Son of the Mother of mothers, The womb and the tomb of Life, With Fire and Air for brothers And a clinging Dream for a wife; Ever the soul of the dreamer Strove with its mortal mesh, And the lean flame grew till it fretted through The last thin links of flesh. Oh, rending the veil asunder, He fled to mingle again With the dred Orestean thunder, The Lear of the driven rain! XII Once in a cycle the comet Doubles its lonesome track. Enriched with the tears of a thousand years, Aeschylus wanders back. Ever inweaving, returning, The near grows out of the far; And Homer shall sing once more in a swing Of the austere Polar Star. Then what of the lonesome dreamer With the lean blue flame in his breast? And who was your clown for a day, O Town, The strange, unbidden guest? XIII ~'Mid glad green miles of tillage And fields where cattle graze; A prosy little village, You drowse away the days. And yet -- a wakeful glory Clings round you as you doze; One living, lyric story Makes music of your prose!~ The New Life. [Witter Bynner] Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth, Told him that truth Had unappealably been said In the great masterpieces of the dead: -- Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head In acquiescent honour, while his heart Held natal tidings, -- that a new life is the part Of every man that's born, A new life never lived before, And a new expectant art; It is the variations of the morn That are forever, more and more, The single dawning of the single truth. So answers Dante to the heart of youth! Martin. [Joyce Kilmer] When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me. Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth. Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, -- Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child. Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress. Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success.