Poems – Page 15 – Poetry Out Loud

My Savior, let me hear Thy voice tonight,
   I’ll follow Thee, I’ll follow Thee;
The clouds that overhang my way, obscure
  the light,
   And all is dark to me.

I’d hear Thy voice above the tempest’s shriek;
I’ll follow Thee, I’ll follow Thee;
And though my sight be dim, my spirit weak,
I’ll trust, though naught I see.

I’d feel Thy arm, supporting in the dark;
   I’ll follow Thee, I’ll follow Thee;
For Thou canst fan to flame, faith’s sinking
  spark,
   And seal my loyalty.

I shall not sink, dear Lord, when Thou’rt my
   guide,
   I’ll follow Thee; I’ll follow Thee;
Though lashed by heavy waves, on ev’ry side,
   I’m safe, when Thou’rt with me.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
   He plants a friend of sun and sky;
He plants the flag of breezes free;
   The shaft of beauty, towering high;
   He plants a home to heaven anigh;
      For song and mother-croon of bird
      In hushed and happy twilight heard—
The treble of heaven’s harmony—
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
   He plants cool shade and tender rain,
And seed and bud of days to be,
   And years that fade and flush again;
      He plants the glory of the plain;
      He plants the forest’s heritage;
      The harvest of a coming age;
The joy that unborn eyes shall see—
These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?
   He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,
In love of home and loyalty
   And far-cast thought of civic good—
   His blessings on the neighborhood,
      Who in the hollow of His hand
      Holds all the growth of all our land—
A nation’s growth from sea to sea
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

Lur’d by some Captain’s smooth address,

His scarlet coat and roguish face,

One Half-A-Joe on drum-head laid,

A tavern-treat—and reckoning paid;

See yonder simple lad consign’d

To slavery of the basest kind.

With only skill to drive a plough

a musquet he must handle now;

Must twirl there and twirl it there

Now on the ground, no in the air:

Its every motion by some rule

Of practice, taught in Frederick’s school, *

Must be directed—nicely true—

Or he be beaten black—and blue.

A sergeant, rais’d from cleaning shoes

May now this country lad abuse:—

On meager fare grown poor and lean,

He treats him like a mere machine,

Directs his look, directs his step,

And kicks him into decent shape,

From aukward habit frees the clown,

Erects his head—or knocks him down,

Last Friday week to Battery-Green

The sergeant came with this Machine—

One motion of the firelock miss’d—

The Tutor thump’d him with his fist:

I saw him lift his hickory cane,

I heard poor Jeffery’s head complain!—

Yet this—and more—’s forc’d to bear;

And this goes on from year to year,

’Till desperate grown at such a lot,

He drinks—deserts—and so is shot!

^{°The Prussian manual exercise.}

^{(For Carl Van Vechten)}

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats;
There never was a spring like this;
It is an echo, that repeats
My last year’s song and next year’s bliss.
I know, in spite of all men say
Of Beauty, you have felt her most.
Yea, even in your grave her way
Is laid. Poor, troubled, lyric ghost,
Spring never was so fair and dear
As Beauty makes her seem this year.

I cannot hold my peace, John Keats,
I am as helpless in the toil
Of Spring as any lamb that bleats
To feel the solid earth recoil
Beneath his puny legs. Spring beats
Her tocsin call to those who love her,
And lo! the dogwood petals cover

Her breast with drifts of snow, and sleek
White gulls fly screaming to her, and hover
About her shoulders, and kiss her cheek,
While white and purple lilacs muster
A strength that bears them to a cluster
Of color and odor; for her sake
All things that slept are now awake.

And you and I, shall we lie still,
John Keats, while Beauty summons us?
Somehow I feel your sensitive will
Is pulsing up some tremulous
Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves
Grow music as they grow, since your
Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves
For life that opens death’s dark door.
Though dust, your fingers still can push
The Vision Splendid to a birth,
Though now they work as grass in the hush
Of the night on the broad sweet page of the earth.

