_A hall Vast, bright and breathing. In the upper air A chord, a flower of tone, a quiet wreathing Along the lift and fall Of some clear current in the blood Now delicately understood, Till all the hearing ones below Are where The voices call. O now they know What music is. It is that which they are Themselves. Infinite bells, Of silence in a little sheath. Deep wells Of being in a little cup. Star upon star Veiled save one reaching ray. And see! The people turn And for a breath they look Out into one another’s eyes And shine and burn Wise, wise, With ultimate knowledge of the good That seeks one whole. And how Eternity begins And ever is beginning now A thousand hearts learn from the violins._ “My back ain’t right. My head ain’t right. I’m almost dead. Fill the hot water bag. I’m goin’ to bed....” “Ten pairs of socks I’ve darned to-night. I try To do the best I can....” I put the women by. “Johann,” I said, “you play?” He shook his head. “I lost it, loggin’----” he held up a stump of thumb. “I took six lessons once,” he said. I sat there, dumb. From out the inner place of music there had come Long long ago, Some viewless one to tell him how to know What waits upon the page To beat the rhythm of the world. He heard; and tried To stumble toward the door graciously wide For other feet than his. “I took six lessons once,” he said with pride. This Was all we gave him of his heritage. III NORTH STAR His boy had stolen some money from a booth At the County Fair. I found the father in his kitchen. For years he had driven a dray and the heavy lifting Had worn him down. So through his evenings He slept by the kitchen stove as I found him. The mother was crying and ironing. I thought about the mother, For she brought me a photograph Taken at a street fair on her wedding day. She was so trim and white and he so neat and alert In the picture with their friends about them---- I saw that she wanted me to know their dignity from the first. But afterward I thought more about the father. For as he came with me to the door I could not forbear To say how bright and near the stars seemed. Then he leaned and peered from beneath his low roof, And he said: “_There used to be a star called the Nord Star._” PROSE NOTES I THE BUREAU In anger, in irritation, in argument, what happens to you and me? Something fine weaving us round is torn open. Something fine permeating us is drawn from the veins. Presences waiting to understand us retreat to a farther ante-room of us. Little cells are incommunicably sealed.