I know that there are those, of gentler heart,
Broken by grief or by
deception bowed,
Who in some realm beyond the grave conceive
The bliss they found not here; but, as for me,
In the soft fibres of the tender flesh
I saw potentialities of Joy
Ten thousand lifetimes could not use. Dear Earth,
In this dark month when deep as morning dew
On thy
maternal breast shall fall the blood
Of those that were thy loveliest and thy best,
If it be fate that mine shall mix with theirs,
Hear this my natural prayer, for, purified
By that Lethean agony and clad
In more
resplendent powers, I ask
nought else
Than reincarnate to retrace my path,
Be born again of woman, walk once more
Through Childhood's
fragrant,
flowery wonderland
And, entered in the golden realm of Youth,
Fare still a
pilgrim toward the
copious joys
I savored here yet
scarce began to sip;
Yea, with the comrades that I loved so well
Resume the
banquet we had
scarce begun
When in the street we heard the clarion-call
And each man
sprang to arms -- ay, even myself
Who loved sweet Youth too truly not to share
Its pain no less than its delight. If prayers
Are to be prayed, lo, here is mine! Be this
My resurrection, this my
recompense!
Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France
(To have been read before the
statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris,
on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916.)
I
Ay, it is
fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When -- with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious
tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
Obscurely fallen here beyond the seas.
Those to
preserve their country's
greatness died;
But by the death of these
Something that we can look upon with pride
Has been achieved, nor
wholly unreplied
Can sneerers
triumph in the
charge they make
That from a war where Freedom was at stake
America
withheld and, daunted, stood aside.
II
Be they remembered here with each reviving spring,
Not only that in May, when life is loveliest,
Around Neuville-Saint-Vaast and the disputed crest
Of Vimy, they,
superb, unfaltering,
In that fine onslaught that no fire could halt,
Parted
impetuous to their first assault;
But that they brought fresh hearts and springlike too
To that high
mission, and 'tis meet to strew
With twigs of lilac and spring's earliest rose
The cenotaph of those
Who in the cause that history most endears
Fell in the sunny morn and flower of their young years.
III
Yet sought they neither
recompense nor praise,
Nor to be mentioned in another breath
Than their blue coated comrades whose great days
It was their pride to share -- ay, share even to the death!
Nay, rather, France, to you they rendered thanks
(Seeing they came for honor, not for gain),
Who,
opening to them your
glorious ranks,
Gave them that grand occasion to excel,
That chance to live the life most free from stain
And that rare
privilege of dying well.
IV
O friends! I know not since that war began
From which no people nobly stands aloof
If in all moments we have given proof
Of virtues that were thought American.
I know not if in all things done and said
All has been well and good,
Or if each one of us can hold his head
As
proudly as he should,
Or, from the pattern of those
mighty dead
Whose shades our country venerates to-day,
If we've not somewhat fallen and somewhat gone astray.
But you to whom our land's good name is dear,
If there be any here
Who wonder if her
manhood be decreased,
Relaxed its sinews and its blood less red
Than that at Shiloh and Antietam shed,
Be proud of these, have joy in this at least,
And cry: "Now heaven be praised
That in that hour that most imperilled her,
Menaced her liberty who
foremost raised
Europe's bright flag of freedom, some there were
Who, not unmindful of the
antique debt,
Came back the
generous path of Lafayette;
And when of a most
formidable foe
She checked each onset,
arduous to stem --
Foiled and frustrated them --
On those red fields where blow with
furious blow
Was countered, whether the
gigantic fray
Rolled by the Meuse or at the Bois Sabot,
Accents of ours were in the
fierce melee;
And on those furthest rims of
hallowed ground
Where the
forlorn, the
gallantcharge expires,
When the slain bugler has long ceased to sound,
And on the tangled wires
The last wild rally staggers, crumbles, stops,
Withered beneath the shrapnel's iron showers: --
Now heaven be thanked, we gave a few brave drops;
Now heaven be thanked, a few brave drops were ours."
V
There,
holding still, in
frozen steadfastness,
Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,
They lie -- our comrades -- lie among their peers,
Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,
Grim clusters under
thorny trellises,
Dry, furthest foam upon
disastrous shores,
Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewn
Even as they fell,
unchanged, beneath the changing moon;
And earth in her
divine indifference
Rolls on, and many paltry things and mean
Prate to be heard and caper to be seen.
But they are silent, calm; their eloquence
Is that
incomparable attitude;
No human presences their
witness are,
But summer clouds and
sunset crimson-hued,
And showers and night winds and the northern star.
Nay, even our salutations seem profane,
Opposed to their Elysian quietude;
Our salutations
calling from afar,
From our ignobler plane
And undistinction of our
lesser parts:
Hail, brothers, and
farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.
Double your glory is who perished thus,
For you have died for France and vindicated us.
The End