bread
Of the disinherited!
Where the Towers of Hunger loom,
Crowding in the dregs of doom;
Where the lost sky peering through
Sees no more the grudging grass,—
Only this mud-mirrored blue,
Like some shattered looking-glass.

    (Under, with the sorry reaping!
    Underneath the stones of weeping,
    For the Dark to have in keeping.)

Byway, you, so foully marred;
You, whose sodden walls and scarred,
See no light, but only where
Fevered lamps are set to stare
In the eyes of such despair!
Tell me—as a Byway can—
Was this Beggar once a Man?
'Rich man—Poor man—Beggar man—Thief!'
Like and lost as leaf and leaf.
Stammering out your wrongs and shames,
Must you cry their very names?
Must you sob your shame, your grief?
—'Poor man—Poor man!—Beggar—Thief.'

III

Highway, where the Sun is wide;
Byway, where the lost ones hide,
Byway, where the Soul must hark,
Byway, dreadful with the Dark:
    Can you nothing do with Man?
Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief,
Learns he nothing, even of grief?
Must it still be all his wonder
Some men soar, while some go under?
He has heard, and he has seen:
Make him know the thing you mean.
He has prayed since time began,—
He's so curious of the Plan!
He will pray you till he die,
For the Whence and for the Why;
Mad for wisdom—when 'tis cheaper!
'Why should my way lead me deeper?
Am I, then, my Brother's keeper?'

Show him, Byway, if you can;
Lest he end as he began,
Rich and poor,—this beggar, Man.

But we did walk in Eden,
  Eden, the garden of God;—
There, where no beckoning wonder
Of all the paths we trod,
No choiring sun-filled vineyard,
No voice of stream or bird,
But was some radiant oracle
And flaming with the Word!

Mine ears are dim with voices;
Mine eyes yet strive to see
The black things here to wonder at,
The mirth,—the misery.
Beloved, who wert with me there,
  How came these shames to be?—
  On what lost star are we?

Men say: The paths of gladness
  By men were never trod!—
But we have walked in Eden,
  Eden, the garden of God.

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
    And I am wearied. And the day is done.
    Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows—fading, gold to gray,
  Their laughters turned to musing—ah, let me
  Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
    Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low. Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
    Along the meadows and the paling foam,
    All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down. One reedy murmur blurs
  The silence of the earth; and from the warm
  Face of the field the upward savors swarm
    Into the darkness. And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
    The creatures: cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
    Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness. And that best,—
  O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
  With human-aching heart, as I a star—
    Tempest of plumèd joys, just to be near!

So close, so like, so dear; and whom I love
    More than thou lovest them, or lovest me.
    So beautiful to see,
Ah, and to touch! When those far lights above
  Scorch me with farness—lights that call and call
  To the far heart, and answer not at all;
    Save that they will not let the darkness be.

And what am I? That I alone of these
    Make me most glad at noon? That I should mark
    The after-glow go dark?
This hour to sing—but never have—heart's-ease!
  That when the sorrowing winds fly low, and croon
  Outside our happy windows their old rune,
    Beautiful Mother, I must wake, and hark?

Who am I? Why for me this iron Must?
    Burden the moon-white ox would never bear;
    Load that he cannot share,
He, thine imperial hostage of the dust.
  Else should I look to see the god's surprise
  Flow from his great unscornful, lovely eyes—
    The ox thou gavest to partake my care.

Yea, all they bear their yoke of sun-filled hours.
    I, lord at noon, at nightfall no more free,
    Take on more heavily
The yoke of hid, intolerable Powers.
  —Then pushes here, in my forgetful hand,
  This near one's breathless plea to understand.
    Starward I look; he, even so, at me!

And she who shines within my house, my sight
    Of the heart's eyes, my hearth-glow, and my rain,
    My singing's one refrain—
Are there for her no tidings from the height?
  For her, my solace, likewise lost and far,
  Islanded with me here, on this lone star
    Washed by the ceaseless tides of dark and light.

What shall it profit, that I built for her
    A little wayside shelter from the stark
    Sky that we hear, and mark?
Lo, in her eyes all dreams that ever were!
  And cheek-to-cheek with me she shares the quest,
  Her heart, as mine for her, sole tented rest
    From light to light of day; from dark—till Dark.

Yea, but for her, how should I greatly care
    Whither and whence? But that the dark should blast
    Our bright! To hold her fast,—
Yet feel this dread creep gray along the air.
  To know I cannot hold her so my own,
  But under surge of joy, the surges moan
    That threaten us with parting at the last!

Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.
    I know from echoes far behind the sky.
    I know; I know not why.
Even from thy golden, wide oblivion:
Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting,
  Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing;
  Thy leave to suffer—yea, to sing and die,
    Beautiful Mother! …
                 Ah, Whose child am I?

Love sang to me. And I went down the stair,
And out into the darkness and the dew;
And bowed myself unto the little grass,
And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust
Of earth without a face. So let me be.

For as I hear, the singing makes of me
My own desire, and momently I grow.
Yea, all the while with hands of melody,
The singing makes me, out of what I was,
Even as a potter shaping Eden clay.

Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing,
'Beloved, thus art thou; and even so
Lovely art thou, Beloved!'—Even so,
As the Sea weaves her path before the light,
I hear, I hear, and I am glorified.

Love sang to me, and I am glorified
Because of some commandment in the stars.
And I shall grow in favour and in shining,
Till at the last I am all-beautiful;
Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more.