"Though I die upon your mouth, Kiss me, Rahab! for the drouth Of the desert makes my soul Empty as an empty bowl. "Dreary days of journeying Where the sands go billowing Miles and miles beneath the sun Leave me broken and undone. "All my youth was in the sere, Dim the eye and deaf the ear Unto beauty until now; Rahab, harken to my vow: "Give me vision, give me sense Of lost beauty's immanence-- Give me these and I will pay, Careless of what gossips say, "All you ask in turn for this: Soul of you within one Kiss!" Rahab's eyes were suddenly Misted over, and to me Came her whisper: "O my Heart! Take the minstrel's gift--his art-- With my lips on yours; the price Be your spirit's sacrifice-- "Pain of vision! You shall know Summits of eternal snow, Depths of fire! You shall be torn, Twixt the twilight and the morn, "By strange dreams of angel-faces Bending from their starry places, Blent with devils out of hell!" Rahab kissed me--! Lo, there fell Veils of violet and gold From the sunset--fold on fold-- Till the tangled vines were caught And with mist the fields were fraught; Notes that I had never heard In the tall bulrushes stirred, Trembled from the swaying trees, Fluting strange, wild melodies. Rahab's kiss and tender glance Taught me earth's significance; Opened wide eternal doors, Where the flood of beauty pours Out of heaven! out of God! Quickening the stone and clod, Leaf and shrub and bird and beast For the artist--nature's priest, Sleepless when her altar lights Burn through balmy summer nights, Wakeful when upon the day Pours the pollen smoke alway! * * * * * Rahab kissed me by the press-- Bound me with dear Love's duress-- Laughed and clapped her hands in glee Mid the grapes of Galilee. ON GUARD Halt! Who comes there? _Care_. Word, friend or foe! _Woe_. What is thy will? _Ill_. Who sent thee here? _Fear_. Where doth he dwell? _Hell!_ Name me his mate! _Hate_. What is their palace? _Malice_. What are their crowns? _Frowns_. Show me the way! _Nay;_ _One from above, Greater than Wrath, Stands in thy path._ Who is he?--_Love!_ THE PLOUGHMAN The upper and the lower springs, The summer-fountains fail; A frowning sky his challenge flings With thunder through the hail; The autumn holds her mantle-folds To veil a pallid brow-- She pities me and mourns to see My pain upon the plough: For I must down the furrow fare And cleave the clod with sharpened share. Witless of wind that finds my face, I lean against the blast And plough to my appointed place-- Yon sapling like a mast; I plough this way till shut of day, Steady upon the mark; Reckless of cold, the handles hold From dawn until the dark-- This thing my duty: cleave the clod, Ploughing the field alone with God!