He cried, "That trickling down my spine Is anything but hyaline.

This day is like a thousand years: I'd give an age of sighs and tears

To see with his confectioned grin One cherub sitting on his chin.

That cripple was by far too sly-- I wish he'd tumble from the sky,

That things might be as they were before; I really cannot stand much more!"

The beggar in the angel's guise, Rose far above the smoky skies.

But being a beggar, never saw The charm of the compelling law

That turned the swinging universe: 'Twas gloomy as an empty purse.

Often with heaven in his head, He blundered on a planet dead.

And when with an immortal fuss, He singed his wings at Sirius.

He plucked the feather with his teeth, The charm was potent and beneath,

He saw the turmoil of the way Grown wilder at the close of day,

With the sad poodle, can in hand, The angel still at the old stand.

"My friend," said the angel, hemming and humming, "Truly I thought you were never coming."

"That's an unhandsome thing to say, Seeing I've only been gone a day.

But there's nothing in all your brazen sky To match the c.o.c.k of that poodle's eye.

Take your dish and give me my wings, 'Tis but a fair exchange of things."

The beggar felt his garment's rot, The horn ridge of each callous spot;

He clinked his can and was content; His poverty was permanent.

IMPROVISATION ON AN OLD SONG

(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in one of his letters)

I

Growing, growing, all the glory going; Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk, All the world's a-dying and failing in the dusk-- _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root, Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Plot, ye subtle statesmen,--a trace of melted wax; Bind, ye haughty prelates,--a thread of ravelled flax; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

March, ye mighty captains,--an eddy in the dust; Rave, ye furious lovers,--a stain of crimson rust; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Pictures, poems, music--their essential soul, Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth, Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith; _Growing, growing, all the glory going._

Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun, In a crushing silence the All is dead and done.

_Growing, growing, all the glory going._

II

Going, going, all the glory growing, See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark!

Singing in the caverns of the primal dark.

_Going, going, all the glory growing._

What is in the making, what immortal plan Draws to its unfolding? 'Tis the Soul of man.

_Going, going, all the glory growing._

See it mount and hover, singing as it goes, Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes, Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The supernal morning on its dewy wings, Soaring and scorning the l.u.s.t of earthy things; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

The beatific noontide on its eager breast Springing and singing to its halcyon rest; _Going, going, all the glory growing._

In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod, Winging still and singing to the heart of G.o.d.

_Going, going, all the glory growing._

O TURN ONCE MORE

O turn once more!

The meadows where we mused and strayed together Abound and glow yet with the ruby sorrel; 'Twas there the bluebirds fought and played together, Their quarrel was a flying bluebird-quarrel; Their nest is firm still in the burnished cherry, They will come back there some day and be merry; O turn once more.

O turn once more!

The spring we lingered at is ever steeping The long, cool gra.s.ses where the violets hide, Where you awoke the flower-heads from their sleeping And plucked them, proud in their inviolate pride; You left the roots, the roots will flower again, O turn once more and pluck the flower again; O turn once more.