No More Learning

"Streets I see," I said, "and squalid alleys Where one lamp flares foully in the night,
Darkened windows full of empty faces — The sad jest and tragedy of man! "
"This," he cried aloud, "this, too, is holy— O dear beauty in what beggar's guise
You may hide your splendor, yet I know you; Though the ears be deaf, the eyes be blind,
"Glorious are all things, and forever Beautiful and holy is the real! "
Now I could not answer him, most strangely Touched me those old words I knew so well.
And I felt the night between us deepen,
Heard the clock that ticked upon the shelf,
The great silence closing in around us,
And his hand that he withdrew from mine.
Suddenly he struggled upward laughing,
Tears of joy were streaming down his face:
In my breast the pang of some departure Seized me, and I wept, I know not why.
19
From a gully of the jaded city
Drunken laughter filtered through the night
Where I knelt, and toward the open window Reached my hands before me as in prayer.
"Yes" I whispered "this, too, holy, Even this holy and divine,
Though to poets known and lovers only
The dear face that looks from meanest things
"And the majesty that moves about us,
The bright splendor what common guise.
O dear beauty, though forever banished, Your lost angel by the outer gate,
"Though no more see, no more may sound The lost truth that was my very soul,
Let me, baffled still yet still believing, In the darkness loyal to the light,
"Deep within this exiled bosom bear Silent, the great faith forevermore:
Beautiful are all things, and forever Holy, holy, holy the real! "
From the proud, pale east the patient morning Glimmered sadly on million rooves.
'Round me the old sorrow was awaking, And the breaking of some mighty heart.
On his breast his hands in peace folded Decently, and closed the staring eyes. —
He and had known such days together And loved him better than myself.
FACES
By Mary Morris Duane
Faces passing
Beautiful, plain,
Brutal, sweet—
Faces by the thousands,
Day after day they pass me,
Shades in world of shadows;
Only the face see with the inner vision Passes me never.
a I
I
a in
is
it,
II
is
I is it
it,
ONCE
By Mary Morris Duane
Once to lay my head on your heart again, Once to hear you say you are brave, dear heart! Once to know the fight had not been in vain, And in life dead hope would arise and start—
Start and bring visions of thy lost face
Bring ecstasies we alone could share;
But the leaves are falling on that still place, And on my heart falls the old despair.
THE SONG OF THE AIRMAN By Phoebe Hoffman
In the moonless night when the searchlight goes sneaking over the sky, I rise with a whirr of engines from the foam-tracked gloom of the sea, And shoot alone through the midnight where each star seems an Argos eye, To fence with Death in the darkness where the swift Valkyrie fly.
There are howling shells below me, and my bursting bombs reply. And the still Valkyrie hover panting for hallowed souls.
I soar up into the coldness as the air-hounds wheel on high,
And slip away in the dimness as they hunt where I circled by.
I am coming, Valkyr, I am coming, where the channel fog-banks lie;
I can see your signals blinking through the mist of their changing smoke; When I rush with the speed of a whirlwind I feel you are riding nigh;
I am counting the days, beloved, the days that I live to die.
When my wounded engines shall plunge me through the vacant depth of the sky,
And my body goes falling, falling, to my lonely mother, the sea,
You will watch for my joyous signal and swoop in swift reply,
And snatch me against your breastplate where my waking soul shall lie!
21
TO A NEW PASSION By William Laird
O newcome Passion, furious charioteer,
With whip, reins, voice ruling the steeds diverse
That whirl along my life, what height or gulf
Gave birth to thee, what Might poured forth thy strength?
Headlong into the mist we ride, our course Not unattended: all-but-voiceless shades, Wind-swift, accompany —wan Memories; Eyes from the black that pity me; pale lips Ill-boding at my ear; and feeble ghosts
Of dead and gone Desires: thou heedest none. Alas! those less imperious voices, hands
Not half so cruel as thine, those earthlier forms! Erst in thy place, now perished, some by shame, And more by time, and one by Death himself.
Master, must thou too die, thou beautiful
As Lucifer unstained, fearless as Michael helmed
For war? Must thou too fall, surrendering me
To flat, dull, ever-slackening courses to
A dusty grave? Nay, rather shalt thou die
Only with me; one bolt will do for both:
Or, if the gold of solemn dreams stand proof,
Thou shalt be heard through sounding streets of Heaven In new-taught words, at one with utter joy:
Or otherwhere, unconquered still, thy voice
A little shall make faint the din of Hell.
O newborn Passion, glorious charioteer,
Goading, restraining, swerving these the steeds That draw my life, what founts of. deathless flame Gave thee thine aureole, what Lord thy strength?