I think somewhere a table round Owns Jesus as its head, And there the saintly twelve are found Who followed where He led. And Judas sits down with the rest, And none shrinks from His hand, For there the worst is as the best, And there they understand. And you may think of Judas, friend, As one who broke his word, Whose neck came to a bitter end For giving up his Lord. But I would rather think of him As the little Jewish lad Who gave young Christ heart, soul, and limb, And all the love he had. _The Wise_ (_For Alain Locke_) Dead men are wisest, for they know How far the roots of flowers go, How long a seed must rot to grow. Dead men alone bear frost and rain On throbless heart and heatless brain, And feel no stir of joy or pain. Dead men alone are satiate; They sleep and dream and have no weight, To curb their rest, of love or hate. Strange, men should flee their company, Or think me strange who long to be Wrapped in their cool immunity. _Mary, Mother of Christ_ That night she felt those searching hands Grip deep upon her breast, She laughed and sang a silly tune To lull her babe to rest; That night she kissed his coral lips How could she know the rest? _Dialogue_ Soul: There is no stronger thing than song; In sun and rain and leafy trees It wafts the timid soul along On crested waves of melodies. Body: But leaves the body bare to feed Its hunger with its very need. Soul: Although the frenzied belly writhes, Yet render up in song your tithes; Song is the weakling’s oaken rod, His Jacob’s ladder dropped from God. Body: Song is not drink; song is not meat, Nor strong, thick shoes for naked feet. Soul: Who sings by unseen hands is fed With honeyed milk and warm, white bread; His ways in pastures green are led, And perfumed oil illumes his head; His cup with wine is surfeited, And when the last low note is read, He sings among the lipless dead With singing stars to crown his head. Body: But will song buy a wooden box The length of me from toe to crown, To keep me safe from carrion flocks When singing’s done and lyre laid down? _In Memory of Col. Charles Young_ Along the shore the tall, thin grass That fringes that dark river, While sinuously soft feet pass, Begins to bleed and quiver. The great dark voice breaks with a sob Across the womb of night; Above your grave the tom-toms throb, And the hills are weird with light. The great dark heart is like a well Drained bitter by the sky, And all the honeyed lies they tell Come there to thirst and die. No lie is strong enough to kill The roots that work below; From your rich dust and slaughtered will A tree with tongues will grow. _To My Friends_