This is the home of high Teutonic speech Where beauty’s sacred fire forever glows. Upon the Edda’s broad foundation rose The soaring columns vaulted each to each, And Goethe, Shakespeare, Ibsen reach Their spans cross the hall: And over all A dome that holds the light, The Master-Man, whose message mystical Bade us be bold and laugh and seize delight, Before he vanished into endless night At Zarathustra’s call! Of song is made the painted windows’ sheen, The lustre of the lamps, The tapestries shot with gold: On each his own design some singer stamps, The very stones have voices, that proclaim The Magic City and uphold Her deathless fame. The Holy of Holies is this place: Some hanging that the wall may grace To weave with care, Or with the smoking censer pace, Or do least service in that blessed throng, Is to claim kinship with God’s saints and wear The martyr’s crown of song. THE CHALLENGE “I challenge you!” you said to me. The curtain parts. You enter in. A dream of pink and ivory Through the soft satin peeps your skin Before me, in defiance bold, Now all your little being stands. Your breasts like two small birds I hold-- I feel their heart-beats with my hands But in your eyes there is no dread: A little animal at play You cuddle up within my bed, And simply will not go away. Perhaps some sober Puritan Would take your tender ways amiss, I am not marble, but a man-- Worlds have been bartered for a kiss. And though but now your hand and eye Upon forbidden ways have strayed, Against the damask sheet you lie More like a flower than a maid. How white are you, how brown am I, My lily girl! My midnight rose! How delicate against my thigh Is the indenture of your toes. No after-savors mar your lips With memories of past delight, Save phantom lads who come on ships Of dreams to little girls at night. A thornless rose of memory Shall be this strange night’s white caress. My love with you deals tenderly, And life, I pray will do no less. “Is this not love’s way, even so?” You ask and smile triumphantly, And know not that still home you go With all your young virginity. Scat, little kitten, nor delay, While there, as yet, is naught to rue. The city swarms with beasts of prey Who lie in wait for such as you. Avaunt, incredible gamin! You have no right at all to be, Save in the sculptures of Rodin, Or else--in Greek mythology. THE PILGRIM