heart takes flight
Facing maimed Hope and wide-eyed Nevermore,
There is no less one door.
Dost thou bewail love's end and friendship's doom,
The dying fire, drained cup, and gathering gloom?
Explore the walls, if thy soul ventureth—
There is no door but death.
There is no window. Heaven hangs aloof
Above the rents within the stairless roof.
Hence, soul, be brave across the ruined floor—
Who knocks? Unbolt the door!