Children of the Night

     For those that never know the light,
      The darkness is a sullen thing;
     And they, the Children of the Night,
      Seem lost in Fortune's winnowing.

     But some are strong and some are weak, —
      And there's the story.  House and home
     Are shut from countless hearts that seek
      World-refuge that will never come.

     And if there be no other life,
      And if there be no other chance
     To weigh their sorrow and their strife
      Than in the scales of circumstance,

     'T were better, ere the sun go down
      Upon the first day we embark,
     In life's imbittered sea to drown,
      Than sail forever in the dark.

     But if there be a soul on earth
      So blinded with its own misuse
     Of man's revealed, incessant worth,
      Or worn with anguish, that it views

     No light but for a mortal eye,
      No rest but of a mortal sleep,
     No God but in a prophet's lie,
      No faith for "honest doubt" to keep;

     If there be nothing, good or bad,
      But chaos for a soul to trust, —
     God counts it for a soul gone mad,
      And if God be God, He is just.

     And if God be God, He is Love;
      And though the Dawn be still so dim,
     It shows us we have played enough
      With creeds that make a fiend of Him.

     There is one creed, and only one,
      That glorifies God's excellence;
     So cherish, that His will be done,
      The common creed of common sense.

     It is the crimson, not the gray,
      That charms the twilight of all time;
     It is the promise of the day
      That makes the starry sky sublime;

     It is the faith within the fear
      That holds us to the life we curse; —
     So let us in ourselves revere
      The Self which is the Universe!

     Let us, the Children of the Night,
      Put off the cloak that hides the scar!
     Let us be Children of the Light,
      And tell the ages what we are!

       I

     As long as Fame's imperious music rings
      Will poets mock it with crowned words august;
     And haggard men will clamber to be kings
      As long as Glory weighs itself in dust.

       II

     Drink to the splendor of the unfulfilled,
      Nor shudder for the revels that are done:
     The wines that flushed Lucullus are all spilled,
      The strings that Nero fingered are all gone.

       III

     We cannot crown ourselves with everything,
      Nor can we coax the Fates for us to quarrel:
     No matter what we are, or what we sing,
      Time finds a withered leaf in every laurel.

     Some are the brothers of all humankind,
      And own them, whatsoever their estate;
     And some, for sorrow and self-scorn, are blind
      With enmity for man's unguarded fate.

     For some there is a music all day long
      Like flutes in Paradise, they are so glad;
     And there is hell's eternal under-song
      Of curses and the cries of men gone mad.

     Some say the Scheme with love stands luminous,
      Some say 't were better back to chaos hurled;
     And so 't is what we are that makes for us
      The measure and the meaning of the world.

     Strange that I did not know him then,
      That friend of mine!
     I did not even show him then
      One friendly sign;

     But cursed him for the ways he had
      To make me see
     My envy of the praise he had
      For praising me.

     I would have rid the earth of him
      Once, in my pride! . . .
     I never knew the worth of him
      Until he died.

     Down by the flash of the restless water
      The dim White Ship like a white bird lay;
     Laughing at life and the world they sought her,
      And out she swung to the silvering bay.
      Then off they flew on their roystering way,
     And the keen moon fired the light foam flying
      Up from the flood where the faint stars play,
     And the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.

     'T was a king's fair son with a king's fair daughter,
      And full three hundred beside, they say, —
     Revelling on for the lone, cold slaughter
      So soon to seize them and hide them for aye;
      But they danced and they drank and their souls grew gay,
     Nor ever they knew of a ghoul's eye spying
      Their splendor a flickering phantom to stray
     Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.

     Through the mist of a drunken dream they brought her
      (This wild white bird) for the sea-fiend's prey:
     The pitiless reef in his hard clutch caught her,
      And hurled her down where the dead men stay.
      A torturing silence of wan dismay —
     Shrieks and curses of mad souls dying —
      Then down they sank to slumber and sway
     Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying.

         ENVOY

     Prince, do you sleep to the sound alway
      Of the mournful surge and the sea-birds' crying? —
     Or does love still shudder and steel still slay,
      Where the bones of the brave in the wave are lying?

     Slowly I smoke and hug my knee,
      The while a witless masquerade
     Of things that only children see
      Floats in a mist of light and shade:
      They pass, a flimsy cavalcade,
     And with a weak, remindful glow,
      The falling embers break and fade,
     As one by one the phantoms go.

     Then, with a melancholy glee
      To think where once my fancy strayed,
     I muse on what the years may be
      Whose coming tales are all unsaid,
      Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid
     Within their shadowed niches, grow
      By grim degrees to pick and spade,
     As one by one the phantoms go.

     But then, what though the mystic Three
      Around me ply their merry trade? —
     And Charon soon may carry me
      Across the gloomy Stygian glade? —
      Be up, my soul! nor be afraid
     Of what some unborn year may show;
      But mind your human debts are paid,
     As one by one the phantoms go.

