HIGH in that tall church-tower The siren wails, and cries Swift warning to the skies, Amid whose clouds there streak Wing'd Deaths, agog to wreak Their wrath, this soft Spring hour, On friendly folk Who seek no more, no less, Than to pursue, in single-hearted wise, Life's tasks with faithfulness ... Yet find West Country ways, Wonted and drowsy days, Hideous through thunder-stroke Projected by that black-souled, evil, fell, Foul-hearted fiend of Hell. Out in the street there sound Quick orders, sharp commands. Steps ring. In helmet stands Policeman or Warden. All Aghast, the mothers call Their children, crowd to impound Them in their homes. ... Next falls an ominous peace: (One which unites, makes brother-like, and bands Souls waiting stark release Of bestial bomb, dropped down, Ruthless, on wretched town) Peace which, ere long, becomes Babel. Blare 'Wirelesses'. Arrives Contempt. Then Ennui, strange, undreamt. Here, in this top-floor room Beneath that concrete roof, (Once skittle-alley; proof 'Gainst Fate; where high carouse Made gay this old-world house— First, Manor; next, the home Of Priests; last, Inn) Careless, we sit and talk: We two, unheeding horrors; all aloof, Remote, with naught to balk An adorable intimacy, Which seems to worshipping me, An earthly Heaven, wherein Happy past telling, I, at last, attain Heights life-long viewed in vain. In Your sweet self I find, Feel and discover, see Home, and epitome, Temple, abiding-place Of every human grace Given to woman-kind. ... Your grey-blue eyes (Athenè's eyes, informed With human power of passion, such as She Ne'er knew) have waked, have warmed My sense. Your magic voice Makes my sad soul rejoice, Probes my poor heart. I prize, Past telling, Your mentality so fine, Delicate, feminine. To me You seem to be One known long since, long lost; To touch my innermost Pre-natal soul; to come, As fated by foredoom, Out of Eternity. You crystallize My past. You make me feel That (even as some exquisite and gracious ghost!) You mirror and reveal All I have known and loved, Suffered, enjoyed and proved In woman, have bid uprise Hours when I wandered—free, or shackled fast By Fate—through aeons past. For, lo! I see in You Mother, wife, mistress, Sphinx; Pandora, sweet Syrinx, Numa's Egeria, Helen, Aspasia, Astarte, Sappho, too: Empress and slave, Wood-nymph and Kenite Jael, Charmian and Corday; Tragic Muse and Minx; Vestal; delicious, frail Cressida, Druidess, Griselda, Lioness, Light leman, Goddess grave. ... The core, the incarnate soul and epopee Of Femininity. This afternoon, no name I seek for You, nor give. I only ask to live Royally, richly, know Contentment, feel the glow Of Life break full to flame, As I sit here With You in solitude, But, were I forced to find illùstrative Label, to match my mood And mirror it, to-day, These words I fain would say, (I who now hold You dear— Dearer than Life, which speeds towards its close!) My Lodestar, Light and Rose. If it could be my lot To visit Earth again, Life were unwanted, vain, Did Fate decline to give Me cherished cause to live, I would not be begot But for one task, One blessèd task, alone: This to belong wholly to You, to gain Your approbation, Lay at Your feet such spoil As should accrue from toil, Find sweet refreshment, bask In Your loved presence; then set out, to bring You loftier offering. Thus should I touch the stars, Filch from the Gods their fire, Attain my soul's desire In serving You, dear: You, Whose kisses could endue With spiritual scimitars Your lover; make His harsh, his asperous way Smoother than velvet, actuate, inspire Him further to essay Achievement, to carve his path Onward to aftermath. ... Then, once again, to take Respite with You; Find Passion, Peace, fulfil Himself more royally still. ... Hark! From that tall church-tower The siren shrieks, and cries Swift message to the skies That no wing'd Deaths now streak The clouds, agog to wreak Their wrath, this soft Spring Hour, On friendly folk Who seek no more, no less, Than to pursue, in single-hearted wise, Life's tasks with faithfulness. ... This day, no bestial bomb, In cruelty has come Like hideous thunder-stroke. All issue, glad. ... But I would some wing'd Death Had touched me with its breath! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 2. ILLINOIS by CLARENCE MAJOR |