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

       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

     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,
     

     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

     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,
    

     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

       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

     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.