Cross Roads

     Oh, pudgy porcelain puppy dog from far-away Japan,
        I saw you in a shop to-day where lonesomely you
           sat
     Upon a velvet cushion that was colored gold and
           purple,
        Between a bowl of goldfish, and a sleeping wooden
           cat.

     I wonder what you thought about as stolidly you sat
           there,
        A grin of faint derision on your pudgy porcelain
           face;
     I wonder if you dreamed about some cherry blossom
           tea house,
        And if the goldfish bored you in their painted
           Chinese case?

     I wonder if you dreamed about the laughter of the
           geishas
        As languidly they danced across the shining
           lacquered floor,
     I wonder if your thoughts were with a purple clump
           of iris
        That bloomed, all through the summer, by the
           little tea house door?

     I wonder if you hated us who passed, you by unheeding,
     You who had known the temples of another, older
           land?
     And, oh, I wonder if you knew when I had paused
           beside you
        To pat you, porcelain puppy dog, that I could
           understand?

     I love color.
     I love flaming reds,
     And vivid greens,
     And royal flaunting purples.
     I love the startled rose of the sun at dawning,
     And the blazing orange of it at twilight.

     I love color.
     I love the drowsy blue of the fringed gentian,
     And the yellow of the goldenrod,
     And the rich russet of the leaves
     That turn at autumn-time....
     I love rainbows,
     And prisms,
     And the tinsel glitter
     Of every shop-window.

     I love color.
     And yet today,
     I saw a brown little bird
     Perched on the dull-gray fence
     Of a weed-filled city yard.
     And as I watched him
     The little bird
     Threw back his head
     Defiantly, almost,
     And sang a song
     That was full of gay ripples,
     And poignant sweetness,
     And half-hidden melody.

     1 love color....
     I love crimson, and azure,
     And the glowing purity of white.
     And yet today,
     I saw a living bit of brown,
     A vague oasis on a streak of gray,
     That brought heaven
     Very near to me.

POSSESSION
     (A TENEMENT MOTHER SPEAKS)

     Y' ain't as pretty as some babies are—
     But, oh, yer mine!
     Yer lil' fingers sorter seem t' twine
     Aroun' my soul.
     Yer eyes are bright, t' me, as any star,
     Yer hair's like gol'.

     Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,
     An' that yer eyes is sorter wan an' pale,
     An' that yer lil' body looks, well, frail....
     Y' ain't been fed
     Like rich folks children are....
     It takes fresh air
     Ter keep a baby fat an' strong an' pink!
     It takes more care,
     'N I have time ter give....
     An' yet, if God'll only let yer live—

     When yer first came,
     An' when I seen yer face, deep down inside
     My heart I felt—well, sorter broke an' tore,
     'Cause when yer came ter me I like ter died,
     An' I had lost my job, there at th' store.
     I looked at you, an' oh, it wasn't pride
     I felt, but bitterness an' shame!

     An' then yer gropin' fingers touched my hand,
     As helpless as a snow-flake in the air,
     Yer didn't know, yer couldn't understand,
     ('Cause yer was new t' this cold-hearted land),
     That life ain't fair!
     Yer didn't know if I was good, 'r bad,
     'R much ter see—
     Y' only knew that I belonged, an' oh,
     Yer trusted me!

     Somehow, right there, I didn't stop ter think
     That yer was white an' thin—instead o' pink,
     An' that yer lips, an' not yer eyes, was blue...
     I got t' thinkin' how, when work was through
     I'd sing t' yer, an' rock yer off t' rest.
     I got t' thinkin' that I had been blessed,
     More than th' richest girl I'd ever knew!
     An' oh, I held yer tight against my breast,
     An', lookin' far ahead, I dreamed an' planned
     That I would work th' fingers off my hand
     Fer you!
     An' mother-love swept on me like a tide,
     An', oh, I cried!

     Some people say yer hair is sandy-red,
     But they don't know;
     They say yer eyes is sorter pale an' weak,
     But it ain't so!
     It's jus' because yer never been well fed,
     An' never had a lil' cribby bed;
     It's jus' because yer never had a peek
     At th' blue sky—
     That's why!

