Once beauty was bread unto me.
But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.
God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.
Did God give me love?
What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?
What leaf?
In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?
Oh, now, what are roses to me,
Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?
Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?
What petals blow on this journey I go?
III
Dear, my Unknown,
Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,
Once bread unto me;
Rain them on pulses that beat,
Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;
Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;
Feed them, I pray you,—
Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,—
To men who still hunger for bread!
OBSCURITY
I
Someday I shall be a leaf
A shining green leaf, fan-folded,
One of many opening in a sunlit wind;
Or I shall be a bit of bark,
Say on the Poverty Birch—
Since I am obscure and poor and short of life
And my work of no account to commerce—,
And I shall flutter there in the wind,
My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin
And cross-hatched with lines of color;
Or—but I do not know what I shall be
And it does not matter.
God has made so much that alters beautiful:
The jigging shadows of trees
Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change;
The wind that tramps eternity;
The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;
Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam
And tosses into space the spinning stars.
II
I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad
Remembering their soft dress in spring?
Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?
And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?
I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,—
They sound so strong for any wind.
But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed
And I am awkward and ill at ease—
Clothes have a way of telling stories
Even as the bark of trees will tell
Which way the storm winds blow—
I remember when I was young
And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,
My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves
And there were more than I needed;
And my hair was soft and thick,
With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;
And my body was lithe and vigorous;
When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,
The least clearing wind set me free again
And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves
Shaking the sunlight into dance.