How slight the action! Just one well-aimed blow
Here, where I feel thy warm heart’s pulsing beat,
And then another through my own, and so
Our perfect union would be made complete:
So, past all parting, I should claim thee mine.
Dead with our youth, and faith, and love divine,
Should we not keep the best of life that way?
What shall we gain by living day on day?
What shall we gain,
Sweetheart, but bitter pain?
TO THE WEST
[In an interview with Lawrence Barrett, he said: “The literature of the New World must look to the West for its poetry.”]
Not to the crowded East,
Where, in a well-worn groove,
Like the harnessed wheel of a great machine,
The trammelled mind must move—
Where Thought must follow the fashion of Thought,
Or be counted vulgar and set at naught.
Not to the languid South,
Where the mariners of the brain
Are lured by the Sirens of the Sense,
And wrecked upon its main—
Where Thought is rocked, on the sweet wind’s breath
To a torpid sleep that ends in death.
But to the mighty West,
That chosen realm of God,
Where Nature reaches her hands to men,
And Freedom walks abroad—
Where mind is King, and fashion is naught,
There shall the New World look for thought
To the West, the beautiful West,
She shall look, and not in vain—
For out of its broad and boundless store
Come muscle, and nerve, and brain.
Let the bards of the East and the South be dumb—
For out of the West shall the Poets come.
They shall come with souls as great
As the cradle where they were rocked;
They shall come with brows that are touched with fire
Like the gods with whom they have walked;
They shall come from the West in royal state,
The Singers and Thinkers for whom we wait.
THE LAND OF CONTENT
I set out for the Land of Content,
By the gay crowded pleasure-highway,
With laughter, and jesting, I went
With the mirth-loving throng for a day;
Then I knew I had wandered astray,
For I met returned pilgrims, belated,
Who said, “We are weary and sated,
But we found not the Land of Content.”