     Yer ain't so pretty as some babies are,
     But, oh, t' me yer like a silver star
     That, through th' darkest night can smile an'
           shine....
     Yer ain't as pretty as some babies are,
     But, God, yer mine!

     He was young,
     And his mind
     Was filled with the science of economics
     That he had studied in college.
     And as we talked about the food riots,
     And high prices,
     And jobless men,
     He said:
     "It's all stupid and wrong,
     "This newspaper talk!
     "Folk have no business to starve.
     "The price of labor always advances,
     "Proportionally,
     "With the price of food!"

     "Any man," he said,
     A moment later,
     "Can earn at least two dollars a day
     "By working on a railroad,
     "Or in the street cleaning department!
     "What if potatoes DO cost
     "Eight cents a pound?
     "Wages are high, too....
     "People have no reason to starve."

     I listened to him prayerfully
     (More or less),
     For I had never been to college,
     And I didn't know much about economics.

     But—
     As I walked to the window,
     And looked out over the veiled, mysterious lights
     Of the city,
     I couldn't help thinking
     Of a little baby
     That I had seen a few days ago;
     A baby of the slums—thin, and joyless,
     And old of face,
     But with eyes
     Like the eyes of the Christ Child.. ..
     A baby—crying for bread—

     And.... I wondered....

     They think that we're just animals, almost,
     We men who work with steel.
     A lady visitor was here th' other day,
     She looked at me, an' I could hear her say,
     "My, what a life! I s'pose his only boast
     "Is muscles!"
                    She's wrong. We feel
     A certain pride, a certain sort o' joy,
     When some great blazin' mass is tamed an' turned
     Into an engine wheel. Our hands get burned,
     An' sometimes half our hair is scorched away—
     But, well, it's fun!
                           Perhaps you've seen a boy,
     Who did hard work he loved, an' called it play?
     Know what I mean? Well, that's the way we feel,
     We men who work with steel.

     A lady visitor was here th' other day;
     She held her skirts right dainty in her hand,
     An' as she passed me by, I heard her say,
     "I wonder what he THINKS—or if his head
     "Is just a piece o' metal, too!" She said
     It laughin'-like.
                        She didn't understand,
     She couldn't know that we have dreams as grand,
     As any SHE could have. We wonder where
     Th' rivets that we make are goin' to,
     An' if th' engine wheels we turn, will go
     Through tropic heat, or if they'll plow through snow;
     An' as we watch, we sorter grow to care
     About th' steel. Why it's as shiny blue
     As j'ew'ls! An' every bit is, well, a part
     Of life to us. Sometimes my very heart
     Thanks God that I've a man-sized job to do!

     Over a slum his sign swings out,
     Over a street where the city's shout
     Is deadened into a sob of pain—
     Where even joy has a minor strain.

     "Violins made," read the sign. It swings
     Over a street where sorrow sings;
     Over a street where people give
     Their right to laugh for a chance to live.

     He works alone with his head bent low
     And all the sorrow and all the woe,
     And all the pride of a banished race,
     Stare from the eyes that light his face.

     But he never sighs and his slender hand,
     Fastens the cat-gut, strand by strand—
     Fastens it tight, but tenderly
     As if he dreams of some melody.

     Some melody of his yesterday....
     Will it, I wonder, find its way
     Out to the world, when fingers creep
     Over the strings that lie asleep?

     Or will the city's misery
     Mould the song in a tragic key—
     Making its sweetest, faintest breath
     Thrill with sorrow, and throb with death?

     Maker of music—who can know
     Where the work of his hand shall go?
     Maybe its slightest phrase will bring,
     Comfort to ease the suffering—

     Maybe his dreams will have their part
     Buried deep in the music's heart....
     Out of a chain of dreary days,
     Joy may come as some master plays!

     Over a slum his sign hangs out,
     Over a street where dread meets doubt—
     "Violins made," reads the sign. It swings
     Over a street where sorrow sings.

     (Side by side and silent—eagerly they stand—
        Souls look out of tired eyes, hands are clasped
           together,
        Through the thrilling softness of the late spring
           weather,
     All a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

     Young love and Maytime, hear the joyous strain,
        Listen to a serenade written long ago!
        You will recognize the song—you who care must
           know
     Fear that blends with happiness, joy that touches
           pain.

