His cane with slow, deliberate care Swinging, along the street moved he, Until he reached the Golden Stair That only dead men’s eyes may see. Of newly dead a spirit host Made low obeisance when he came. Though some be saved and some be lost, He was the Master of the Game In life and death. A grunt, a nod, Thanked them. They nudged each other’s sides For each was fettered to the sod By some earth memory. A bride’s Caress. A lad’s clean limbs. The sheen In a child’s face. A battle won. A crime. A dream. What might have been. --August, untroubled he passed on. He puffed at his cigar. The spheres Made music. Then the ceaseless drone Of prayer went up. By myriad tiers Encircled rose the Holy Throne. With no uncertainty of fate He brushed aside the angel throng And strode through the emblazoned gate Into the Heaven of the Strong. THE WINNERS _To my Wife, Margaret Edith Viereck._ Never on the winning side, Always on the right-- Vanquished, this shall be our pride In the world’s despite. Let the oily Pharisees Purse their lips and rant, Calm we face the Destinies: Better “can’t” than Cant. Bravely drain, then fling away, Break the cup of sorrow! Courage! He who lost the day May have won the morrow. JESUS IN NEW ENGLAND He saw the drab and dreary town Upon the mirthless Sabbath day; All pleasant things had crept away Like serfs before the master’s frown; The very trees their heads hung down Upon the mirthless Sabbath day. Through joy-deserted streets He trod, The church bells tolling mournfully. There was no sound of childish glee, No peal of laughter praising God Hailed Him that loved the little ones From Judah unto Galilee. Barred in His name the magic bower Of mimic kings and queens that seem, Where still the fairy-jewels gleam, And sonant for a little hour-- From faded parchment conjured up Incarnate walks the poet’s dream. But through a gate obscure and small He watched a pale-faced stripling crawl Into a closely-shuttered place Where Magdalens untouched of grace Held their unlovely festival, Wearing the hunted look, uncanny, Of them that love not much but many. And right across the house of guilt Where sweet young lips were made all-wise In unchaste knowledge, and the wine Of glorious youth was hourly spilt-- Grinning upon Him like a skull, With windows bare like sightless eyes, There rose the House Unbeautiful Wherein God’s holy shrine was built. And buzzing like a swarm of bees Around the church’s open door, In long frock coats and tall silk hats, The sleek, the oily Pharisees With the complacent smile of yore-- Dear God, how He remembered these!