Many a knight and gentle maid, Whose glory shines from years gone by, Through ignorance was unafraid And as a fool knew how to die. Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne And broke the ranks of Hell with her, And Folly's smile shone brightly on Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper. Our minds are troubled and defiled By study in a weary school. O for the folly of the child! The ready courage of the fool! Lord, crush our knowledge utterly And make us humble, simple men; And cleansed of wisdom, let us see Our Lady Folly's face again. Madness (For Sara Teasdale) The lonely farm, the crowded street, The palace and the slum, Give welcome to my silent feet As, bearing gifts, I come. Last night a beggar crouched alone, A ragged helpless thing; I set him on a moonbeam throne -- Today he is a king. Last night a king in orb and crown Held court with splendid cheer; Today he tears his purple gown And moans and shrieks in fear. Not iron bars, nor flashing spears, Not land, nor sky, nor sea, Nor love's artillery of tears Can keep mine own from me. Serene, unchanging, ever fair, I smile with secret mirth And in a net of mine own hair I swing the captive earth. Poets Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells That the wind sways above a ruined shrine. Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells Hunger that craves immortal Bread and Wine. Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath Out of our lips that have not kissed the rod. They shall not live who have not tasted death. They only sing who are struck dumb by God. Citizen of the World No longer of Him be it said "He hath no place to lay His head." In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty camp. There is no strange and distant place That is not gladdened by His face. And every nation kneels to hail The Splendour shining through Its veil. Cloistered beside the shouting street, Silent, He calls me to His feet. Imprisoned for His love of me He makes my spirit greatly free. And through my lips that uttered sin The King of Glory enters in. To a Blackbird and His Mate Who Died in the Spring (For Kenton) An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee And dammed the flood of silver notes That drenched the world in melody. The blosmy apple boughs are yearning For their wild choristers' returning, But no swift wings flash through the tree.