     Rabbi with the grizzled beard hear adventure's story!
        Hear the tale the music tells, thrilling with ro-
           mance,
        Hear the clatter of a sword, hear a broken lance
     Falling from some hero's hand, red with blood-
           stained glory.

     (Tenements on either side, light-flecked in the gloam-
           ing,
        Tenements on either side, stark and tall and gray—
        Ah, the folk who line your halls wander far away,
     All a crowded city slum is a-gypsie roaming!)

     Woman with the brooding gaze, hear the lilting
           laughter
        Of the children that you loved, feel their soft-
           lipped kisses;
        Think of all the little joys that a hard world
           misses-
     What though bitter loneliness always follows after?

     Gangster with the shifty eyes, listen to the sighing
        Of the hymn tune that you heard at your mother's
           knee;
        Listen to the restless ghost of the used-to-be,
     Listen to a wistful ghost's empty-hearted crying.

     (Tenements on either side—menacing they stand—
        Light-flecked in the softness of the late spring
           weather....
        But young love and broken life are standing close
           together,
     And all a city slum is out to listen to the band.)

     He's very old, his music box is old and rusty, too,
        And half the notes of it are harsh, and half of
           them are slow;
     One wonders if the coat he wears could ever have
           been new—
        And if the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
           ago.

     He finds a sunny place to stand, and lifts his bleary
           eyes,
        And smiles a bit—a toothless smile half touched,
           perhaps, with fear;
     And though he cannot see them he is looking at the
           skies,
        As if he prays, but silently, for hope and faith
           and cheer.

     The foreign women pass him by, their tarnished coins
           held tight,
        They toss their heads and will not hear his music's
           wistful hum—
     But through each alley way and street, like moths
           that seek the light,
        With eager eyes and laughing lips the little chil-
           dren come.

     He plays his ancient, shaky song, his mouth moves to
           its sway,
        He does not know the tune of it is old and out of
           key;
     For, through his eyes, a soul stares out that wanders
           far away,
        In some fair land of youth and love—some land
           that used to be.

     The little children cluster close, bareheaded, bare of
           limb—
        They hold their ragged frocks and dance, they do
           not care—or know,
     That they are like a garden place, a fragrant dream
           to him,
        Or that the tune he plays was quite forgotten long
           ago.

     Temptation came to me today,
     And oh, I felt that I must stray
     Down primrose paths, forgetting all....
     The city's fevered, siren call
     Spoke to my soul, its whispered cry
     Said, "Live, for Youth, too soon, will die!"

     So all alone, when work was done,
     I sought the park. The setting sun
     Had left a bit of warmth for me—
     I found a bench beneath a tree,
     And sat and thought.
                           My life is hard,
     Sometimes my heart seems battle-scarred,
     With longings keen, and bitter fears,
     And want, and suffering, and tears.

     Temptation spoke, and Youth spoke back;
     The night seemed cold and grimly black,
     And every light was like a star
     That cleft the sky—they were so far,
     So very far away! And I
     Was lonely, there, beneath the sky....

     There used to be a little farm
     A tiny place, remote from harm;
     There used to be a mother frail
     And sweet, with hair as silver-pale
     As the faint moon. She heard me say
     The words when first I learned to pray....

     Above me in the silent trees,
     I heard the rustles of the breeze,
     It sounded like her step, as light
     As dreams across an endless night.
     My mother—
                   Ah, the name so sweet,
     Brought memories on noiseless feet,
     And softly in the darkness, there,
     I breathed my little childhood prayer....

     Do prayers have answers? As I prayed
     A Presence came, and gently laid
     A Hand upon my arm. I knew
     That Someone kind, and good, and true
     Was very near. Upon my soul
     A peace swept down, and left it whole.
     I felt a calm steal over me,
     The same that stilled the troubled sea
     Where Jesus walked.
                          My fears were laid,
     Temptation left me unafraid.
     And as I smiled, there in the park,
     A voice spoke through the fragrant dark.
     "Be of good cheer!" the words rang out
     Like music through the city's shout.

     And all the lights that I could see
     Were stars of home, agleam for me!

