THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK[82]
[From McClure's Magazine (September, 1909)]
Lord of all strength—behold, I am but frail!
Lord of all harvest—few the grapes and pale
Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord,
Who holdest in Thy gift the tempered sword,
Hast armed me with a sapling! Lest I die,
Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry:
Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one
Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun;
Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed
Let me lift up my sapling like a blade;
Then, Lord, Thy cup for mine abundant wine!
Then, Lord, Thy foeman for that steel of mine!
NOT THIS WORLD[83]
[From McClure's Magazine (November, 1909)]
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well,
If for naught else, for many a miracle
Of spring, and burning rose, and virgin snow?—
Nay, by the spring that still shall come and go
When thou art dust, by roses that shall blow
Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss,
Not this world, oh, not this!
Shall I not give this world my heart, who find
Within this world the glories of the mind—
That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God?—
Nay, by the little footways it hath trod,
And smiles to see, when thou art under sod,
And by its very gaze across the abyss,
Not this world, oh, not this!
Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold
One figure here above myself, my gold,
My life and hope, my joy and my intent?—
Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent,
That fragile garment that shall soon be rent,
By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss,
Not this world, oh, not this!
Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain?
Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain,
And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot?
Thou child and thankless! On this little spot
Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not;
Yea, shall forget, through many a world of bliss,
Not this world, oh, not this!
WHISTLER (AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM)[84]