Willow Pollen 3

Willow Pollen 3

STARS

 

 

I

 

When joys were vivid I did sit

Within a golden field,

And there I pulled the whitest stars

Green earth can yield.

 

 

II

 

For Bethlehem those stars were named,

The Lord Christ sat with me;

And I was little and I leaned

Upon His knee.

 

 

III

 

Now I am old and joys are gone,

Christ in this room I find

Who brings from distant Bethlehem

Stars for His blind.

 

 

 

 

GREEN GOLDEN DOOR

 

 

Green golden door, swing in, swing in!

Fanning the life a man must live,

Echoes and airs and minstrelsies,

Love and hope that he calleth his,

Fear and hurt and a man’s own sin

Casting them forth and sucking them in,

Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

 

Green golden door, swing in, swing in!

Show me the youth that will not die,

Tell me the dream that has not waked,

Seek me the heart that never ached,

Speak me the truth men will not doubt!

Green golden door, swing out, swing out!

 

Green golden door, swing in, swing out!

Long is the wailing of man’s breath,

Short is the wail of death.

 

 

 

 

BREAD

 

 

I

 

Dear and Unknown,

So you shower white porcelain with roses for me,

Red roses, white roses, roses of rose,

Clipping their stems,

Spreading them out in the bowl

Till the green leaves net the white water with silver,

Glisten with light,

Stir with the stir of their pattern of leaves,

With the breath of their draught of cool water,

With the bloom of rose petals crisp in the peace of white water,

Safe in the shadow of night,

Tasting the gift of new life.

 

 

II

 

Once beauty was bread unto me.

But now I am gone, rob none for my bread.

God gave me a soul no rose, red or white, ever equalled.

Did God give me love?

What doubling of petals has ever brought grief?

What leaf?

In what garden is life crushed always to dreams?

Oh, now, what are roses to me,

Red roses, white roses and roses of rose?

Does God give the roses a soul for their flight?

What petals blow on this journey I go?

 

 

III

 

Dear, my Unknown,

Put no rose to my lips cold in this porcelain bowl of myself!

Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,

Once bread unto me;

Rain them on pulses that beat,

Toss them to hands which are quick to their bloom;

Give them, I beg you, to one who can see;

Feed them, I pray you,--

Roses, red roses, white roses, roses of rose,--

To men who still hunger for bread!

 

 

 

 

OBSCURITY

 

 

I

 

Someday I shall be a leaf

A shining green leaf, fan-folded,

One of many opening in a sunlit wind;

Or I shall be a bit of bark,

Say on the Poverty Birch--

Since I am obscure and poor and short of life

And my work of no account to commerce--,

And I shall flutter there in the wind,

My bit of sooty white rind speckled red and gold like trout skin

And cross-hatched with lines of color;

Or--but I do not know what I shall be

And it does not matter.

God has made so much that alters beautiful:

The jigging shadows of trees

Through which thoughts pass to that which does not change;

The wind that tramps eternity;

The very lava of this universe He turns to frost;

Like frost He throws white fingers up out of loam

And tosses into space the spinning stars.

 

 

II

 

I wonder whether ragged autumn leaves feel ill clad

Remembering their soft dress in spring?

Or whether autumn browns seem dreary to the leaves and grass?

And growing older makes cedars shabby at the stem?

I hear the hard, dry clatter of some dead oak leaves,--

They sound so strong for any wind.

But sometimes when I am tired my dress makes me ashamed

And I am awkward and ill at ease--

Clothes have a way of telling stories

Even as the bark of trees will tell

Which way the storm winds blow--

I remember when I was young

And scarcely knew that money paid for clothes,

My garments were fresh and silken like poplar leaves

And there were more than I needed;

And my hair was soft and thick,

With gold always in it as in the larch in early spring;

And my body was lithe and vigorous;

When I was tired it was the quick dip of the sapling in the storm,

The least clearing wind set me free again

And I stood straight with all my quivering aspen leaves

Shaking the sunlight into dance.

 

 

III

 

Now I lie awake at night, many nights,

Sometimes when I am ill,

Sometimes when I am well,

And think about money and rents in worn clothes

And feel the hunger of old women and backyard cats

As if it were my own hunger;

And the wind noses about for crumbs in a bit of newspaper

And flaps tattered dirty shawls over me,

And my thoughts are bent and old

And I shiver in the dark trying to bless God.

I wonder why God gives Himself to trees

And lets old women starve?

And backyard cats nose for crumbs in a piece of newspaper?

And why certain rich people are as well varnished against cold

As fat beech buds against the frost?

Do you suppose God is a Merchant

And sells this warm lustre from the stars--

Stars hung like bright drops of water in a big night wind--

And plans to make a profit from the rich?...

I am not an anarchist

Except in stars.