Courage and Strength

Roosters


At four o'clock
in the gun-metal blue dark
we hear the first crow of the first cock


just below
the gun-metal blue window
and immediately there is an echo


off in the distance,
then one from the backyard fence,
then one, with horrible insistence,


grates like a wet match
from the broccoli patch,
flares,and all over town begins to catch.


Cries galore
come from the water-closet door,
from the dropping-plastered henhouse floor,


where in the blue blur
their rusting wives admire,
the roosters brace their cruel feet and glare


with stupid eyes
while from their beaks there rise
the uncontrolled, traditional cries.


Deep from protruding chests
in green-gold medals dressed,
planned to command and terrorize the rest,


the many wives
who lead hens' lives
of being courted and despised;


deep from raw throats
a senseless order floats
all over town. A rooster gloats


over our beds
from rusty irons sheds
and fences made from old bedsteads,


over our churches
where the tin rooster perches,
over our little wooden northern houses,


making sallies
from all the muddy alleys,
marking out maps like Rand McNally's:



glass-headed pins,
oil-golds and copper greens,
anthracite blues, alizarins,


each one an active
displacement in perspective;
each screaming, "This is where I live!"


Each screaming
"Get up! Stop dreaming!"
Roosters, what are you projecting?


You, whom the Greeks elected
to shoot at on a post, who struggled
when sacrificed, you whom they labeled


"Very combative..."
what right have you to give
commands and tell us how to live,


cry "Here!" and "Here!"
and wake us here where are
unwanted love, conceit and war?


The crown of red
set on your little head
is charged with all your fighting blood


Yes, that excrescence
makes a most virile presence,
plus all that vulgar beauty of iridescence


Now in mid-air
by two they fight each other.
Down comes a first flame-feather,


and one is flying,
with raging heroism defying
even the sensation of dying.


And one has fallen
but still above the town
his torn-out, bloodied feathers drift down;


and what he sung
no matter. He is flung
on the gray ash-heap, lies in dung


with his dead wives
with open, bloody eyes,
while those metallic feathers oxidize.



St. Peter's sin
was worse than that of Magdalen
whose sin was of the flesh alone;


of spirit, Peter's,
falling, beneath the flares,
among the "servants and officers."


Old holy sculpture
could set it all together
in one small scene, past and future:


Christ stands amazed,
Peter, two fingers raised
to surprised lips, both as if dazed.


But in between
a little cock is seen
carved on a dim column in the travertine,


explained by gallus canit;
flet Petrus underneath it,
There is inescapable hope, the pivot;


yes, and there Peter's tears
run down our chanticleer's
sides and gem his spurs.


Tear-encrusted thick
as a medieval relic
he waits. Poor Peter, heart-sick,


still cannot guess
those cock-a-doodles yet might bless,
his dreadful rooster come to mean forgiveness,


a new weathervane
on basilica and barn,
and that outside the Lateran


there would always be
a bronze cock on a porphyry
pillar so the people and the Pope might see


that event the Prince
of the Apostles long since
had been forgiven, and to convince


all the assembly
that "Deny deny deny"
is not all the roosters cry.



In the morning
a low light is floating
in the backyard, and gilding


from underneath
the broccoli, leaf by leaf;
how could the night have come to grief?


gilding the tiny
floating swallow's belly
and lines of pink cloud in the sky,


the day's preamble
like wandering lines in marble,
The cocks are now almost inaudible.


The sun climbs in,
following "to see the end,"
faithful as enemy, or friend.

The Weakest Thing

Which is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?
The cloud, a little wind can move
Where'er it listeth?
The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?


What time that yellow leaf was green,
My days were gladder;
But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.
Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring
My lips asunder -
Then is mine heart the weakest thing
Itself can ponder.


Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined
And drop together,
And at a blast, which is not wind,
The forests wither,
Thou, from the darkening deathly curse
To glory breakest, -
The Strongest of the universe
Guarding the weakest!

Sonnet XVI: And Yet, Because Thou

And yet, because thou overcomest so,
Because thou art more noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and complete a thing
In lifting upward, as in crushing low!
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth;
Even so, Belovèd, I at last record,
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement at the word.
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.

