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Read Ebook: Path Flower and Other Verses by Dargan Olive Tilford
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Ebook has 258 lines and 26760 words, and 6 pages
Pale is the dream we dream alone, An unresolving fire, Till beacon hearts make it their own And men are lit with man's desire. I mourn no Gilead fair, Back to my own I speed, And all my tears are falling where They sell the sun for bread.
Mine too the blow, the unwept scar; Mine too the flames that sere; And on my breast not one proud star That leaves a brother's heaven bare. Life is the search of God For His own unity; I walk stone-bare till all are shod, No gold may sandal me.
I come, O comrades, faster yet! For me no bough-hung shade Till every burning foot be set In ferns of Gilead. The old, old pain of kind, Once mine, is mine once more; And I forget the way behind, So dear is that before.
LA DAME REVOLUTION
Red was the Might that sired thee, White was the Hope that bore thee, Heaven and Earth desired thee, And Hell from thy lovers tore thee; But barren to the ravisher, Thou bearest Love thy child, Immortal daughter, Peace; for her Waits Man, the Undefiled.
THE REBEL
A riot-maker! Can the fruit Of frenzy be a gracious thing? His soul has hands; above the bruit They lift a song-bird quivering.
World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes Mourn a deserted earth? But no! Men go not down till men arise.
The game is Life's. She plays to win; And whirls to dust her overlings; Her abluent winds shall spare no sin, Though hidden in the breast of kings;
And Earth is smiling as she takes To her old lap their fallen bones, For down the throbbing ways there wakes The laughter of her greater sons.
THESE LATTER DAYS
Take down thy stars, O God! We look not up. In vain thou hangest there thy changeless sign. We lift our eyes to power's glowing cup, Nor care if blood make strong that wizard wine, So we but drink and feel the sorcery Of conquest in our veins, of wits grown keen In strain and strife for flesh-sweet sovereignty,-- The fatal thrill of kingship over men. What though the soul be from the body shrunk, And we array the temple, but no god? What though, the cup of golden greed once drunk, Our dust be laid in a dishonoured sod, While thy loud hosts proclaim the end of wars? We read no sign. O God, take down thy stars!
ABNEGATION
Brother, my Christ, when thou camest down The cup of water to give, Did a poet die on the mount's cool crown? Ay,--and for that dost thou live!
THE LITTLE TREE
It pushed a guided way between The pebbles of her grave; A poplar hastening to be green And silver signals wave.
And we who sought her with the moon, Were met by branches stirred, And whiter grew as grew the croon That seemed her hidden word.
"O, she would speak!" my heart-beat said; My eyes were on the mound; And lowlier hung my waiting head Above the prisoning ground.
Then smiled the lad and whispered me,-- The lad who most did love; "She stoops to us; the little tree Is wakened from above!"
THE GAME
'Tis played with eyes; one uttered word Would cast the game away. As silent as a sailing bird, The shift and change of play.
So many eyes to me are dear, So many do me bless; The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere Where leaves are flutterless;
The brown that most bewildereth With dusking, golden play Of shadows like betraying breath From some shy, hidden day;
The black whose torch is ever trimmed, Let stars be soon or late; The blue, a morning never dimmed, Opposing Heaven to fate;
The grey as soft as farthest skies That hold horizon rain; Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise, They bring the gods again;
And wavelit eyes of nameless glow, Fed from far-risen streams; But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know The silent game of dreams!
Three times I've played. Once 'twas a child, Lap-held, not half a year From Heaven, looked at me and smiled, And far I went with her.
Out past the twilight gates of birth, And past Time's blindfold day, Beyond the star-ring of the earth, We found us room to play.
And once a woman, spent and old With unavailing tears, Who from her hair's down-tangled fold Shook out the grey-blown years,
Sat by the trampled way alone, And lifted eyes--what themes! I could not pass, I sat me down To play the game of dreams.