         ENVOY

     Life is the game that must be played:
      This truth at least, good friend, we know;
     So live and laugh, nor be dismayed
      As one by one the phantoms go.

     (To A. T. Schumann.)

     In dreams I crossed a barren land,
      A land of ruin, far away;
     Around me hung on every hand
      A deathful stillness of decay;
      And silent, as in bleak dismay
     That song should thus forsaken be,
      On that forgotten ground there lay
     The broken flutes of Arcady.

     The forest that was all so grand
      When pipes and tabors had their sway
     Stood leafless now, a ghostly band
      Of skeletons in cold array.
      A lonely surge of ancient spray
     Told of an unforgetful sea,
      But iron blows had hushed for aye
     The broken flutes of Arcady.

     No more by summer breezes fanned,
      The place was desolate and gray;
     But still my dream was to command
      New life into that shrunken clay.
      I tried it.  Yes, you scan to-day,
     With uncommiserating glee,
      The songs of one who strove to play
     The broken flutes of Arcady.

         ENVOY

     So, Rock, I join the common fray,
      To fight where Mammon may decree;
     And leave, to crumble as they may,
      The broken flutes of Arcady.

     As we the withered ferns
      By the roadway lying,
     Time, the jester, spurns
      All our prayers and prying —
      All our tears and sighing,
     Sorrow, change, and woe —
      All our where-and-whying
     For friends that come and go.

     Life awakes and burns,
      Age and death defying,
     Till at last it learns
      All but Love is dying;
      Love's the trade we're plying,
     God has willed it so;
      Shrouds are what we're buying
     For friends that come and go.

     Man forever yearns
      For the thing that's flying.
     Everywhere he turns,
      Men to dust are drying, —
      Dust that wanders, eying
     (With eyes that hardly glow)
      New faces, dimly spying
     For friends that come and go.

         ENVOY

     And thus we all are nighing
      The truth we fear to know:
     Death will end our crying
      For friends that come and go.

     Up from the street and the crowds that went,
      Morning and midnight, to and fro,
     Still was the room where his days he spent,
      And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.

     Year after year, with his dream shut fast,
      He suffered and strove till his eyes were dim,
     For the love that his brushes had earned at last, —
      And the whole world rang with the praise of him.

     But he cloaked his triumph, and searched, instead,
      Till his cheeks were sere and his hairs were gray.
     "There are women enough, God knows," he said. . . .
      "There are stars enough — when the sun's away."

     Then he went back to the same still room
      That had held his dream in the long ago,
     When he buried his days in a nameless tomb,
      And the stars were bleak, and the nights were slow.

     And a passionate humor seized him there —
      Seized him and held him until there grew
     Like life on his canvas, glowing and fair,
      A perilous face — and an angel's, too.

     Angel and maiden, and all in one, —
      All but the eyes.  — They were there, but yet
     They seemed somehow like a soul half done.
      What was the matter?  Did God forget? . . .

     But he wrought them at last with a skill so sure
      That her eyes were the eyes of a deathless woman, —
     With a gleam of heaven to make them pure,
      And a glimmer of hell to make them human.

     God never forgets.  — And he worships her
      There in that same still room of his,
     For his wife, and his constant arbiter
      Of the world that was and the world that is.

     And he wonders yet what her love could be
      To punish him after that strife so grim;
     But the longer he lives with her eyes to see,
      The plainer it all comes back to him.

     There be two men of all mankind
      That I should like to know about;
     But search and question where I will,
      I cannot ever find them out.

     Melchizedek he praised the Lord,
      And gave some wine to Abraham;
     But who can tell what else he did
      Must be more learned than I am.

     Ucalegon he lost his house
      When Agamemnon came to Troy;
     But who can tell me who he was —
      I'll pray the gods to give him joy.

     There be two men of all mankind
      That I'm forever thinking on:
     They chase me everywhere I go, —
      Melchizedek, Ucalegon.

     Since Persia fell at Marathon,
      The yellow years have gathered fast:
     Long centuries have come and gone.

     And yet (they say) the place will don
      A phantom fury of the past,
     Since Persia fell at Marathon;

     And as of old, when Helicon
      Trembled and swayed with rapture vast
     (Long centuries have come and gone),

     This ancient plain, when night comes on,
      Shakes to a ghostly battle-blast,
     Since Persia fell at Marathon.

     But into soundless Acheron
      The glory of Greek shame was cast:
     Long centuries have come and gone,

     The suns of Hellas have all shone,
      The first has fallen to the last: —
     Since Persia fell at Marathon,
     Long centuries have come and gone.