Sonnet 16 - And yet, because thou overcomest so

XVI

And yet, because thou overcomest so,
Because thou art more noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and complete a thing
In lifting upward, as in crushing low!
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,
Even so, Beloved, I at last record,
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement at the word.
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.

Cheerfulness Taught By Reason

I THINK we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope
Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon gray blank of sky, we might grow faint
To muse upon eternity's constraint
Round our aspirant souls; but since the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop,
For a few days consumed in loss and taint ?
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted
And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road
Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints ? At least it may be said
' Because the way is short, I thank thee, God. '

Limerick: There was a Young Lady of Norway,

There was a Young Lady of Norway,
Who casually sat on a doorway;
When the door squeezed her flat,
She exclaimed, 'What of that?'
This courageous Young Lady of Norway.

i sing of Olaf glad and big

i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or


his wellbelovéd colonel (trig
westpointer most succinctly bred)
took erring Olaf soon in hand;
but-though an host of overjoyed
noncoms (first knocking on the head
him) do through icy waters roll
that helplessness which others stroke
with brushes recently employed
anent this muddy toiletbowl,
while kindred intellects evoke
allegiance per blunt instruments-
Olaf (being to all intents
a corpse and wanting any rag
upon what God unto him gave)
responds, without getting annoyed
"I will not kiss your fucking flag"


straightaway the silver bird looked grave
(departing hurriedly to shave)


but-though all kinds of officers
(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)
their passive prey did kick and curse
until for wear their clarion
voices and boots were much the worse,
and egged the firstclassprivates on
his rectum wickedly to tease
by means of skillfully applied
bayonets roasted hot with heat-
Olaf (upon what were once knees)
does almost ceaselessly repeat
"there is some shit I will not eat"


our president,being of which
assertions duly notified
threw the yellowsonofabitch
into a dungeon,where he died


Christ (of His mercy infinite)
i pray to see;and Olaf,too


preponderatingly because
unless statistics lie he was
more brave than me:more blond than you

The True Encounter

"Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.


"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start
Good neighbours, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.


At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.

The Bean-Stalk

Ho, Giant! This is I!
I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!
La,—but it's lovely, up so high!


This is how I came,—I put
Here my knee, there my foot,
Up and up, from shoot to shoot—
And the blessed bean-stalk thinning
Like the mischief all the time,
Till it took me rocking, spinning,
In a dizzy, sunny circle,
Making angles with the root,
Far and out above the cackle
Of the city I was born in,
Till the little dirty city
In the light so sheer and sunny
Shone as dazzling bright and pretty
As the money that you find
In a dream of finding money—
What a wind! What a morning!—


Till the tiny, shiny city,
When I shot a glance below,
Shaken with a giddy laughter,
Sick and blissfully afraid,
Was a dew-drop on a blade,
And a pair of moments after
Was the whirling guess I made,—
And the wind was like a whip


Cracking past my icy ears,
And my hair stood out behind,
And my eyes were full of tears,
Wide-open and cold,
More tears than they could hold,
The wind was blowing so,
And my teeth were in a row,
Dry and grinning,
And I felt my foot slip,
And I scratched the wind and whined,
And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,
With my eyes shut blind,—
What a wind! What a wind!


Your broad sky, Giant,
Is the shelf of a cupboard;
I make bean-stalks, I'm
A builder, like yourself,
But bean-stalks is my trade,
I couldn't make a shelf,
Don't know how they're made,
Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—



La, what a climb!

Not Even My Pride Shall Suffer Much

Not even my pride shall suffer much;
Not even my pride at all, maybe,
If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch
Be loosed by you and not by me,
Will suffer; I have been so true
A vestal to that only pride
Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor
Sand, nor its embers scattered, for,
See all these years, it has not died.


And if indeed, as I dare think,
You cannot push this patient flame,
By any breath your lungs could store,
Even for a moment to the floor
To crawl there, even for a moment crawl,
What can you mix for me to drink
That shall deflect me? What you do
Is either malice, crude defense
Of ego, or indifference:
I know these things as well as you;
You do not dazzle me at all—


Some love, and some simplicity,
Might well have been the death of me—

Make Bright The Arrows

Make bright the arrows
Gather the shields:
Conquest narrows
The peaceful fields.


