God in the blackness, whirlwind, lightning, God in the blinding fire of the sun Before these empty mirrors brightening See what we do, what we have done! Out of an astral substance molding Music and laws for our hearts' control, Yes, and a hope that the mirrors' folding Lets slip through a growing soul. Are you not proud of us, do you not pity? Is all the glory thine alone? Then if it be, you must take the city Builded, demolished stone from stone. All of our madness, weariness, error, Blindness, weakness, pain and loss, Fumbling feebly before the mirror, Yours is the crown, but yours the cross! Yours is the juice of grape or poppies To fill the void with a make believe; Yours the hope where never a prop is, The opiates, too, that dull, deceive, No less than nature that lifts eternal Vision of Life to quiet the heart: Verse and color that stamp the infernal Dragon of Fear with the feet of Art. Yours and ours the consolations In loneliness and in terror wrought Out of our spirits' desolations, Out of our spirits' love and thought! A WOMAN OF FORTY Eyes that have long looked on the world, Taken and stored the soul of outward things, Dread to look on themselves, In the mirror to gaze upon their mirrorings! There to behold what time has done, what thought Has changed their look and light. I have lost my face through sorrow and dreams And dare not find it, lest it smite This self to-day, since I may not restore My old self who in gladness without terror Beheld and knew myself Each morning in the mirror! In the long quest of love I may have found A spirit after whom my passion lusted. But I had trust not giving love, I have given love to hearts I have not trusted. One thing has come that I would never see, Hidden or trembling in my eyes: Love in the mirror shown fatigued and mild, Hopeless and wise. WILD BIRDS The wild birds among the reeds Cry, exult and stretch their wings. Out of the sky they drift And sink to the water's rushes. But the wild birds beat their wings and cry To the newcomer out of the sky! Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky? Or do they cry to him because of remembered places And remembered days Spent together In the north-land, or the south-land? Is this the ecstasy of renewal, Or the ecstasy of beginning? For the wild bird touches his bill Against a mate; He brushes her wing with his wing; He quivers with delight For the cool sky of blue, And the touch of her wing! The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water, Some for the south, Some for the north. They are gone-- Lost in the sky!