In what great struggles was I felled, In what old lives I labored long, Ere I was given a world that held A meadow, butterflies and Song? But oh, what cleansings and what fears, What countless raisings from the dead, Ere I could see Her, touched with tears, Pillow the little weary head. The First Food. [George Sterling] Mother, in some sad evening long ago, From thy young breast my groping lips were taken, Their hunger stilled, so soon again to waken, But nevermore that holy food to know. Ah! nevermore! for all the child might crave! Ah! nevermore! through years unkind and dreary! Often of other fare my lips are weary, Unwearied once of what thy bosom gave. (Poor wordless mouth that could not speak thy name! At what unhappy revels has it eaten The viands that no memory can sweeten, -- The banquet found eternally the same!) Then fell a shadow first on thee and me, And tendrils broke that held us two how dearly! Once infinitely thine, then hourly, yearly, Less thine, as less the worthy thine to be. (O mouth that yet should kiss the mouth of Sin! Were lies so sweet, now bitter to remember? Slow sinks the flame unfaithful to an ember; New beauty fades and passion's wine is thin.) How poor an end of that solicitude And all the love I had not from another! Peace to thine unforgetting heart, O Mother, Who gav'st the dear and unremembered food! The Monk in the Kitchen. [Anna Hempstead Branch] I Order is a lovely thing; On disarray it lays its wing, Teaching simplicity to sing. It has a meek and lowly grace, Quiet as a nun's face. Lo -- I will have thee in this place! Tranquil well of deep delight, Transparent as the water, bright -- All things that shine through thee appear As stones through water, sweetly clear. Thou clarity, That with angelic charity Revealest beauty where thou art, Spread thyself like a clean pool. Then all the things that in thee are Shall seem more spiritual and fair, Reflections from serener air -- Sunken shapes of many a star In the high heavens set afar. II Ye stolid, homely, visible things, Above you all brood glorious wings Of your deep entities, set high, Like slow moons in a hidden sky. But you, their likenesses, are spent Upon another element. Truly ye are but seemings -- The shadowy cast-off gleamings Of bright solidities. Ye seem Soft as water, vague as dream; Image, cast in a shifting stream. III What are ye? I know not. Brazen pan and iron pot, Yellow brick and grey flag-stone That my feet have trod upon -- Ye seem to me Vessels of bright mystery. For ye do bear a shape, and so Though ye were made by man, I know An inner Spirit also made And ye his breathings have obeyed. IV