Stock well the quiver
With arrows bright:
The bowman feared
Need never fight.


Make bright the arrows,
O peaceful and wise!
Gather the shields
Against surprise.

Conscientious Objector

I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.


Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.


I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.

Hymn to Aristogeiton and Harmodius

Wreathed in myrtle, my sword I'll conceal
Like those champions devoted and brave,
When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
And to Athens deliverance gave.


Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
Where the mighty of old have their home -
Where Achilles and Diomed rest.


In fresh myrtle my blade I'll entwine,
Like Harmodious, the gallant and good,
When he made at the tutelar shrine
A libation of Tyranny's blood.


Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
Ye avengers of Liberty's wrongs!
Endless ages shall cherish your fame
Embalmed in their echoing songs!

The Wrist Watch Man

He is marching dusty highways and he's riding bitter trails,
His eyes are clear and shining and his muscles hard as nails.
He is wearing Yankee khaki and a healthy coat of tan,
And the chap that we are backing is the Wrist Watch Man.


He's no parlour dude, a-prancing, he's no puny pacifist,
And it's not for affectation there's a watch upon his wrist.
He's a fine two-fisted scrapper, he is pure American,
And the backbone of the nation is the Wrist Watch Man.


He is marching with a rifle, he is digging in a trench,
He is swapping English phrases with a poilu for his French;
You will find him in the navy doing anything he can,
For at every post of duty is the Wrist Watch Man.


Oh, the time was that we chuckled at the soft and flabby chap
Who wore a little wrist watch that was fastened with a strap.
But the chuckles all have vanished, and with glory now we scan
The courage and the splendor of the Wrist Watch Man.


He is not the man we laughed at, not the one who won our jeers,
He's the man that we are proud of, he's the man that owns our cheers;
He's the finest of the finest, he's the bravest of the clan,
And I pray for God's protection for our Wrist Watch Man.

Though victory's proof of the skill you possess,
Defeat is the proof of your grit;
A weakling can smile in his days of success,
But at trouble's first sign he will quit.
So the test of the heart and the test of your pluck
Isn't skies that are sunny and fair,
But how do you stand to the blow that is struck
And how do you battle despair?


A fool can seem wise when the pathway is clear
And it's easy to see the way out,
But the test of man's judgment is something to fear,
And what does he do when in doubt?
And the proof of his faith is the courage he shows
When sorrows lie deep in his breast;
It's the way that he suffers the griefs that he knows
That brings out his worst or his best.


The test of a man is how much he will bear
For a cause which he knows to be right,
How long will he stand in the depths of despair,
How much will he suffer and fight?
There are many to serve when the victory's near
And few are the hurts to be borne,
But it calls for a leader of courage to cheer
The men in a battle forlorn.


It's the way you hold out against odds that are great
That proves what your courage is worth,
It's the way that you stand to the bruises of fate
That shows up your stature and girth.
And victory's nothing but proof of your skill,
Veneered with a glory that's thin,
Unless it is proof of unfaltering will,
And unless you have suffered to win.

On Quitting

How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,
And where'er you go it is often heard;
But can you tell to a jot or guess
Just how much courage you now possess?
You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,
But have you tackled self-discipline?
Have you ever issued commands to you

To quit the things that you like to do,
And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,
Those rigid orders have you obeyed?


Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,
Nor prate to men of your courage stout,
For it's easy enough to retain a grin
In the face of a fight there's a chance to win,
But the sort of grit that is good to own
Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.
How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?
Have you ever tested yourself to know
How far with yourself your will can go?
If you want to know if you have grit,
Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.


It's bully sport and it's open fight;
It will keep you busy both day and night;
For the toughest kind of a game you'll find
Is to make your body obey your mind.
And you never will know what is meant by grit
Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

Ulysses' Last Voyage

I launched her with my small remaining band
and, putting out to sea, we set the main
on that lone ship and said farewell to land.

Far to starboard rose the coast of Spain,
astern was Sardi, Islas at our bow,
and soon we saw Morocco port abeam.

Though I and comrades now were old and slow,
we hauled till nightfall for the narrow sound
where Hercules had shown what not to do,

by setting marks for men to stay behind.
At dawn the starboard lookout made Seville,
and at the straits stood Ceuta t'other hand.

