Excerpt
SPRING To what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?Not only under ground are the brains of menEaten by maggots,Life in itselfIs nothing,An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,AprilComes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. CITY TREES The trees along this city street,Save for the traffic and the trains,Would make a sound as thin and sweetAs trees in country lanes.And people standing in their shadeOut of a shower, undoubtedlyWould hear such music as is madeUpon a country tree.Oh, little leaves that are so dumbAgainst the shrieking city air,I watch you when the wind has come,—I know what sound is there. THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG God had called us, and we came;Our loved Earth to ashes left;Heaven was a neighbor's house,Open to us, bereft.Gay the lights of Heaven showed,And 'twas God who walked ahead;Yet I wept along the road,Wanting my own house instead.Wept unseen, unheeded cried,"All you things my eyes have kissed,Fare you well! We meet no more,Lovely, lovely tattered mist!Weary wings that rise and fallAll day long above the fire!"—Red with heat was every wall,Rough with heat was every wire—"Fare you well, you little windsThat the flying embers chase!Fare you well, you shuddering day,With your hands before your face!And, ah, blackened by strange blight,Or to a false sun unfurled,Now forevermore goodbye,All the gardens in the world!On the windless hills of Heaven,That I have no wish to see,White, eternal lilies stand,By a lake of ebony.But the Earth forevermoreIs a place where nothing grows,—Dawn will come, and no bud break;Evening, and no blossom close.Spring will come, and wander slowOver an indifferent land,Stand beside an empty creek,Hold a dead seed in her hand."God had called us, and we came,But the blessed road I trodWas a bitter road to me,And at heart I questioned God."Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the heart would most desire,Held Earth naught save souls of sinnersWorth the saving from a fire?Withered grass,—the wasted growing!Aimless ache of laden boughs!"Little things God had forgottenCalled me, from my burning house."Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the eye could ask to see,All the things I ever knewAre this blaze in back of me.""Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the ear could think to lack,All the things I ever knewAre this roaring at my back."It was God who walked ahead,Like a shepherd to the fold;In his footsteps fared the weak,And the weary and the old,Glad enough of gladness over,Ready for the peace to be,—But a thing God had forgottenWas the growing bones of me....