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Done are the toils and the wearisome marches,
    Done is the summons of bugle and drum.
Softly and sweetly the sky overarches,
    Shelt’ring a land where Rebellion is dumb.
Dark were the days of the country’s derangement,
    Sad were the hours when the conflict was on,
But through the gloom of fraternal estrangement
    God sent his light, and we welcome the dawn.
O’er the expanse of our mighty dominions,
    Sweeping away to the uttermost parts,
Peace, the wide-flying, on untiring pinions,
    Bringeth her message of joy to our hearts.

Ah, but this joy which our minds cannot measure,
    What did it cost for our fathers to gain!
Bought at the price of the heart’s dearest treasure,
    Born out of travail and sorrow and pain;
Born in the battle where fleet Death was flying,
    Slaying with sabre-stroke bloody and fell;
Born where the heroes and martyrs were dying,
    Torn by the fury of bullet and shell.
Ah, but the day is past: silent the rattle,
    And the confusion that followed the fight.
Peace to the heroes who died in the battle,
    Martyrs to truth and the crowning of Right!

Out of the blood of a conflict fraternal,
    Out of the dust and the dimness of death,
Burst into blossoms of glory eternal
    Flowers that sweeten the world with their breath.
Flowers of charity, peace, and devotion
    Bloom in the hearts that are empty of strife;
Love that is boundless and broad as the ocean
    Leaps into beauty and fullness of life.
So, with the singing of paeans and chorals,
    And with the flag flashing high in the sun,
Place on the graves of our heroes the laurels
    Which their unfaltering valor has won!

She could have loved—her woman-passions beat

    Deeper than theirs, or else she had not known

How to have dropped her heart beneath their feet

    A living stepping-stone:

The little hands—did they not clutch her heart?

    The guarding arms—was she not very tired?

Was it an easy thing to walk apart,

    Unresting, undesired?

She gave away her crown of woman-praise,

    Her gentleness and silent girlhood grace,

To be a merriment for idle days,

    Scorn for the market-place:

She strove for an unvisioned, far-off good,

    For one far hope she knew she could not see:

These—not her daughters—crowned with motherhood

    And love and beauty—free.

We say he is dead; ah, the word is too 
      somber; 
’Tis the touch of God, on the weary 
      eyes,
That has caused them to close, in peace-
      ful slumber, 
   To open with joy, in the upper skies. 

We say he is gone; we have lost him for- 
      ever; 
His face and his form we will cherish no 
      more; 
While happy and safe, just over the river, 
   He is waiting for us, where partings 
      are o’er. 

Ah, sad are our hearts, as we gaze on
      him sleeping,
And bitter and sad are the tears gush-
      ing down; 
And yet,— but we cannot see, for the 
      weeping,—
   He has only exchanged the cross, for 
      the crown.

And though the dark mists of grief may 
      surround us, 
   Obscuring the face of the Father above, 
And blindly we grope, still His arms are 
      around us, 
   To guide and sustain with His pitying 
      love. 

And he whom we love, is safe in His 
      keeping, 
   Yes, safe and secure, whatever may 
      come; 
But ne’er will we know how sweetly he’s 
      sleeping. 
   Till God, in His mercy, shall gather us 
      home.

The moon has left the sky, love,
    The stars are hiding now,
And frowning on the world, love,
    Night bares her sable brow.
The snow is on the ground, love,
    And cold and keen the air is.
I’m singing here to you, love;
    You’re dreaming there in Paris.

But this is Nature’s law, love,
    Though just it may not seem,
That men should wake to sing, love;
    While maidens sleep and dream.
Them care may not molest, love,
    Nor stir them from their slumbers,
Though midnight find the swain, love.
    Still halting o’er his numbers.

I watch the rosy dawn, love,
    Come stealing up the east,
While all things round rejoice, love,
    That Night her reign has ceased.
The lark will soon be heard, love,
    And on his way be winging;
When Nature’s poets wake, love,
    Why should a man be singing?

       Rosh-Hashanah, 5643

Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled,
And naked branches point to frozen skies.—
When orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold,
The grape glows like a jewel, and the corn
A sea of beauty and abundance lies,
Then the new year is born.

Look where the mother of the months uplifts
In the green clearness of the unsunned West,
Her ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts,
Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light;
Tired labor with fruition, joy and rest
Profusely to requite.

Blow, Israel, the sacred cornet! Call
Back to thy courts whatever faint heart throb
With thine ancestral blood, thy need craves all.
The red, dark year is dead, the year just born
Leads on from anguish wrought by priest and mob,
To what undreamed-of morn?

For never yet, since on the holy height,
The Temple’s marble walls of white and green
Carved like the sea-waves, fell, and the world’s light
Went out in darkness,—never was the year
Greater with portent and with promise seen,
Than this eve now and here.

Even as the Prophet promised, so your tent
Hath been enlarged unto earth’s farthest rim.
To snow-capped Sierras from vast steppes ye went,
Through fire and blood and tempest-tossing wave,
For freedom to proclaim and worship Him,
Mighty to slay and save.

High above flood and fire ye held the scroll,
Out of the depths ye published still the Word.
No bodily pang had power to swerve your soul:
Ye, in a cynic age of crumbling faiths,
Lived to bear witness to the living Lord,
Or died a thousand deaths.

In two divided streams the exiles part,
One rolling homeward to its ancient source,
One rushing sunward with fresh will, new heart.
By each the truth is spread, the law unfurled,
Each separate soul contains the nation’s force,
And both embrace the world.

Kindle the silver candle’s seven rays,
Offer the first fruits of the clustered bowers,
The garnered spoil of bees. With prayer and praise
Rejoice that once more tried, once more we prove
How strength of supreme suffering still is ours
For Truth and Law and Love.

I make truce with you, Walt Whitman—
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root—
Let there be commerce between us.

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.

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?

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.

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!