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POEMS a song for souls UNDER FIRE To F. L. W.

Lo, that doves
Should soften
These surging streets/

I found him talking simply and gladly of God,
In the unmoved city of granite -
And noise.

Thought kindled in his cheek,
And his white faith
Was the tree in spring
To look upon.

He whispered me he knew the God of Daniel
In the lions' den;

The faith of Joan of Arc

On parapets.

He will walk, a spirit
Of unguessed power,
Into battle.

He will walk unreached
Into fire!



Oh, Grief is not so near to tears 2
As I ! /

Hurting me more than chord-pain—
The thought of you, /
Quiet, alone,
Lovely as a watered reed, f
Resting in the straightness -
Of your cool white bed.

For I, storm-shattered and sick,
Lie here flushed, hard-breathing. /

Oh, Grief is not so near to tears /
As Il g

throovestures o | Gatherer of shells, | Flower-hunter,

Breather of slight winds—
There is much to surprise me.

I bring you songs for flutes,
And odd-shaped leaves
And pointed vagaries.

These trinkets you may toy,
And twine into your moods—

But I cannot tell you of what they are made,
Or where I found them.

(Mellow *

These soft hours,

The color of blurred pebbles

And wan sand,

Are an old worn fringe

About the breasts

Of the mellow afternoon.

The lilac lake
Is a saucer—thin—
Burdened with faint blue rings.

The brown velvet dog
Is a curved attitude
Upon the lawn.

Jagged in the black tree-lines
The frayed sun languishes—
A pale pink poppy
Grown too large.

to witHout chAPERON “ To S. H’. Frail, The white moon leans To the green-edged hill.


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r 1-
I climbed up the rough mountain-side
Through the forest of dead trees.

I touched their smooth, stark limbs,
And learned much of the white beauty of death.

Whose taut, slender thigh was this?

And this, whose gracious throat?

O life, you are not more beautiful
Than this silent, curving death is beautiful!

And Eternity—
I think I heard it cry:
“Centre within centre,
Death or Life,
One am I.’”

* BENEDiction

Let no blasphemer till the sacred earth
Or scatter seed upon it,
Lest fruit should fail
And weed-scars sting its fineness.

Send him here who loves its beauty
And its brownness.

He will plow the earth
As a dancer dances—

Let no blasphemer till the sacred earth
Or scatter seed upon it.

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