     I love you, dear....
     Here, alone in my room tonight, it is all that matters,
     Out through my window, vaguely hushed, the city
        clatters,
     Telling ever its tale of woe and mirth,
     Sighing ever its song of death and birth,
     Singing ever its potent, mad refrain,
     Swept with tears and the bitter weight of pain.

     Here in my room I kneel, alone, to pray,
     But there seems very little, dear, to say
     Even to God. So, kneeling by my bed,
     I think dim thoughts, and dream long dreams instead.
     Wide-eyed I kneel and watch the candle flame,
     Making swift shadows on the wall; your name
     Throbs in my heart, and makes my pulse to thrill—
     Wide-eyed I kneel, with soul a-light, until
     Somewhere a clock starts chiming.... It is
        late....
     Out through the dark wan tenderness and hate
     Press pale kisses upon the city's lips—
     Dawn comes creeping, the weary nighttime slips
     Furtively by, like some hurt thief with plunder....
     Dear, I cross to my window, and I wonder
     Whether you are asleep, or if you lie,
     Sleepless beneath the smoke-hung purple sky....

     Down in the streets the tired city vaguely clatters,
     Here alone in my room I stand, and nothing matters,
     Only.... I love you!

     The stage is set, like a garden,
     And the lights are flickering and low;
     And a Romeo with fat legs,
     Is telling a Juliet with dyed hair and tired,
           disillusioned eyes,
     That love—real love—is the only thing in the world.

     And up in the balcony of the theatre
     Where the seats cost twenty-five cents,
     A slim little girl in a shiny serge frock,
     And a boy with a wistful mouth
     Are holding hands.
     And as they listen, breathlessly, to the studied voice
           of the actor,
     Their fingers are all a-thrill,
     With the music of the ages.

     A dusty, musty little shop set in a dingy street,
     A doorsill old and scarred and worn by many tired
           feet,
     A row of cases, vaguely glassed, a safe against the
           wall,
     And, oh, the ache of many hearts—the fabric of it
           all!

     A violin with broken strings that fingers have
           caressed,
     A diamond-set betrothal ring that lover's lips have
           pressed,
     A high shell comb, a spangled fan, a filmy bit of lace,
     A heart-shaped locket, ribbon-tied, that frames a
           laughing face.

     A pair of blankets folded up, an overcoat, a shawl,
     A tall old clock that might have chimed in some
           wainscoted hall,
     And in the farthest corner, where the purple shadows
           lie,
     The echo of a woman's sob, the phantom of a sigh.

     Ah, wedding-rings—a score of them—not many of
           them new,
     A grim revolver laid beside a baby's tiny shoe,
     A satin coat, a ragged gown, a gold-clasped book of
           verse,
     A necklace of bedraggled pearls, an empty silver
           purse.

     A dreary weary little shop set in a sunless place.
     A little shop where love has met with sorrow and
           disgrace....
     A row of cases, double-locked, a safe against the wall;
     And, oh, the ache of countless hearts that lies
           behind it all!

     I saw a crocus blooming in the park,
        I felt a hint of magic in the air,
        I heard faint music sighing everywhere,
     And so, as all the world, grew softly dark—

     I found again the hope that never dies,
        And hungrily, with out-flung arms, I came
        Once more to you. And when you spoke my
           name
     I read springtime eternal in your eyes!

ROSE PETALS IN THE EARLY RAIN,
     FORGOTTEN DREAMS,
     AND A TORN SKETCH BOOK!

     There's a li'l empty closet in a li'l empty room,
        Where th' shadows lie like dust upon th' floor;
     It uster be HIS closet not s' very long ago—
        That's why I don't go near it any more.
     Every li'l hook is empty, 'ceptin' one, an' from it
           hangs
        (Th' whitest li'l ghost that ever grew
     In a heart that's near ter breakin' with it's agony o'
           grief! )
        An empty flannel nightie piped with blue.

     Jus' a li'l flannel nightie that was shrunken in th'
           wash,
        In spots th' blue has ran inter th' white;
     But I've seen him in it, sleepy, when I tucked th'
           covers in,
        An' kissed him, soft, an took away th' light.
     Jus' a li'l flannel nightie, hangin' empty on a hook,
        As if it was ashamed—or in disgrace—
     Jus' a li'l flannel nightie an' it ain't no use no more,
        But I couldn't bear t' take it from its place!

