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Glow radiant with laughter and good cheer,

In beaming cups some spark of me shall still
Brim toward the lips that once I held so dear.

So shall one coveting no higher plane
Than nature clothes in color and flesh and tone,

Even from the grave put upward to attain
The dreams youth cherished and missed and might have known;

And that strong need that strove unsatisfied
Toward earthly beauty in all forms it wore,

Not death itself shall utterly divide
From the beloved shapes it thirsted for.

Alas, how many an adept for whose arms
Life held delicious offerings perished here,

How many in the prime of all that charms,
Crowned with all gifts that conquer and endear!

Honor them not so much with tears and flowers,
But you with whom the sweet fulfilment lies,

Where in the anguish of atrocious hours
Turned their last thoughts and closed their dying eyes,

Rather when music on bright gatherings lays
Its tender spell, and joy is uppermost,

Be mindful of the men they were, and raise
Your glasses to them in one silent toast.

Drink to them -- amorous of dear Earth as well,
They asked no tribute lovelier than this --

And in the wine that ripened where they fell,
Oh, frame your lips as though it were a kiss.

__
Champagne, France, July, 1915.

The Hosts
Purged, with the life they left, of all

That makes life paltry and mean and small,
In their new dedication charged

With something heightened, enriched, enlarged,
That lends a light to their lusty brows

And a song to the rhythm of their tramping feet,
These are the men that have taken vows,

These are the hardy, the flower, the elite, --
These are the men that are moved no more

By the will to traffic and grasp and store
And ring with pleasure and wealth and love

The circles that self is the center of;
But they are moved by the powers that force

The sea forever to ebb and rise,
That hold Arcturus in his course,

And marshal at noon in tropic skies
The clouds that tower on some snow-capped chain

And drift out over the peopled plain.
They are big with the beauty of cosmic things.

Mark how their columns surge! They seem
To follow the goddess with outspread wings

That points toward Glory, the soldier's dream.
With bayonets bare and flags unfurled,

They scale the summits of the world
And fade on the farthest golden height

In fair horizons full of light.
Comrades in arms there -- friend or foe --

That trod the perilous, toilsome trail
Through a world of ruin and blood and woe

In the years of the great decision -- hail!
Friend or foe, it shall matter nought;

This only matters, in fine: we fought.
For we were young and in love or strife

Sought exultation and craved excess:
To sound the wildest debauch in life

We staked our youth and its loveliness.
Let idlers argue the right and wrong

And weigh what merit our causes had.
Putting our faith in being strong --

Above the level of good and bad --
For us, we battled and burned and killed

Because evolving Nature willed,
And it was our pride and boast to be

The instruments of Destiny.
There was a stately drama writ

By the hand that peopled the earth and air
And set the stars in the infinite

And made night gorgeous and morning fair,
And all that had sense to reason knew

That bloody drama must be gone through.
Some sat and watched how the action veered --

Waited, profited, trembled, cheered --
We saw not clearly nor understood,

But yielding ourselves to the masterhand,
Each in his part as best he could,

We played it through as the author planned.
Maktoob

A shell surprised our post one day
And killed a comrade at my side.

My heart was sick to see the way
He suffered as he died.

I dug about the place he fell,
And found, no bigger than my thumb,

A fragment of the splintered shell
In warm aluminum.

I melted it, and made a mould,
And poured it in the opening,

And worked it, when the cast was cold,
Into a shapely ring.

And when my ring was smooth and bright,
Holding it on a rounded stick,

For seal, I bade a Turco write
`Maktoob' in Arabic.

`Maktoob!' "'Tis written!" . . . So they think,
These children of the desert, who

From its immense expanses drink
Some of its grandeur too.

Within the book of Destiny,
Whose leaves are time, whose cover, space,

The day when you shall cease to be,
The hour, the mode, the place,

Are marked, they say; and you shall not
By taking thought or using wit

Alter that certain fate one jot,
Postpone or conjure it.

Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart.
If you must perish, know, O man,

'Tis an inevitable part
Of the predestined plan.

And, seeing that through the ebon door
Once only you may pass, and meet

Of those that have gone through before
The mighty, the elite ----

Guard that not bowed nor blanched with fear
You enter, but serene, erect,

As you would wish most to appear
To those you most respect.

So die as though your funeral
Ushered you through the doors that led

Into a statelybanquet hall
Where heroes banqueted;

And it shall all depend therein
Whether you come as slave or lord,

If they acclaim you as their kin
Or spurn you from their board.

So, when the order comes: "Attack!"
And the assaulting wave deploys,

And the heart trembles to look back
On life and all its joys;

Or in a ditch that they seem near
To find, and round your shallow trough

Drop the big shells that you can hear
Coming a half mile off;

When, not to hear, some try to talk,
And some to clean their guns, or sing,

And some dig deeper in the chalk --
I look upon my ring:

And nerves relax that were most tense,
And Death comes whistling down unheard,

As I consider all the sense
Held in that mystic word.

And it brings, quieting like balm
My heart whose flutterings have ceased,

The resignation and the calm
And wisdom of the East.

I Have a Rendezvous with Death . . .
I have a rendezvous with Death

At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade

And apple-blossoms fill the air --
I have a rendezvous with Death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
It may be he shall take my hand

And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath --

It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year

And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows 'twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .

But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.
Sonnets:

- Sonnet I -
Sidney, in whom the heyday of romance

Came to its precious and most perfect flower,
Whether you tourneyed with victorious lance

Or brought sweet roundelays to Stella's bower,
I give myself some credit for the way

I have kept clean of what enslaves and lowers,
Shunned the ideals of our present day

And studied those that were esteemed in yours;
For, turning from the mob that buys Success

By sacrificing all Life's better part,
Down the free roads of human happiness

I frolicked, poor of purse but light of heart,
And lived in strictdevotion all along

To my three idols -- Love and Arms and Song.
- Sonnet II -

Not that I always struck the proper mean
Of what mankind must give for what they gain,

But, when I think of those whom dull routine
And the pursuit of cheerless toil enchain,



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