’Tis Oliver who tills alone Two gardens that are now his own; ’Tis Oliver who sows and reaps And listens, while the other sleeps, For songs undreamed of and unknown. ’Tis he, the gentle anchorite, Who listens for them day and night; But most he hears them in the dawn, When from his trees across the lawn Birds ring the chorus of the light. He cannot sing without the voice, But he may worship and rejoice For patience in him to remain, The chosen heir of age and pain, Instead of Oakes--who had no choice. ’Tis Oliver who sits beside The other’s grave at eventide, And smokes, and wonders what new race Will have two gardens, by God’s grace, In Linndale, where their fathers died. And often, while he sits and smokes, He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes Uprooting, with a restless hand, Soft, shadowy flowers in a land Of asphodels and artichokes. THE REVEALER (ROOSEVELT) He turned aside to see the carcase of the lion: and behold, there was a swarm of bees and honey in the carcase of the lion.... And the men of the city said unto him, What is sweeter than honey? and what is stronger than a lion?--_Judges_, 14. The palms of Mammon have disowned The gift of our complacency; The bells of ages have intoned Again their rhythmic irony; And from the shadow, suddenly, ’Mid echoes of decrepit rage, The seer of our necessity Confronts a Tyrian heritage. Equipped with unobscured intent He smiles with lions at the gate, Acknowledging the compliment Like one familiar with his fate; The lions, having time to wait, Perceive a small cloud in the skies, Whereon they look, disconsolate, With scared, reactionary eyes. A shadow falls upon the land,-- They sniff, and they are like to roar; For they will never understand What they have never seen before. They march in order to the door, Not knowing the best thing to seek, Nor caring if the gods restore The lost composite of the Greek. The shadow fades, the light arrives, And ills that were concealed are seen; The combs of long-defended hives Now drip dishonored and unclean; No Nazarite or Nazarene Compels our questioning to prove The difference that is between Dead lions--or the sweet thereof. But not for lions, live or dead, Except as we are all as one, Is he the world’s accredited Revealer of what we have done; What You and I and Anderson Are still to do is his reward; If we go back when he is gone-- There is an Angel with a Sword. He cannot close again the doors That now are shattered for our sake; He cannot answer for the floors We crowd on, or for walls that shake; He cannot wholly undertake The cure of our immunity; He cannot hold the stars, or make Of seven years a century.