     Jus' a li'l empty closet in a li'l empty room,
        Where th' shadows lie like dust upon th' floor—
     It uster be his closet, where I'd put his clothes away,
        That's why I hate ter go there any more.
     But I've left his li'l nightie hangin' on a single hook,
        I sorter had ter leave it there, I guess;
     Ah, that li'l empty closet in that li'l empty room
        Is crowded—crowded ful o' loneliness!

     I. To A DREAM BABY

     Oh, little child whose face I cannot see,
        I feel your presence very near tonight,
     I feel the warmth of you creep close to me...
        The grey moths drift across the candlelight,
     And tiny shadows sway across the floor,
        Like wistful elves who do a fairy dance;
     The wind is tapping softly at the door,
        And rain is beating, like a silver lance,
     Against the tightly curtained window pane.
        Oh, little child whose face I cannot see,
     The loneliness, the twilight, and the rain,
        Have brought your dearness very close to me.
     And though I rock with empty arms, I sing
        A lullaby that I have made to croon
     Into your drowsy shadow ear—a song
        About the star sheep and the shepherd moon!

     Sleep, little tired eyes, close to the heart of me,
        Sleep while the sun trembles low in the west;
     You who are dream of my dreams, and a part of
           me—
        Sleep with your head lying warm on my breast.

     Dear, there's a land that is filled with red flowers,
        Poppies, they call them, that sway in the breeze;
     Sometimes their petals, in soft scarlet showers,
        Fall in warm drifts that are high as your
           knees....
     Dear, in your dreams you will laugh as you roll
           through them,
        Waving your arms in an effort to creep;
     Gently they nod as the wind sings its soul through
           them,
        Sleep, little tired eyes, sleep....

     Dear, in this land there's a sky like a feather,
        Blue in some places, or white as a star;
     And there's a fragrance—a plant that's called heather
        Grows in the spot where the butterflies are.
     Dear, there are pastures as gay as glad laughter,
        Dotted with hundreds of woolly white sheep,
     Dear, you can pat them, for they'll follow after
        You, as you sleep....

     Dream, little tired eyes, close to the breast of me,
        Wander in fields where red flowers are gloaming;
     All of my heart wanders with you, the rest of me
        Watches your dreaming....

     I dreamed your face, one night, when Heaven seemed
           resting,
        Against the troubled fever of the earth;
     I dreamed that vivid throated birds were nesting,
        In trees that shook with elfin-hearted mirth.
     I dreamed that star-like purple flowers were springing
        A-throb with perfume all about the place,
     And that there was a far-off sound of singing—
        And then—I dreamed your face!

     I dreamed your face, and then I waked from
           dreaming,
        (The creeping dawn seemed very cold and bare!)
     The rising sun seemed pallid in its beaming,
        Because its coming did not find you there!
     And I—I rose despondent in the morning,
        As one whose burning thirst has not been slaked;
     I dreamed your face, a wonder world adorning,
        And then—I waked.

     And so I went upon a quest to find you,
        A quest that led through many bitter years;
     I journeyed far with strands of love to bind you,
        And found, not you, but bitterness and tears—
     So I returned, discouraged, through the gloaming,
        My shoulders bowed with weariness unguessed;
     I came back, unsuccessful, from my roaming—
        My sorry quest!

     I had a bit of garden that I tended,
        It helped me dream, again, my dream of you—
     It was a joyous place of colors blended—
        A place where pansies and Sweet William grew.
     And one bright day I hummed as I was planting
        A border row of flowers slim and fair,
     And raised my eyes to see pale sunlight slanting
        Across your hair!

     I am myself—you cannot take my dreams
        And pull the filmy stuff of them apart!
     I am myself—and life IS what it seems.
        I am myself, and love is in my heart!
     You cannot make me think by fast set rule,
        You cannot laugh beliefs like mine away,
     Experience MAY be a bitter school,
        And yet.... The golden sun shines every day,
     And stars at night lend magic to the sky,
        And all the world is vividly a-glow,
     You cannot make me pause to question why
        For we who dare to dream have learned to know!

     THE WORLD IS RIGHT! There is a friendly One
        Who smiles when we have tried to do our part—
     I will not flinch, my journey's just begun....
        I AM MYSELF—YOU CANNOT BREAK MY HEART!

