_THE WANDERER_

Between the death of day and birth of night, By War's red light, I met with one in trailing sorrows clad, Whose features had The look of Him who died to set men right.

Around him many horrors, like great worms, Terrific forms, Crawled, helmed like hippogriff and rosmarine,-- Gaunt and obscene, Urged on to battle with a thousand arms.

Columns of steel, and iron belching flame, Before them came: And cities crumbled; and amid them trod Havoc, their G.o.d, With Desolation that no tongue may name.

And out of Heaven came a burning breath, And on it Death, Riding: before him, huge and bellowing herds Of beasts, like birds, Bat-winged and demon, nothing conquereth.

Hag-lights went by, and Fear that shrieks and dies; And mouths, with cries Of famine; and the madness of Despair; And everywhere Curses, like kings, with ever-burning eyes.

And, lo! the shadow shook and cried a name, That grew a flame Above the world, and said, "Give heed! give heed!

See how they bleed!

My wounds! my wounds!--Was it for this I came?

"Where is the love for which I shed my blood?

And where the good I preached and died for?--Lo! ye have denied And crucified Me here again, who swore me brotherhood!"

Then overhead the vault of night was rent: The firmament Winged thunder over of aerial craft; And Battle laughed t.i.tanic laughter as its way it went.

_THE END OF SUMMER_

The rose, that wrote its message on the noon's Bright ma.n.u.script, has turned her perfumed face Towards Fall, and waits, heart-heavy, for the moon's Pale flower to take her place.

With eyes distraught, and dark disheveled hair, The Season dons a tattered cloak of storm And waits with Night that, darkly, seems to share Her trouble and alarm.

It is the close of summer. In the sky The sunset lit a fire of drift and sat Watching the last Day, robed in empire, die Upon the burning ghat.

The first leaf crimsons and the last rose falls, And Night goes stalking on, her cloak of rain Dripping, and followed through her haunted halls By ail Death's phantom train.

The sorrow of the Earth and all that dies, And all that suffers, in her breast she bears; Outside the House of Life she stops and cries The burden of her cares.

Then on the window knocks with crooked hands, Her tree-like arms to Heaven wildly-hurled: Love hears her crying, "Who then understands?-- Has G.o.d forgot the world?"

_THE l.u.s.t OF THE WORLD_

Since Man first lifted up his eyes to hers And saw her vampire beauty, which is l.u.s.t, All else is dust Within the compa.s.s of the universe.

With heart of Jael and with face of Ruth She sits upon the tomb of Time and quaffs Heart's blood and laughs At all Life calls most n.o.ble and the truth.

The fire of conquest and the wine of dreams Are in her veins; and in her eyes the lure Of things unsure, Urging the world forever to extremes.

Without her, Life would stagnate in a while.-- Her touch it is puts pleasure even in pain.-- So Life attain Her end, she cares not if the means be vile.

She knows no pity, mercy, or remorse.-- Hers is to build and then exterminate: To slay, create, And twixt the two maintain an equal course.

_CHANT BEFORE BATTLE_

Ever since man was man a Fiend has stood Outside his House of Good,-- War, with his terrible toys, that win men's hearts To follow murderous arts.

His spurs, death-won, are but of little use, Except as old refuse Of Life; to hang and testify with rust Of deeds, long one with dust.

A rotting fungus on a log, a tree, A toiling worm, or bee, Serves G.o.d's high purpose here on Earth to build More than War's maimed and killed.

The Hebetude of a.s.ses, following still Some Emperor's will to kill, Is that of men who give their lives--for what?-- The privilege to be shot!

Grant men more vision, Lord! to read thy words, That are not guns and swords, But trees and flowers, lovely forms of Earth, And all fair things of worth.

So he may rise above the brute and snake, And of his reason make A world befitting, as thou hast designed, His greater soul and mind!

So he may rid himself of worm and beast, And sit with Love at feast, And make him worthy to be named thy son, As He, thy Holy One! Amen.

_NEARING CHRISTMAS_

The season of the rose and peace is past: It could not last.

There's heartbreak in the hills and stormy sighs Of sorrow in the rain-lashed plains and skies, While Earth regards, aghast, The last red leaf that flies.

The world is cringing in the darkness where War left his lair, And everything takes on a lupine look, Baring gaunt teeth at every peaceful nook, And shaking torrent hair At every little brook.

Cancers of ulcerous flame his eyes, and--hark!

There in the dark The ponderous stir of metal, iron feet; And with it, heard around the world, the beat Of Battle; sounds that mark His heart's advance, retreat.

With shrapnel pipes he goes his monstrous ways; And, screeching, plays The h.e.l.l-born music Havoc dances to; And, following with his skeleton-headed crew Of ravening Nights and Days, Horror invades the blue.

Against the Heaven he lifts a mailed fist And writes a list Of beautiful cities on the ghastly sky: And underneath them, with no reason why, In blood and tears and mist, The postscript, "These must die!"

Change is the portion and chief heritage Of every Age.

The spirit of G.o.d still waits its time.--And War May blur His message for a while, and mar The writing on His page, To this our sorrowful star.

But there above the conflict, orbed in rays, Is drawn the face Of Peace; at last who comes into her own; Peace, from whose tomb the world shall roll the stone, And give her highest place In the human heart alone.