But those in the by-paths of vagrancy, star-gazers, they,
Ragged and feckless and young, with no thought but their singing,
Derisive of gain, and light as the bird in its winging,
Stopping to kiss or to frolic, the simple and gay,
God’s fools,—the belovèd of God who made them and the wind,
Gipsies and wastrels of life, the heedless of warning,
Chasing the butterfly now on the breeze of the morning,
Laugh at the passing procession that leaves them behind.
DISSONANCE
CLAMOUR has riven us, clamour and din.
My hand reaches blindly out for your hand, but within
My mind cannot reach to your mind, because of the clamour and din.
Clang as of brass, an uproar that will not cease.
I would take from the strangest god or devil the gift of peace.
If the strife that divides us were suddenly stilled and would cease
I could come to you, come under washed void skies,
My thought in your thought embraced, my eyes and your eyes
Levelly meeting without the quick faltering of disguise.
But all is a harshness and rack where in vain
We strive through the grossness of flesh to discover our souls again,
And the closer we clasp one another, the further apart remain.