Читать книгу Old Road to Paradise - Margaret Widdemer - Страница 3
ОглавлениеOURS is a dark Easter-tide,
And a scarlet Spring,
But high up at Heaven-Gate
All the saints sing,
Glad for the great companies
Returning to their King.
Oh, in youth the dawn's a rose,
Dusk's an amethyst,
All the roads from dusk to dawn
Gay they wind and twist;
The old road to Paradise
Easy it is missed!
But out on the wet battlefields,
Few the roadways wind,
One to grief, one to death
No road that's kind–
The old road to Paradise
Plain it is to find!
(Martin in his Colonel's cloak,
Joan in her mail,
David with his crown and sword–
None there be that fail–
Down the road to Paradise
Stand to greet and hail!)
Where the dark's a terror-thing,
Morn a hope doubt-tossed.
Where the lads lie thinking long
Out in rain and frost,
There they find their God again,
Long ago they lost:
Where the night comes cruelly,
Where the hurt men moan,
Where the crushed forgotten ones
Whisper prayers alone,
Christ along the battlefields
Comes to lead His own:
Souls that would have withered soon
In the hot world's glare,
Blown and gone like shriveled things,
Dusty on the air,
Rank on rank they follow Him,
Young and strong and fair!
Ours is a sad Easter-tide,
And a woeful day,
But high up at Heaven-Gate
The saints are all gay,
For the old road to Paradise,
That's a crowded way!
THE OLD KINGS
ALL of the Old Kings
Are wakened from their sleep,
Arthur out of Avalon,
Ogier from the deep,
Redbeard from his Dragon-Rock,
Sigurd from his fen …
"Is it time," they rise and cry,
"To lead our hosts again?"
They have donned their wingéd helms,
They would rise and reign,
The young king Sebastian,
The old king Charlemagne,
Harold with his great bow,
Roland with his horn …
Men have heard their horses' hoofs
Many a scarlet morn!
The Old Kings have risen …
Where the hosts advance
Redbeard cries his Germans on,
Karle cries out for France,
Up and down the battlefield
Ghostly armies beat,
Stilly down the gray sea glides
Olaf's shadow-fleet:
Up and down the red fields
Men have seen them go,
Seen the long plumes on the wind,
Seen the pennons flow,
Harry out of Agincourt
Sends his bowmen wide,
Joan that has forgiven them
Battles at their side. …
Christ, king of Paradise,
Hasten with Thy hosts,
Angels all in silver mail,
Saints and blessed ghosts,
Cry the long swords sheathed again,
Cry the pennons furled,
Lest under Ragnarok
Lie the shattered world!
ST. JEANNE RIDES OUT
(For Amy Lowell)
ST. JEANNE she sat with Michaël,
With Marguerite and Raphaël,
And all the saints who sent her forth a many years ago,
And high behind her gold-ringed head,
The martyrs dressed in white and red
And seraphim all silver-winged they chanted row on row.
St. Jeanne she spoke to Michaël,
To Marguerite and Raphaël,
"Oh, here's no place for such as I, all white and gold and warm,
For I was but a peasant maid
Strong of arm and unafraid,
Before you sent me garnering along the battle-storm."
St. Jeanne she's laid her garlands by,
Her crown and palm that glittered high
And all the golden trinketry she won at Heaven Gate,
She's out along by Mary's Street
Where little stars lie thick and sweet,
With helm and sword they took from her at Rouen-Town of late.
St. Peter swore, "The gate stands wide,
So many folk have marched inside–
I'll drop my golden keys tonight and snatch a sword again!"
And stalwart saints and martyrs all
And sworded angels silver-tall
In straight and shining companies they've followed in her train.
And down the fields of Paradise
The churchmen all so great and wise
Who won to Heaven so hardly once, they've knelt to her at last,
All they who laughed at Rouen-Town
To see the flames beat up and down
And learned her for a saint that day, they follow glad and fast.
Oh, did you hear the shouting then?
Along the fields of weary men
There's lifted heart and strengthened arm and laughing glad accord:
Oh, who may doubt what end may be?
With all her wingéd chivalry
St. Jeanne rides down her fields tonight to battle for the Lord!
A BALLAD OF THE WISE MEN
THE Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem
And the Wise Men gave Him gold,
And Mary-Mother she hearkened them
As they prayed in the cattle-fold:
"Smile then, smile, little Prince of Earth,
Smile in Thy holy sleep,
Now Thou art come, for want and dearth
There shall be plenty and light and mirth
Through lands where the poor folk weep."
But Mary-Mother was still and pale
And she raised her golden-ringed head,
"Then why have I heard the children wail
All night long on the far-blown gale
While my own Child slept?" she said.
