Darling daughter of Babylon-- Rose by the black Euphrates flood-- Again your beauty grew more dear Than my slave's bread, than my heart's blood. We sang of Zion, good to know, Where righteousness and peace abide ... What of your second sacrilege Carousing at Belshazzar's side? Once, by a stream, we clasped tired hands-- Your paint and henna washed away. Your place (you said) was with the slaves Who sewed the thick cloth, night and day. You were a pale and holy maid Toil-bound with us. One night you said:-- "Your God shall be my God until I slumber with the patriarch dead." Pardon, daughter of Babylon, If, on this night remembering Our lover walks under the walls Of hanging gardens in the spring-- A venom comes, from broken hope-- From memories of your comrade-song, Until I curse your painted eyes And do your flower-mouth too much wrong. I Went Down Into the Desert I went down into the desert To meet Elijah-- Or some one like, arisen from the dead. I thought to find him in an echoing cave, For so my dream had said. I went down into the desert To meet John the Baptist. I walked with feet that bled, Seeking that prophet, lean and brown and bold. I spied foul fiends instead. I went down into the desert To meet my God, By Him be comforted. I went down into the desert To meet my God And I met the Devil in Red. I went down into the desert To meet my God. Oh Lord, my God, awaken from the dead! I see you there, your thorn-crown on the ground-- I see you there, half-buried in the sand-- I see you there, your white bones glistening, bare, The carrion birds a-wheeling round your head! Encountered on the Streets of the City THE CHURCH OF VISION AND DREAM Is it for naught that where the tired crowds see Only a place for trade, a teeming square, Doors of high portent open unto me Carved with great eagles, and with Hawthorns rare? Doors I proclaim, for there are rooms forgot Ripened through æons by the good and wise: Walls set with Art's own pearl and amethyst Angel-wrought hangings there, and heaven-hued dyes:-- Dazzling the eye of faith, the hope-filled heart:-- Rooms rich in records of old deeds sublime: Books that hold garnered harvests of far lands Pictures that tableau Man's triumphant climb: Statues so white, so counterfeiting life, Bronze so ennobled, so with glory fraught That the tired eyes must weep with joy to see, And the tired mind in Beauty's net be caught. Come, enter there, and meet Tomorrow's Man, Communing with him softly, day by day. Ah, the deep vistas he reveals, the dream Of Angel-bands in infinite array--