And that was the mood he found me in When he came with a smile and honey words. Well, I fell in his arms, and here I am Plunged up to the mouth in spiritual muck, And what life is left for me now? How can I go on with life? For he hates me now as a humbled thing, He has broken my pride and he hates me now. And he roars and curses about the house, And yells at our little girl when she cries, And stands with his hands outstretched and says That his fate is worse than Christ’s. And I tremble and rustle around like a fallen leaf, And neither laugh nor cry nor return him a word.... For you know there’s a spring, And you know there’s a fire, To burn dead leaves. And after the ashes There’s a spirit given a chance! THE FAMILY We were three larks in the same nest. All spring the wind blew from the west. We chirped beneath the enshadowing wheat, It grew to green, it grew to gold. Our mother’s voice was piercing sweet To see how strong we were and bold-- How palpitant of wing. We knew our father not, alas! A hunter slew him while the grass Was fresh beneath the April rain. And ere I had the strength to fly Our brother sang a farewell strain And soared into the empty sky. And then our sister knew the fear And hunger of a serpent’s eye. And our sweet mother, lone and drear, Fled far afield and left me here To nurse my heart and sing. THE SUBWAY There was the white face of Fear, And the solemn face of Duty, And the face of self looking in the mirror. But there were voices calling from vernal hilltops, And silver spirits by moonlit gardens calling, And voices of no sound from far horizons calling, But even if there be penitence for living And thought and tears for the past And even shame and even hunger; And if there be nothing gained at the last in living, And much to pay for the madness of briefest bliss; And if there be nothing in life, and life be nothing So that to nail one’s self to the cross is nothing lost-- Is Death not even less? These were the voices whereto we tore our flower Petal by petal apart and scattered it, And paused and paltered. But lest the whispers grow louder, And the eyebrows arch to a fiercer scorn, You fled away to France and left me With only a poor half uttered farewell, A scrawl put off to the last, then written As with shut eyes, swift nervous hands: As one might wait for the heroic thought To take his poison--wait in vain, and then Cowardly gulp it down and reel to death. I could not hate you for the pain of hate, And could not love you who had hid yourself, Belied yourself behind this scrawl. I could only sit half-numb, And drift in thought.