'Brothers,' I shouted, 'who have had the will
to come through danger, and have reached the west!
our time awake is brief from now until

the senses die, and so I say we test
the sun's own motion and do not forego
the worlds beyond, unknown and peopleless.

Think of the roots from which you sprang, and show
that you are human: not unconscious brutes
but made to follow virtue and to know.'

White Houses

Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,
Deep in my wrathful bosom sore and raw,
And find in it the superhuman power
To hold me to the letter of your law!
Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate
Against the potent poison of your hate.

The White House

Your door is shut against my tightened face,
And I am sharp as steel with discontent;
But I possess the courage and the grace
To bear my anger proudly and unbent.
The pavement slabs burn loose beneath my feet,
A chafing savage, down the decent street;
And passion rends my vitals as I pass,
Where boldly shines your shuttered door of glass.
Oh, I must search for wisdom every hour,
Deep in my wrathful bosom sore and raw,
And find in it the superhuman power
To hold me to the letter of your law!
Oh, I must keep my heart inviolate
Against the potent poison of your hate.

Baptism


Into the furnace let me go alone;
Stay you without in terror of the heat.
I will go naked in--for thus ''tis sweet--
Into the weird depths of the hottest zone.
I will not quiver in the frailest bone,
You will not note a flicker of defeat;
My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet,
My mouth give utterance to any moan.
The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears;
Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name.
Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears,
Transforming me into a shape of flame.
I will come out, back to your world of tears,
A stronger soul within a finer frame.

A Prayer

'Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling;
I stumble as I fare along Earth's way; keep me from falling.


Mine eyes are open but they cannot see for gloom of night:
I can no more than lift my heart to thee for inward light.


The wild and fiery passion of my youth consumes my soul;
In agony I turn to thee for truth and self-control.


For Passion and all the pleasures it can give will die the death;
But this of me eternally must live, thy borrowed breath.


'Mid the discordant noises of the day I hear thee calling;
I stumble as I fare along Earth's way; keep me from falling.

The Wood

BUT two miles more, and then we rest !
Well, there is still an hour of day,
And long the brightness of the West

Will light us on our devious way;
Sit then, awhile, here in this woodSo
total is the solitude,

We safely may delay.

These massive roots afford a seat,
Which seems for weary travellers made.
There rest. The air is soft and sweet

In this sequestered forest glade,
And there are scents of flowers around,
The evening dew draws from the ground;

How soothingly they spread !

Yes; I was tired, but not at heart;
Nothat
beats full of sweet content,
For now I have my natural part

Of action with adventure blent;
Cast forth on the wide vorld with thee,
And all my once waste energy

To weighty purpose bent.

Yetsay'st
thou, spies around us roam,
Our aims are termed conspiracy ?
Haply, no more our English home

An anchorage for us may be ?
That there is risk our mutual blood
May redden in some lonely wood

The knife of treachery ?

Say'st thouthat
where we lodge each night,
In each lone farm, or lonelier hall
Of Norman Peerere
morning light

Suspicion must as duly fall,
As day returnssuch
vigilance
Presides and watches over France,

Such rigour governs all ?

I fear not, William; dost thou fear ?
So that the knife does not divide,
It may be ever hovering near:

I could not tremble at thy side,
And strenuous lovelike
mine for theeIs
buckler strong, 'gainst treachery,

And turns its stab aside.

I am resolved that thou shalt learn
To trust my strength as I trust thine;
I am resolved our souls shall burn,
With equal, steady, mingling shine;


Part of the field is conquered now,
Our lives in the same channel flow,
Along the selfsame
line;

And while no groaning storm is heard,
Thou seem'st content it should be so,
But soon as comes a warning word

Of dangerstraight
thine anxious brow
Bends over me a mournful shade,
As doubting if my powers are made

To ford the floods of woe.

Know, then it is my spirit swells,
And drinks, with eager joy, the air
Of freedomwhere
at last it dwells,

Chartered, a common task to share
With thee, and then it stirs alert,
And pants to learn what menaced hurt

Demands for thee its care.

