He will arrive, our Counselor and Chief. And with bleak faces lighted up will come The earth-worn mothers from their martyrdom, To tell Him of their grief. And glad girls caroling from field and town Will go to meet Him with the labor-crown, The new crown woven of the heading wheat. And men will sit down at His sacred feet; And He will say--the King-- “Come, let us live the poetry we sing!” And these, His burning words, will break the ban-- Words that will grow to be, On continent, on sea, The rallying cry of man.... He comes to make the long injustice right-- Comes to push back the shadow of the night, The gray Tradition full of flint and flaw-- Comes to wipe out the insults to the soul, The insults of the Few against the Whole, The insults they make righteous with a law. Yea, He will bear the Safety of the State, For in his still and rhythmic steps will be The power and music of Alcyone, Who holds the swift heavens in their starry fate. Yea, He will lay on souls the power of peace, And send on kingdoms torn the sense of Home-- More than the fire of Joy that burned on Greece, More than the light of Law that rose on Rome. The Elf Child I am a child of the reef and the blowing spray, And all my heart goes wildly to the sea. I am a changeling: can you follow me Through hill and hollow on the wind’s dim way? Yes, at the break of a tempestuous day They bore me to the land through starless storm, And laid me in the pillow sweetly warm And broken by the first one’s little stay. The elf kings found me on an ocean reef, A lyric child of mystery and grief. Then need I tell you why the trembling start-- Why in my song the sound of ocean dwells-- Why the quick gladness when the billow swells, As though remembered voices called the heart? The Goblin Laugh When I behold how men and women grind And grovel for some place of pomp or power, To shine and circle through a crumbling hour, Forgetting the large mansions of the mind, That are the rest and shelter of mankind; And when I see them come with wearied brains Pallid and powerless to enjoy their gains, I seem to hear a goblin laugh unwind. And then a memory sends upon its billow Thoughts of a singer wise enough to play, Who took life as a lightsome holiday: Oft have I seen him make his arm a pillow, Drink from his hand, and with a pipe of willow Blow a wild music down a woodland way. Poetry She comes as hush and beauty of the night, And sees too deep for laughter; Her touch is a vibration and a light From worlds before and after. A Meeting