     God made the rivers, the hills, and the seas,
     God made the flowers, the grass, and the trees;
     God made the clouds, and the waves, silver-crested,
     Then God made the hands of a baby—and rested!

     How did He make them? Well, nobody knows—
     Some say He dreamed of the bud of a rose,
     And that He woke as the dawn swept away
     Night in the dancing pink promise of day.

     Maybe He thought of the light of a star,
     (That's why He made them as soft as they are!)
     Maybe He watched while a new butterfly,
     Light as a sunbeam, went fluttering by.

     Maybe He walked in a garden, dew-kissed,
     That's why He made them as frail as the mist—
     Then as He leaned from His heaven above,
     God made them strong as His greatest gift—LOVE!

     God made the mountains—we wonder at these—
     God made the splendor of sunsets and trees;
     God made vast mines where a world's wealth is piled,
     Then God made the hands of a baby—and smiled!

     All along the broad highway the little dreams were
           growing,
        White as hope, and red as life, and bluer than the
           sea—
     All along the broad highway I felt their petals
           blowing,
        Like a storm of fragrant snow across the lips of
           me!
     So I danced with joyous heart, and bent above them
           singing.
        So I skipped along the road and smiled into the
           skies;
     ALL ALONG THE BROAD HIGHWAY THE LITTLE DREAMS WERE
           SPRINGING,
        FRAGRANT AS THE DEW OF STARS AND GLAD AS BUTTERFLIES!

     All along the broad highway I danced and sang unheeding,
        Till One came with haughty step and traveled by
           my side;
     Traveled first beside my path then, suddenly, was
           leading—
        One who drew me after him and murmured, "I AM
           PRIDE!"
     All along the broad highway I hurried, ever faster,
        Faster through the purple dust that blinded like
           a mist,
     Blinded me until I felt that only Pride was master,
        (And I saw the little dreams through clouds of
           amethyst!)

     All along the broad highway I toiled, no longer
           glancing
        Anywhere but straight ahead... I had no
           heart to sing—
     All along the broad highway, my feet no longer
           dancing;
        Followed I the steps of Pride, and felt the thick
           dust sting
     In the tired eyes of me... the eyes too sad for
           weeping!
        Still I struggled—struggled on until quite
           suddenly—
     All the strength that kept me up seemed drowsy,
           almost sleeping—
        And I paused with drooping head and lo, Pride
           went from me!

     All along the broad highway the silent dusk was
           stealing,
        Quite alone I stood and stared about me in the
           gloom;
     And the voice of me was still, and my heart was
           kneeling
        Like a weary pilgrim soul in an attic room.
     And I stretched my empty hands to where the ghostly
           lighting,
        Showed a crumpled mist of blue, a heap of white
           and red—
     There along the broad highway like armies after
           fighting,
        All the gallant little dreams were lying gaunt and
           dead!

     My mother's kinder chubby—she's fat, th' fellers
        say—
     My mother's kinder chubby, but I like her that a-way!
     'Cause she's awful sorter jolly, an' she makes th'
        bestest pies,
     An' she laughs when I'm a-jokin' 'till th' tears are in
        her eyes.
     An' she pats me on th' shoulder when I'm feelin'
        sad an' blue,
     An' whispers, "Little feller, yer mother's proud o'
        you!"

     She don't wear silks 'at rustle, like Tommie's mother
        does,
     But I like her gingham better 'cause it's—well, just
        'cause it's hers!
     An' she don't look young an' girl-like, an' her hands
        are sorter red,
     But, my, they're awful gentle when she tucks you
        inter bed....
     She hasn't got a di'mond like th' lady crost th' street,
     But she's got two great big dimples, an' her smile is
        mighty sweet!

     My mother's sorter chubby—but say, her step is
        light—
     She's never cross 'r tired—not even when it's night!
     An' her shoulders JUST as comfy when yer heart is
        feelin' sore,
     When you wish you was a baby—an' not a boy no
        more—
     Oh, her arms are cushion tender at th' twilight time
        o' day,
     Yes—my mother's sorter chubby—But I like her that
        a-way!