Remember, I have crossed the deep,
And stood with thee on deck, to gaze
On waves that rose in threatening heap,

While stagnant lay a heavy haze,
Dimly confusing sea with sky,
And baffling, even, the pilot's eye,

Intent to thread the maze


Of rocks, on Bretagne's dangerous coast,
And find a way to steer our band
To the one point obscure, which lost,

Flung us, as victims, on the strand;All,
elsewhere, gleamed the Gallic sword,
And not a wherry could be moored

Along the guarded land.

I feared not thenI
fear not now;
The interest of each stirring scene
Wakes a new sense, a welcome glow,

In every nerve and bounding vein;
Alike on turbid Channel sea,
Or in still wood of Normandy,

I feel as born again.

The rain descended that wild morn
When, anchoring in the cove at last,
Our band, all weary and forlorn,

Ashore, like waveworn
sailors, castSought
for a sheltering roof in vain,
And scarce could scanty food obtain

To break their morning fast.


Thou didst thy crust with me divide,
Thou didst thy cloak around me fold;
And, sitting silent by thy side,

I ate the bread in peace untold:
Given kindly from thy hand, 'twas sweet
As costly fare or princely treat

On royal plate of gold.

Sharp blew the sleet upon my face,
And, rising wild, the gusty wind
Drove on those thundering waves apace,

Our crew so late had left behind;
But, spite of frozen shower and storm,
So close to thee, my heart beat warm,

And tranquil slept my mind.

So nownor
footsore
nor opprest
With walking all this August day,
I taste a heaven in this brief rest,

This gipsyhalt
beside the way.
England's wild flowers are fair to view,
Like balm is England's summer dew,

Like gold her sunset ray.

But the white violets, growing here,
Are sweeter than I yet have seen,
And ne'er did dew so pure and clear


Distil on forest mosses green,
As now, called forth by summer heat,
Perfumes our cool and fresh retreat


These fragrant limes between.

That sunset ! Look beneath the boughs,
Over the copsebeyond
the hills;
How soft, yet deep and warm it glows,

And heaven with rich suffusion fills;
With hues where still the opal's tint,
Its gleam of poisoned fire is blent,

Where flame through azure thrills !

Depart we nowfor
fast will fade
That solemn splendour of decline,
And deep must be the aftershade


As stars alone tonight
will shine;
No moon is destinedpaleto
gaze
On such a day's vast Phoenix blaze,

A day in fires decayed !

Therehandinhand
we tread again
The mazes of this varying wood,
And soon, amid a cultured plain,
Girt in with fertile solitude,


We shall our restingplace
descry,
Marked by one rooftree,
towering high
Above a farmstead
rude.

Refreshed, erelong, with rustic fare,
We'll seek a couch of dreamless ease;
Courage will guard thy heart from fear,

And Love give mine divinest peace:
Tomorrow
brings more dangerous toil,
And through its conflict and turmoil

We'll pass, as God shall please.

The Song Of The Wreck

The wind blew high, the waters raved,
A ship drove on the land,
A hundred human creatures saved
Kneel'd down upon the sand.
Threescore were drown'd, threescore were thrown
Upon the black rocks wild,
And thus among them, left alone,
They found one helpless child.


A seaman rough, to shipwreck bred,
Stood out from all the rest,
And gently laid the lonely head
Upon his honest breast.
And travelling o'er the desert wide
It was a solemn joy,
To see them, ever side by side,
The sailor and the boy.


In famine, sickness, hunger, thirst,
The two were still but one,
Until the strong man droop'd the first
And felt his labors done.
Then to a trusty friend he spake,
'Across the desert wide,
Oh, take this poor boy for my sake!'
And kiss'd the child and died.


Toiling along in weary plight
Through heavy jungle, mire,
These two came later every night
To warm them at the fire.
Until the captain said one day
'O seaman, good and kind,
To save thyself now come away,
And leave the boy behind!'


The child was slumbering near the blaze:
'O captain, let him rest
Until it sinks, when God's own ways
Shall teach us what is best!'
They watch'd the whiten'd, ashy heap,
They touch'd the child in vain;
They did not leave him there asleep,
He never woke again.

Who Am I?

My head knocks against the stars.
My feet are on the hilltops.
My finger-tips are in the valleys and shores of
universal life.
Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
reach my hands and play with pebbles of
destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
reading "Keep Off."
My name is Truth and I am the most elusive captive
in the universe.