And what have they to do with such as these?
Think of those old as death, in body and heart,
Hugging their wretched hoardings, in cold fear
Of moth and rust!--While these miraculous ones,
Like golden creatures made of sunset-cloud,
Go out forever,--every day, fade by
With music and wild stars!--Ah, but You know.
The hermit told me once. You loved them, too.
But I know more than he, how You must love them:
Their laughter, and their bubbling, skylark words
To cool Your heart. Oh, listen, Lonely Man!--
* * * * *
Oh, let me keep them! I will bring them to You,
Still nights, and breathless mornings; they shall touch
Your hands and feet with all their swarming hands,
Like showering petals warm on furrowed ground,--
All sweetness! They will make Thee whole again,
With love. Thou wilt lookup and smile on us!
* * * * *
Why not? I know--the half--You will be saying.
You will be thinking of Your Mother.--Ah,
But she was different. She was not as they.
She was more like . . . this one, the wife of Kurt!
_Of Kurt_! No, no; ask me not this, not this!
Here is some dawn of day for Hamelin,--now!
-Tis hearts of men You want. Not mumbled prayers;
Not greed and carven tombs, not misers' candles;
No offerings, more, from men that feed on men;
Eternal psalms and endless cruelties! . .
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