IDENTITY

373

IDENTITY

AND can it be?

The heart that in the earth's far dawn knew God;
The thought that seized the circling of the stars;
The soul of fire that on that hill of Athens
Builded immortal beauty; the brain enorm
That peopled for all men and for all time
A world Shakespearian; and can it be? -
The mind imperial named Beethoven,
Majestically chanting harmonies

That hold the motions of the rhythmic worlds,
And to far doomsday stir all living hearts;
And he the framer of earth's mightiest dome,
Painter sublime and poet marvelous,

Who carved the likeness of his soul in stone,
And in cold marble the hot heart of man
Imprisoned eternally; and can it be? -
These, these and all the potencies of time
Which throbbed in human form; and can it be
That the intensive fire which made them men,

Not trees, nor creeping beasts, nor stones, nor stars,

And gave identity to every soul

Making it individual and alone

Among the myriads; and can it be

That, when the mortal framework failed, this fire,

Which flamed in separate and lonely life,

These souls, slipt out of being and were lost,

Eternally extinguished and cast out:

Only to some obscure electric wave

Giving new force, to some stray flower new grace,
Unto some lover's vow more ardency;

Making some island sunset more intense,

Passing from fiery thought to chemic heat

But all the universe empty of that one high
And exquisite accomplishment and power,
Forever and forever can it be?

"SPARE ME MY DREAMS”

I

RELENTLESS Time, that gives both harsh and kind,
Brave let me be

To take thy various gifts with equal mind,
And proud humility;

But, even by day, while the full sunlight streams,
Give me my dreams!

II

Whatever, Time, thou takest from my heart,
What from my life,

From what dear thing thou yet may'st make me part-
Plunge not too deep the knife;
As dies the day, and the long twilight gleams,
Spare me my dreams!

HYMN

(THANKSGIVING FOR SAINTS AND PROPHETS)

To Thee, Eternal Soul, be praise!
Who, from of old to our own days

Through souls of saints and prophets, Lord,
Hast sent Thy light, Thy love, Thy word.

We thank Thee for each mighty one
Through whom Thy living light hath shone;
And for each humble soul and sweet

That lights to heaven our wandering feet.

THE VALLEY OF LIFE

We thank Thee for the love divine
Made real in every saint of Thine;
That boundless love itself that gives
In service to each soul that lives.

We thank Thee for the word of might
The Spirit spake in darkest night;
Spake through the trumpet voices loud.
Of prophets at Thy throne who bowed.

Eternal Soul, our souls keep pure,
That like Thy saints we may endure;
Forever through Thy servants, Lord,

Send Thou Thy light, Thy love, Thy word.

THE VALLEY OF LIFE

375

WHEN I was a child joyfully I ran, hand claspt in hand, now with my mother, now with my father, or with younger, blithe companions, now in sunlight, now in shadow and dread, through the strange new Valley of Life.

Sometimes on the high-road, then over the fields and meadows, or through the solemn forests; sometimes along the happy brook-side, listening to its music or the clamor of the falls, as the pleasant waters hurried or grew still, in the winding way down the Valley of Life.

And as we moved along, hand claspt in hand, sometimes the hand-clasp was broken, and I, a happy child, ran swiftly aside from the path to gather flower or fruit or get sight of a singing bird; or to lean down and pluck a pearly stone from under the lapping waves; or climbed a tree and swayed, shouting, on its waving boughs - then returning to the clasp of loving hands, and so passing on and on down the opening Valley of Life.

In the bright morning I walked wondering; wondering I walked through the still twilight and many-colored sunset; watching the great stars gather, and lost in the mystery of worlds beyond number, and spaces beyond thought, till, side by side, we lay down to sleep under the stars in the Valley of Life and of Dreams.

Then there came a time when the hands that held me, - the loving hands that guided my steps and drew me gently on,- turned cold, and slipt from my grasp; I waited, but they came not back, and slowly and alone I plodded on down the Valley of Life and of Death.

"Where went they?" I asked my heart and the whispering waters and the sighing trees. "Where went my loving and well-beloved guides? Did they climb the hills and tarry; did they, tired, lie down to sleep and forget me forever; leaving me to journey on without their dear care down the long Valley of Life?"

I could not know, for I heard no answer except my own heart's beating. But other comrades came,one dearer than all, and as time went on I felt the little hands of my own children clasping mine while, once more happy and elate, with them I traveled down the miraculous Valley of Life.

But, as on we wander, hearing their bright voices, and seeing their joy upon the way,-their happy chasings here and there, their eager run to hold again our hands,

- how soon, I think, shall I feel the slipping away of the clasping fingers while I fall asleep by the wayside, or climb the cloud-enveloped hills, and leave those I love to journey on down the lonely Valley of Life?

And I say: "Surely the day and the hour hasten; grief will be theirs for a season; then will they, as did I, with brave hearts journey on the appointed way." But where then shall my spirit rest? Will it sink unconscious into

TO ONE IMPATIENT OF FORM IN ART 377

endless night? or shall I, in some new dawn, and by some unimagined miracle not less than that which brought me here, wander, with those that led me once, and those I led, hand claspt in hand, as of old, by the murmuring waters and under the singing trees of the ever-wonderful, the never-ending Valley of Life?

TO ONE IMPATIENT OF FORM IN ART

I

CHIDE not the poet that he strives for beauty,
If still forthright he chants the thing he would-

If still he knows, nor can escape, the dire
Necessity and burden of straight speech;

Not his the fault should music haunt the stroke,
When to the marrow cleaves the lyric knife.

Who poured the violent ocean, and who called
Earthquake and tempest and the crash of doom,

He spread the sea all beautiful at dawn,

And curved the bright bow 'gainst the black, spent storm;

He framed these late and lovely violets

That under autumn leaves surprise the heart.

Blame not the seeker of beauty if his soul
Seeks it, in reverent and determined quest,

And in the sacred love of loveliness

Which God, the all-giver, gave and satisfies;

Fearing lest he match not life's poignant breath
And the keen beauty of the blossoming day.