And once ... a poet's eyes they were, Though earth heard not his strain; And since he went no eyes can stir My own to play again.
BALLAD
When I with Death have gone on quest, And grief is mellowed in your breast; When you do nothing fret If jest come gently in with tea, And Purr is stroked for want of me; When thought robust bestirs your mind, And with a candid start you find The world must move To living love And you forthright on travel set;
I do not ask you strive to keep Awake the woe that winks for sleep, Or swell the lessening tear; I do not ask; dear to me still May be the eyes regret would fill; And, sooth, in vain I'd Nature sue To go a little out for you; But whether 'tis Or that or this Is from the matter there and here.
Forget the kisses dying not Till each a thousand more begot; Such easy progeny You with small trouble still may have; Forget the quaint, the nest-born ways, And ponder things more to my praise, That I may long Be worth a song Though deep in tongueless clay I be.
Admit my eye, than yours less keen, Still knew a bead of Hippocrene From baser bubbles bright; My ear could catch, or short or long, The echo of true-hammered song; And many a book we journeyed through; Some turned us home again, 'tis true, And some, like stars, outwore the night.
Say I could break a lance with Fate, Took half, at least, my troubles straight, Homed well with chance, and passing where The gods kept house would take a chair, Perchance at ease, with naught ado, With Jove would toss a quip or two; The nectar stale, A mug of ale On goodly earth would serve a toast.
And if I left thee by a stile Where thou didst choose to dream, the while I sought a farther mead, Or clomb a ridge for flowers that wore Of earth the less, of stars the more, I hastened back, confess of me, To lay my treasure on thy knee; Nor didst thou hear Of stone or brere, Or how my hidden feet did bleed.
And in the piping season when The whole round world takes heart again To rise and dance with Spring; When robin drives the snow-wind home, And sweetened is the warm?d loam, When deeper root the violets, And every bud its fear forgets With upward glance For lovers' chance In Venus' dear and fateful ring;
Let not a thought of my cold bed Bechill thy warm heart beating red, And thy new ardours dim; But if, good hap, you rove where I Beneath the twinkling moss then lie, Be glad to see me decked so gay, I like things new, In season too, And fain must smile to be so trim.
Then hie thee to some bonny brake Another mate to woo and take, And as thy soul to love. Rise with the dew, stay not the noon, What's good cannot be found too soon, The wind will not be always south, Nor like a rose is every mouth, Time's quick to press, Do thou no less, And may the night thy wisdom prove.
And as all love doth live again In great or small that loved hath been, Keep this sole troth with me,-- Forget my name, my form, my face, But meet me still in every place, Since we are what we love, and I Loved everything beneath the sky. So may I long Be worth a song, Though I who sang forgotten be.
A DIRGE
Mortal child, lay thee where Earth is gift and giver; Midnight owl, witch, or bear Shall disturb thee never!
Softly, softly take thy place, Turn from man thy waning face; Fear not thou must lie alone, Sleep-mates thou shalt have anon.
Thine is not a jealous bed; Pillow here hath every head; All that are and all to be Shall ask a little room of thee.
Babe of Time, old in care, Sweet is Earth, the giver; Owlet, witch, or midnight bear Shall disturb thee never.
HIS ARGUMENT
One time I wooed a maid All in the revel eye of young Love's moon. Content she made me,--ah, my dimpling mate, My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon! But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maid With creeping glance that sees and will not see, And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,-- O, might I woo her nor inconstant be! But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring? And I am not forsworn if yet I keep Dream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss. Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring, And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.
THE CONQUEROR
O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by, To drop thy buds before his frosty feet, Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lie In trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet? Yet must thou cast thy tender offering, And make thy way above thy mourn?d dead, Or frowning Winter would be always king, And thou wouldst never walk with crown?d head. So gentle Love must make his venturous way Among the shaken buds of his own pain; And many a hope-blown garland meekly lay Before the chilly season of disdain; But as no beauty may the Spring outglow, So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.
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