(But far overhead the angels sang:
"There shall be joy!" the clear notes rang!)
The Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem
And the censers burned for him
That the Wise Men swung on its silver stem
And prayed while the smoke rose dim:
"Sleep, then sleep, little Son of God,
Sleep while the whole world prays;
All the world shall fear Thy nod,
Following close Thy staff and rod,
Praising this day of days."
But Mary-Mother turned whispering
There by the manger-bed
"Then why do I hear the mocking ring
Of voices crying and questioning
Through the scented smoke?" she said.
(But high overhead the angels sang–
"There shall be faith!" the pure notes rang.)
The Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem
And the Wise Men gave Him myrrh,
And Mary-Mother she hearkened them
As they prayed by the heart of her:
"Sleep, then sleep, little Prince of Peace,
Sleep, take Thy holy rest,
Now Thou art come all wars shall cease,
Thou who hast brought all strife release
Even from east to west!"
But Mary-Mother she veiled her head
As if her great joys were lost,
And "Here is only a manger-bed,
Then why do I hear clashed swords?" she said.
"And why do I see the tide of red
Over the whole world tossed?"
(But still overhead the angels sang:
"There shall be peace!" the sure notes rang!)
NEXT YEAR
UP and down the street I know,
Now that there are Grief and War,
All day long the people go
As they went before;
But when now the lads go by–
Careless look and careless glance–
My heart wonders–"Which shall lie
Still next year in France?"
When the girls go fluttering–
Flushing cheek and tossing head–
My heart asks–"Next year shall bring
Which a lover dead?"
Lord, let peace be kind and fleet–
Put an end to Grief and War;
Let them walk the little street
Careless as before!
HOMES
THE lamplight's shaded rose
On couch and chair and wall,
The drowsy book let fall,
The children's heads, bent close
In some deep argument,
The kitten, sleepy-curled,
Sure of our good intent,
The hearth-fire's crackling glow:
His step that crisps the snow,
His laughing kiss, wind-cold. …
Only the very old
Gifts that the night-star brings,
Dear homely evening-things,
Dear things of all the world,
And yet my throat locks tight …
Somewhere far off I know
Are ashes on red snow
That were a home last night.
FATHER PRAYER
LORD God, Who let Your baby son
Pass earthward where the joys were few
To a hard death when all was done,
And very far away from You;
My little lad must go today
Paths where I cannot guide his feet,
Through dangers that I cannot stay
To strife I cannot help him meet;
He has heard voices calling him
Though youth is gay and life is warm,
And right seems far away and dim,
To weary ways and battle-storm:
Lord God, Whose Son went steadily
Down the hard road He had to tread,
Guard my son too, that he may be
Strong in his hours of doubt and dread!
GOOD-BY, MY LOVER
ALL the flags stream abroad, and the crowds wave and cry–
And I watch for your face in the long lines marching by;
For my lips bade you go, but my heart would bid you stay–
Oh, lad, and will the war be long, and you so far away?
And your step as you marched, would it lag or fall more true
If you know that my heart's gone to war to follow you?
POEM FOR A PICTURE
(Children at play on a French Battlefield)
"WHEN I was a child,"
You shall tell one day,
Children, on these blackened fields
Gallantly at play,
"All the quiet sky
Burst in death aflame;
One day, I was young,
Then … The Horror came."
"When I was a child … "
Wind-tossed leaves of war,
Is there childhood still for you,
Wise in horror-lore,
Who have heard your sisters' screams
Shattering your play,
Seen your mothers past their dead
Led to shame away?
Ragged, helpless, maimed,
Hungry, left alone
Where the smoking roof-beams lie
By the wrecked hearth-stone,
Still you mime (child-hearts are strong,
Childhood pain is brief)
Echoes of world-victory,
World-defeat, world-grief!
Dauntless in your rags,
Insolent in mirth,
Laughing with young lips that know
All the griefs of earth,
God, who loves a high heart well,
Will not let you fail–
You are France, who laughs at Hell–
France, who shall prevail!
PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR
LORD God, we lift to Thee
A world hurt sore.
Look down, and let it be
Wounded no more!
Lord, when this year is done
That wakes today
Many shall pray to Thee
Who do not pray;
Let all lips comfort them,
All hearts be kind,
They who this year shall leave
Their joys behind:
Give them Thy comforting,
Help them to know
That though their hopes are gone
Thou dost not go;
They who shall give for Thee
Lover and son,
Show them Thy world set free,
Thy battles done!
Lord God, we lift to Thee
A world in pain,
Look down and let it be
Made whole again!
