That all who earn their bread by rhyme Are like yourselves, exuding slime. Oh, cease to write, for very shame, Ere all men spit upon our name! Take up your needles, drop your pen, And leave the poet's craft to men! Love's Lantern (For Aline) Because the road was steep and long And through a dark and lonely land, God set upon my lips a song And put a lantern in my hand. Through miles on weary miles of night That stretch relentless in my way My lantern burns serene and white, An unexhausted cup of day. O golden lights and lights like wine, How dim your boasted splendors are. Behold this little lamp of mine; It is more starlike than a star! St. Alexis Patron of Beggars We who beg for bread as we daily tread Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway To the saint with the vagrant feet. Our altar light is a buttercup bright, And our shrine is a bank of sod, But still we share St. Alexis' care, The Vagabond of God. They gave him a home in purple Rome And a princess for his bride, But he rowed away on his wedding day Down the Tiber's rushing tide. And he came to land on the Asian strand Where the heathen people dwell; As a beggar he strayed and he preached and prayed And he saved their souls from hell. Bowed with years and pain he came back again To his father's dwelling place. There was none to see who this tramp might be, For they knew not his bearded face. But his father said, "Give him drink and bread And a couch underneath the stair." So Alexis crept to his hole and slept. But he might not linger there. For when night came down on the seven-hilled town, And the emperor hurried in, Saying, "Lo, I hear that a saint is near Who will cleanse us of our sin," Then they looked in vain where the saint had lain, For his soul had fled afar, From his fleshly home he had gone to roam Where the gold-paved highways are. We who beg for bread as we daily tread Country lane and city street, Let us kneel and pray on the broad highway To the saint with the vagrant feet. Our altar light is a buttercup bright, And our shrine is a bank of sod, But still we share St. Alexis' care, The Vagabond of God! Folly (For A. K. K.) What distant mountains thrill and glow Beneath our Lady Folly's tread? Why has she left us, wise in woe, Shrewd, practical, uncomforted? We cannot love or dream or sing, We are too cynical to pray, There is no joy in anything Since Lady Folly went away.