     "Where are you going to-night, to-night, —
      Where are you going, John Evereldown?
     There's never the sign of a star in sight,
      Nor a lamp that's nearer than Tilbury Town.
     Why do you stare as a dead man might?
     Where are you pointing away from the light?
     And where are you going to-night, to-night, —
      Where are you going, John Evereldown?"

     "Right through the forest, where none can see,
      There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town.
     The men are asleep, — or awake, may be, —
      But the women are calling John Evereldown.
     Ever and ever they call for me,
     And while they call can a man be free?
     So right through the forest, where none can see,
      There's where I'm going, to Tilbury Town."

     "But why are you going so late, so late, —
      Why are you going, John Evereldown?
     Though the road be smooth and the path be straight,
      There are two long leagues to Tilbury Town.
     Come in by the fire, old man, and wait!
     Why do you chatter out there by the gate?
     And why are you going so late, so late, —
      Why are you going, John Evereldown?"

     "I follow the women wherever they call, —
      That's why I'm going to Tilbury Town.
     God knows if I pray to be done with it all,
      But God is no friend to John Evereldown.
     So the clouds may come and the rain may fall,
     The shadows may creep and the dead men crawl, —
     But I follow the women wherever they call,
      And that's why I'm going to Tilbury Town."

     Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal, —
     There where the vines cling crimson on the wall, —
     And in the twilight wait for what will come.
     The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some —
     Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall;
     But go, and if you trust her she will call.
     Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal —
     Luke Havergal.

     No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
     To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes;
     But there, where western glooms are gathering,
     The dark will end the dark, if anything:
     God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
     And hell is more than half of paradise.
     No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies —
     In eastern skies.

     Out of a grave I come to tell you this, —
     Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
     That flames upon your forehead with a glow
     That blinds you to the way that you must go.
     Yes, there is yet one way to where she is, —
     Bitter, but one that faith can never miss.
     Out of a grave I come to tell you this —
     To tell you this.

     There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
     There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
     Go, — for the winds are tearing them away, —
     Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
     Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
     But go! and if you trust her she will call.
     There is the western gate, Luke Havergal —
     Luke Havergal.

     They are all gone away,
      The House is shut and still,
     There is nothing more to say.

     Through broken walls and gray
      The winds blow bleak and shrill:
     They are all gone away.

     Nor is there one to-day
      To speak them good or ill:
     There is nothing more to say.

     Why is it then we stray
      Around that sunken sill?
     They are all gone away,

     And our poor fancy-play
      For them is wasted skill:
     There is nothing more to say.

     There is ruin and decay
      In the House on the Hill:
     They are all gone away,
     There is nothing more to say.

     Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
     We people on the pavement looked at him:
     He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
     Clean favored, and imperially slim.

     And he was always quietly arrayed,
     And he was always human when he talked;
     But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
     "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

     And he was rich, — yes, richer than a king, —
     And admirably schooled in every grace:
     In fine, we thought that he was everything
     To make us wish that we were in his place.

     So on we worked, and waited for the light,
     And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
     And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
     Went home and put a bullet through his head.

       I

     Not by the grief that stuns and overwhelms
     All outward recognition of revealed
     And righteous omnipresence are the days
     Of most of us affrighted and diseased,
     But rather by the common snarls of life
     That come to test us and to strengthen us
     In this the prentice-age of discontent,
     Rebelliousness, faint-heartedness, and shame.

       II

     When through hot fog the fulgid sun looks down
     Upon a stagnant earth where listless men
     Laboriously dawdle, curse, and sweat,
     Disqualified, unsatisfied, inert, —
     It seems to me somehow that God himself
     Scans with a close reproach what I have done,
     Counts with an unphrased patience my arrears,
     And fathoms my unprofitable thoughts.

     Friendless and faint, with martyred steps and slow,
     Faint for the flesh, but for the spirit free,
     Stung by the mob that came to see the show,
     The Master toiled along to Calvary;
     We gibed him, as he went, with houndish glee,
     Till his dimmed eyes for us did overflow;
     We cursed his vengeless hands thrice wretchedly, —
     And this was nineteen hundred years ago.

     But after nineteen hundred years the shame
     Still clings, and we have not made good the loss
     That outraged faith has entered in his name.
     Ah, when shall come love's courage to be strong!
     Tell me, O Lord — tell me, O Lord, how long
     Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!

     Dear friends, reproach me not for what I do,
     Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
     That I am wearing half my life away
     For bubble-work that only fools pursue.
     And if my bubbles be too small for you,
     Blow bigger then your own:  the games we play
     To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
     Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

     And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;
     And some unprofitable scorn resign,
     To praise the very thing that he deplores;
     So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,
     The shame I win for singing is all mine,
     The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.

     No matter why, nor whence, nor when she came,
     There was her place.  No matter what men said,
     No matter what she was; living or dead,
     Faithful or not, he loved her all the same.
     The story was as old as human shame,
     But ever since that lonely night she fled,
     With books to blind him, he had only read
     The story of the ashes and the flame.