“John Keats is dead,” they say, but I
Who hear your full insistent cry
In bud and blossom, leaf and tree,
Know John Keats still writes poetry.

And while my head is earthward bowed
To read new life sprung from your shroud,
Folks seeing me must think it strange
That merely spring should so derange
My mind. They do not know that you,
John Keats, keep revel with me, too.

^{*Spring, 1924}

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets
All up and down among the sheets;
Or brought my trees and houses out,
And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still
That sits upon the pillow-hill,
And sees before him, dale and plain,
The pleasant land of counterpane.

Ah broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!–a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
And, Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear?–weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read–the funeral song be sung!–
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young–
A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
“And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her–that she died!
“How shall the ritual, then, be read?–the requiem how be sung
“By you–by yours, the evil eye,–by yours, the slanderous tongue
“That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?”

Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride–
For her, the fair and debonair, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes–
The life still there, upon her hair–the death upon her eyes.

“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
“But waft the angel on her flight with a Pæan of old days!
“Let no bell toll!–lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
“Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the damnéd Earth.
“To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven–
“From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven–
“From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.”

Where have you been the long day through,

Little brothers of mine?

For soon the world shall belong to you,

Yours to mar or to build anew—

Have you been to learn what the world shall do,

Little brothers going home?

We have been to learn through the weary day

Where the great looms echo and crash and sway—

The world has willed it, and we obey,

Elder brother.

What did you learn till set of sun,

Little brothers of mine,

Down where the great looms wove and spun,

You who are many where we are one

(We whose day is so nearly done),

Little brothers toiling home?

We have learned the things that the mill-folk said,

How Man is cruel and God is dead…

And how to spin with an even thread,

Elder brother.

What did you win with the thing they taught,

Little brothers of mine,

You whose sons shall have strength you brought,

Fashion their lives of the faith you bought,

Follow afar the ways you sought,

Little brothers stealing home?

Shattered body and stunted brain,

Hearts made hard with the need of gain,

These we won and must give again,

Elder brother.

How shall the world fare in your hand,

Little brothers of mine,

When you shall stand where now we stand?

Will you lift a light in the darkened land

Or fire its ways with a burning brand,

Little brothers creeping home?

What of the way the world shall fare?

What the world has given the world must bear…

We are tired—ah, tired—and we cannot care,

Elder brother!

You were too kind to come at all.

The door closed on you, and my hall

Shivered in sudden naked shame.

I whispered it was not to blame

And followed you within, to where

You were awaited by my chair.

It was so small, and you sat down

With a so gracious smile—a frown

Would have gone better with that wall;

You were too kind to smile at all.

You stretched a hand toward the grate;

Its welcome was inadequate.

You looked about you and pretended

The carpet and the picture blended.

I looked—and all my furnishings

Had turned their heads: the sorry things!

You said you felt at home—a lie

My misery was finished by.

Even your guilelessness was gall.

You were too kind to come at all.

My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.

My mother’s life is puritan,
No hint of cavalier,
A pool so calm you’re sure it can
Have little depth to fear.

And yet my father’s eyes can boast
How full his life has been;
There haunts them yet the languid ghost
Of some still sacred sin.

And though my mother chants of God,
And of the mystic river,
I’ve seen a bit of checkered sod
Set all her flesh aquiver.

Why should he deem it pure mischance
A son of his is fain
To do a naked tribal dance
Each time he hears the rain?

Why should she think it devil’s art
That all my songs should be
Of love and lovers, broken heart,
And wild sweet agony?

Who plants a seed begets a bud,
Extract of that same root;
Why marvel at the hectic blood
That flushes this wild fruit?

Little scavenger away,

touch not the door,

beat not the portal down,

cross not the sill,

silent until

my song, bright and shrill,

breathes out its lay.

Little scavenger avaunt,

tempt me with jeer and taunt,

yet you will wait to-day;

for it were surely ill

to mock and shout and revel;

it were more fit to tell

with flutes and calathes,

your mother’s praise.