Some fell, unknowing that they were deceived,
And some escaped, and bitterly bereaved,
Beheld the truth they loved shrink to a lie.
And those there were that never had believed,
But from afar had read the gathering sky,
And darkly wrapt in that dread prophecy,
Died trusting that their truth might be retrieved.
It matters not. For life deals thus with Man;
To die alone deceived or with the mass,
Or disillusioned to complete his span.
Thermopylae or Golgotha, all one,
The young dead legions in the narrow pass;
The stark black cross against the setting sun.
Pomfret, 1919
BOOK II
DAYS AND SEASONS
I
Winds blowing over the white-capped bay,
Winds wet with the eager breath of spray,
Warm and sweet from the oceans we have dreamed of;
From gardens of Cathay.
The empty factory windows, row on row,
Warm sullenly beneath the afterglow,
Burn topaz out of dust and dim the flare
Of the street-lamps below.
In the smoky park the dingy plane-trees stir,
Green branches in the twilight fade and blur;
A lonely girl walks slowly through the square
And the wind speaks to her.
Speaks of the sunset scattered on the sea,
And the spring blowing northward radiantly;
Flaming in lightning from cyclonic dark,
Dreams of delights to be.
Tomorrow there will be orchards filled with fruit,
And song of meadow lark and song of flute;
Far from the city there are lover's fields,
Lips eloquent and mute.
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