     There she was always coming pretty soon
     To fool him back, with penitent scared eyes
     That had in them the laughter of the moon
     For baffled lovers, and to make him think —
     Before she gave him time enough to wink —
     Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise.

     Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand,
     He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore,
     And brings their crystal cadence back once more
     To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land
     Where God's truth, cramped and fettered with a band
     Of iron creeds, he cheers with golden lore
     Of heroes and the men that long before
     Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned.

     Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go
     For Balder, pierced with Lok's unhappy spray —
     For Balder, all but spared by Frea's charms;
     And still does art's imperial vista show,
     On the hushed sands of Oxus, far away,
     Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms.

     Once, when I wandered in the woods alone,
     An old man tottered up to me and said,
     "Come, friend, and see the grave that I have made
     For Amaryllis."  There was in the tone
     Of his complaint such quaver and such moan
     That I took pity on him and obeyed,
     And long stood looking where his hands had laid
     An ancient woman, shrunk to skin and bone.

     Far out beyond the forest I could hear
     The calling of loud progress, and the bold
     Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear;
     But though the trumpets of the world were glad,
     It made me lonely and it made me sad
     To think that Amaryllis had grown old.

     Ah, — shuddering men that falter and shrink so
     To look on death, — what were the days we live,
     Where life is half a struggle to forgive,
     But for the love that finds us when we go?
     Is God a jester?  Does he laugh and throw
     Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive
     For some vague end that never shall arrive?
     And is He not yet weary of the show?

     Think of it, all ye millions that have planned,
     And only planned, the largess of hard youth!
     Think of it, all ye builders on the sand,
     Whose works are down! —  Is love so small, forsooth?
     Be brave!  To-morrow you will understand
     The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth!

     Because he puts the compromising chart
     Of hell before your eyes, you are afraid;
     Because he counts the price that you have paid
     For innocence, and counts it from the start,
     You loathe him.  But he sees the human heart
     Of God meanwhile, and in God's hand has weighed
     Your squeamish and emasculate crusade
     Against the grim dominion of his art.

     Never until we conquer the uncouth
     Connivings of our shamed indifference
     (We call it Christian faith!) are we to scan
     The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth
     To find, in hate's polluted self-defence
     Throbbing, the pulse, the divine heart of man.

     Vengeful across the cold November moors,
     Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak
     Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek,
     Reverberant through lonely corridors.
     The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce,
     Words out of lips that were no more to speak —
     Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek
     Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors.

     And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!
     The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside
     Skipped with a freezing whisper.  Now and then
     They stopped, and stayed there — just to let him know
     How dead they were; but if the old man cried,
     They fluttered off like withered souls of men.

     Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark, —
     Cursed and unkempt, shrewd, shrivelled, and morose.
     A miser was he, with a miser's nose,
     And eyes like little dollars in the dark.
     His thin, pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;
     And when he spoke there came like sullen blows
     Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close,
     As if a cur were chary of its bark.

     Glad for the murmur of his hard renown,
     Year after year he shambled through the town, —
     A loveless exile moving with a staff;
     And oftentimes there crept into his ears
     A sound of alien pity, touched with tears, —
     And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh.

     There is a fenceless garden overgrown
     With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves;
     And once, among the roses and the sheaves,
     The Gardener and I were there alone.
     He led me to the plot where I had thrown
     The fennel of my days on wasted ground,
     And in that riot of sad weeds I found
     The fruitage of a life that was my own.

     My life!  Ah, yes, there was my life, indeed!
     And there were all the lives of humankind;
     And they were like a book that I could read,
     Whose every leaf, miraculously signed,
     Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed,
     Love-rooted in God's garden of the mind.

     Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine
     With him one day; and after soup and meat,
     And all the other things there were to eat,
     Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine
     And one with wormwood.  Then, without a sign
     For me to choose at all, he took the draught
     Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed
     It off, and said the other one was mine.

     And when I asked him what the deuce he meant
     By doing that, he only looked at me
     And grinned, and said it was a way of his.
     And though I know the fellow, I have spent
     Long time a-wondering when I shall be
     As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is.

     A melancholy face Charles Carville had,
     But not so melancholy as it seemed, —
     When once you knew him, — for his mouth redeemed
     His insufficient eyes, forever sad:
     In them there was no life-glimpse, good or bad, —
     Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed;
     His mouth was all of him that ever beamed,
     His eyes were sorry, but his mouth was glad.

     He never was a fellow that said much,
     And half of what he did say was not heard
     By many of us:  we were out of touch
     With all his whims and all his theories
     Till he was dead, so those blank eyes of his
     Might speak them.  Then we heard them, every word.