Sure if it's done forever, better for me that's wise, Never the hurt, and never tears in my aching eyes, No more the trouble ever to hide from my asking folk Beat of my heart at click o' the latch, and throb if his name is spoke; Never the need to hide the sighs and the flushing thoughts and the fret, And after awhile my heart will hush and my hungering hands forget . . .

Peace on my ways, and peace in my step, and maybe my heart grown light -- (~Mary, helper of heartbreak, send him to me to-night!~)

Nirvana. [John Hall Wheelock]

Sleep on -- I lie at heaven's high oriels, Over the stars that murmur as they go Lighting your lattice-window far below; And every star some of the glory spells Whereof I know.

I have forgotten you, long long ago; Like the sweet, silver singing of thin bells Vanished, or music fading faint and low.

Sleep on -- I lie at heaven's high oriels, Who loved you so.

A Nun. [Odell Shepard]

One glance and I had lost her in the riot Of tangled cries.

She trod the clamor with a cloistral quiet Deep in her eyes As though she heard the muted music only That silence makes Among dim mountain summits and on lonely Deserted lakes.

There is some broken song her heart remembers From long ago, Some love lies buried deep, some pa.s.sion's embers Smothered in snow, Far voices of a joy that sought and missed her Fail now, and cease . . .

And this has given the deep eyes of G.o.d's sister Their dreadful peace.

Silence. [Edgar Lee Masters]

I have known the silence of the stars and of the sea, And the silence of the city when it pauses, And the silence of a man and a maid, And the silence of the sick When their eyes roam about the room.

And I ask: For the depths, Of what use is language?

A beast of the field moans a few times When death takes its young.

And we are voiceless in the presence of realities -- We cannot speak.

A curious boy asks an old soldier Sitting in front of the grocery store, "How did you lose your leg?"

And the old soldier is struck with silence, Or his mind flies away Because he cannot concentrate it on Gettysburg.

It comes back jocosely And he says, "A bear bit it off."

And the boy wonders, while the old soldier Dumbly, feebly lives over The flashes of guns, the thunder of cannon, The shrieks of the slain, And himself lying on the ground, And the hospital surgeons, the knives, And the long days in bed.

But if he could describe it all He would be an artist.

But if he were an artist there would be deeper wounds Which he could not describe.

There is the silence of a great hatred, And the silence of a great love, And the silence of an embittered friendship.

There is the silence of a spiritual crisis, Through which your soul, exquisitely tortured, Comes with visions not to be uttered Into a realm of higher life.

There is the silence of defeat.

There is the silence of those unjustly punished; And the silence of the dying whose hand Suddenly grips yours.

There is the silence between father and son, When the father cannot explain his life, Even though he be misunderstood for it.

There is the silence that comes between husband and wife.

There is the silence of those who have failed; And the vast silence that covers Broken nations and vanquished leaders.

There is the silence of Lincoln, Thinking of the poverty of his youth.

And the silence of Napoleon After Waterloo.

And the silence of Jeanne d'Arc Saying amid the flames, "Blessed Jesus" -- Revealing in two words all sorrows, all hope.

And there is the silence of age, Too full of wisdom for the tongue to utter it In words intelligible to those who have not lived The great range of life.

And there is the silence of the dead.

If we who are in life cannot speak Of profound experiences, Why do you marvel that the dead Do not tell you of death?

Their silence shall be interpreted As we approach them.

The Dark Cavalier. [Margaret Widdemer]

I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover: My arms shall welcome you when other arms are tired; I stand to wait for you, patient in the darkness, Offering forgetfulness of all that you desired.

I ask no merriment, no pretense of gladness, I can love heavy lids and lips without their rose; Though you are sorrowful you will not weary me; I will not go from you when all the tired world goes.

I am the Dark Cavalier; I am the Last Lover; I promise faithfulness no other lips may keep; Safe in my bridal place, comforted by darkness, You shall lie happily, smiling in your sleep.

Indian Summer. [William Ellery Leonard]

(After completing a book for one now dead)

(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done.~) In the brown gra.s.ses slanting with the wind, Lone as a lad whose dog's no longer near, Lone as a mother whose only child has sinned, Lone on the loved hill . . . and below me here The thistle-down in tremulous atmosphere Along red cl.u.s.ters of the sumach streams; The shrivelled stalks of golden-rod are sere, And crisp and white their flashing old racemes.

(. . . forever . . . forever . . . . forever . . .) This is the lonely season of the year, This is the season of our lonely dreams.

(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!~) The corn-shocks westward on the stubble plain Show like an Indian village of dead days; The long smoke trails behind the crawling train, And floats atop the distant woods ablaze With orange, crimson, purple. The low haze Dims the scarped bluffs above the inland sea, Whose wide and slaty waters in cold glaze Await yon full-moon of the night-to-be, (. . . far . . . and far . . . and far . . .) These are the solemn horizons of man's ways, These are the horizons of solemn thought to me.

(~O Earth-and-Autumn of the Setting Sun, She is not by, to know my task is done!~) And this the hill she visited, as friend; And this the hill she lingered on, as bride -- Down in the yellow valley is the end: They laid her . . . in no evening autumn tide . . .

Under fresh flowers of that May morn, beside The queens and cave-women of ancient earth . . .

This is the hill . . . and over my city's towers, Across the world from sunset, yonder in air, Shines, through its scaffoldings, a civic dome Of piled masonry, which shall be ours To give, completed, to our children there . . .

And yonder far roof of my abandoned home Shall house new laughter . . . Yet I tried . . . I tried And, ever wistful of the doom to come, I built her many a fire for love . . . for mirth . . .

(When snows were falling on our oaks outside, Dear, many a winter fire upon the hearth) . . .

(. . . farewell . . . farewell . . . farewell . . .) We dare not think too long on those who died, While still so many yet must come to birth.