No More Learning

Always He said: "It is a sin. "
At last, I cried out:
"But I have non other. "
He looked at me
With kinder eyes.
"Poor soul," he said.



Aye, workman, make me a dream,
A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight,
Breezes, and flowers.
Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
And--good workman--
And let there be a man walking thereon.



Each small gleam was a voice,
A lantern voice--
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills,
The blue night was elsewhere a silence,
When the chorus of colors came over the
water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers,
None can doubt the truth of hour hymning.
When the marvellous chorus comes over the
water,
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.



The trees in the garden rained flowers.
Children ran there joyously.
They gathered the flowers
Each to himself.
Now there were some
Who gathered great heaps--
Having opportunity and skill--
Until, behold, only chance blossoms
Remained for the feeble.
Then a little spindling tutor
Ran importantly to the father, crying:
"Pray, come hither!
"See this unjust thing in your garden! "
But when the father had surveyed,
He admonished the tutor:
"Not so, small sage!
"This thing is just.
"For, look you,
"Are not they who possess the flowers
"Stronger, bolder, shrewder
"Than they who have none?
"Why should the strong--
"The beautiful strong--
"Why should they not have the flowers?

Upon reflection, the tutor bowed to the
ground.
"My lord," he said,
"The stars are displaced
"By this towering wisdom. "




INTRIGUE

Thou art my love,
And thou art the peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe,
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks,
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a strorm
That breaks black in the sky,
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree,
And at the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl--
Woe is me!

Thou are my love,
And thou art a tinsel thing,
And I in my play
Broke thee easily,
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art a wary violet,
Drooping from sun-caresses,
Answering mine carelessly--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the ashes of other men's love,
And I bury my face in these ashes,
And I love them--
Woe is me.

Thou art my love,
And thou art the beard
On another man's face--
Woe is me.