     You told me, last night,
     In a strange and sudden burst of confidence;
     That a New England ancestor of yours,
     Had burned witches—
     And at last I knew....

     Why your eyes are always so grim,
     And why your mouth is cut,
     In a straight line,
     And why you can never see beauty and mirth
     In the sweep of wind over a wheat field,
     Or in the sunlight on a baby's hair.
     At last I knew
     Why you can never see romance
     In the long gypsie trail,
     Or magic,
     In the still purple woods.

     I knew why life,
     To you,
     Was something to be struggled with,
     Not a glorious adventure;
     And why death was the end of things,
     And not the beginning.
     And I knew at last,
     Why you could never understand,
     That tears may cover laughter,
     And that laughter may be a veil
     For tears.

     You told me, last night,
     That an ancestor of yours,
     Had burned witches,
     And, oh, as I sat in the candlelight,
     Watching you,
     I couldn't help wishing,
     That somewhere behind you, in the shadows,

     There was another ancestor—
     A gay cavalier ancestor—
     Who rode hard,
     And fought with his sword,
     And wore his hat, rakishly,
     On the back of his head,
     And knew—love.

     I had not meant to love again—all that was lost to
        me,
     For I had felt love's fear and pain, as well as ecstasy;
     I closed my heart, and locked the door, and tossed
        away the key.

     All through the winter-time I sat before my flaming
        fire,
     And listened to the sleigh-bells chime, and watched
        the flames leap higher,
     To grasp at shadows, sombre-hued, with fiendish, red
        desire.

     And then mad April came again—I felt the breezes
        blowing,
     And I forgot the fear, the pain.... I only knew
        that, glowing,
     In shady nook and garden spot, pale hyacinths were
        growing.

     And when across the perfumed lea (for nothing could
        defeat him! )
     My vagrant love crept back to me... I did not
        mean to greet him;
     But April opened up my heart, and, oh, I ran to
        meet him!

     I.

     The camel tracks led whitely across the desert sand,
     And one came riding after with furtive mystery;
     Ah, one came swiftly riding, a dagger in his hand,
     And he was bent on plunder—a nomad thief was he!
     He did not heed the starshine that glimmered from
        on high,
     For laden beasts had traveled along the lonely way.
     He did not see the glory that swept the Eastern sky,
     For he had far to journey before the dawn of day.

     He followed through the desert, and then at last he
        saw
     An inn upon the outskirts of some small village place;
     And there were camels resting before the stable
        door—
     He left his horse, crept nearer, with greed upon his
        face;
     And peering o'er the threshold, he saw that gold was
        piled,
     With precious stones and incense, before a little
        Child.

     II.

     A thief he was by calling, who to the stable came,
     A thief whose youthful fingers had learned to steal
        their fill;
     A thief he was who valued his heritage of shame,
     YET STANDING BY THAT DOORWAY, HE DID NOT WANT TO
        KILL!
     A thief he was, but—watching,—he saw a Baby face,
     And, bending near, a Mother, whose joy was undefiled;
     And for one breathless moment across the stable
        space,
     The Baby's eyes gazed at him—AND THEN THE BABY
        SMILED!

     A thief he was by calling, but there beside the door
     He saw a Holy Vision—he knelt and tried to pray—
     And something, thrilling, whispered of love forever-
        more—
     And then he rose, half weeping—and it was Christmas Day!
     A thief he was by calling, who felt the Father's plan,
     But back across the desert there silent rode a man!

     III.

     The years are met as milestones upon a winding road,
     And some slip by like shadows, and some are fair
        with flowers;
     And some seem dreary, hopeless—a leaden chain of
        hours—
     And some are like a heart-throb, and some a heavy
        load,
     The thief, a thief no longer, a lonely figure strode
     Heart-weary down life's pathway, through tempest
        and through showers,
     But always prayed that somewhere among sweet-
        scented bowers,
     A Baby's smile might show him where happiness
        abode.

     For he was often hungry—a thief, reformed, must
        eat—
     And there were folk who shunned him, and turned
        his plea away;
     And there were those who scourged him from out
        the market place—
     (They were the ones who told him to earn his bread
        and meat!)
     Yet ever he walked onward, and dreamed of some
        fair day
     When he would find the Christ-Child with love upon
        His face!