Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark-- Hands--ah God!--that we knew! Visions and voices--look and heark!-- Shall prove that our tale is true, And that those who have passed to the further shore May be hailed--at a price--on the road to En-dor. But they are so deep in their new eclipse Nothing they say can reach, Unless it be uttered by alien lips And framed in a stranger's speech. The son must send word to the mother that bore, Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor. And not for nothing these gifts are shown By such as delight our dead. They must twitch and stiffen and slaver a groan Ere the eyes are set in the head, And the voice from the belly begins. Therefore We pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor. Even so, we have need of faith And patience to follow the clue. Often, at first, what the dear one saith Is babble, or jest, or untrue. (Lying spirits perplex us sore Till our loves--and our lives--are well known at En-dor).... _Oh the road to En-dor is the oldest road And the craziest road of all! Straight it runs to the Witch's abode, As it did in the days of Saul, And nothing has changed of the sorrow in store For such as go down on the road to En-dor!_ A RECANTATION (TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS) What boots it on the Gods to call? Since, answered or unheard, We perish with the Gods and all Things made--except the Word. Ere certain Fate had touched a heart By fifty years made cold, I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art O'erblown and over-bold. But he--but he, of whom bereft I suffer vacant days-- He on his shield not meanly left-- He cherished all thy lays. Witness the magic coffer stocked With convoluted runes Wherein thy very voice was locked And linked to circling tunes. Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled, That decked his shelter-place. Life seemed more present, wrote the child, Beneath thy well-known face. And when the grudging days restored Him for a breath to home, He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored Thee making mirth in Rome. Therefore, I, humble, join the hosts, Loyal and loud, who bow To thee as Queen of Songs--and ghosts-- For I remember how Never more rampant rose the Hall At thy audacious line Than when the news came in from Gaul Thy son had--followed mine. But thou didst hide it in thy breast And, capering, took the brunt Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest That swept next week the front. Singer to children! Ours possessed Sleep before noon--but thee, Wakeful each midnight for the rest, No holocaust shall free.