Chapter I: Part 1

THE FLYING PARLIAMENT
AND OTHER POEMS

_The_
Flying Parliament
_and_
Other Poems

By

EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK

NEW YORK
JAMES T. WHITE & CO.
1918

COPYRIGHTED 1918 BY
JAMES T. WHITE & CO

DEDICATED TO

CAROLINE LEXOW BABCOCK

1914-1918

CONTENTS

THE FLYING PARLIAMENT

THE SACRED SHIPS 12

THE FLYING PARLIAMENT 13

“GONE WEST” 63

OTHER POEMS

THE HAPPY PEOPLE 71

FROM TREE CLOISTER 72

FROM A WINDOW 73

BIRTHRIGHT 74

TO A LONELY STAR 75

THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 75

THE TRAMP 78

IN THE STRANGE COUNTRY 80

RAIN PICTURES 81

WAR POEMS

“WE MUST MAKE THE WORLD SAFE FOR DEMOCRACY, 1917” 87

THE MEANING 88

THE MARCHING FAITH 89

HOME COMING 91

FOR OUR MEN 93

WORLD FLOWER 94

EPOCH, 1914 95

TO AMERICANS 97

PENMARCH--BRITTANY 98

TO AN AMERICAN SOLDIER GOING INTO ACTION 100

RESURGENCE--TO C. L. B. 101

GARDEN ADVENTURES 101

CAMOUFLAGE 107

HOME-SICK 108

THE INTERPRETER 109

KLEPHTIC 111

AT THE FEAST OF LIFE 114

DEATH WITHIN DEATH 115

AT THE FLOWER-SHOW 116

TALISMANS 118

SUBLIMINAL 119

THE WALLED CITY 120

ON LILY STREET, NANTUCKET 122

THE “BLIND” ROAD, NANTUCKET 124

THE END OF THE SEASON--NANTUCKET 125

MOVING MILESTONES--NANTUCKET 126

SOURCE 127

THE FLYING PARLIAMENT

_THE SACRED SHIPS_

_Out past the Highlands’ smoke and Autumn gold, The great gray ships on secret orders steam; Battalioned boys their dawn-lit land behold Drifting astern, like towers in a dream; They watch the havened harbor lights that gleam Speechless farewell, too tender to be told-- Until within their breasts austere and bold, The former days remote and alien seem, And they, the fathers of a Day supreme. Thus, visioning their service--to a man-- They grim in their stern blitheness, sail to War. Yea, while we sleep, in one night’s star-lit span-- Youth leaves our shores--to face the Minotaur._

THE FLYING PARLIAMENT

_Scene. Venice, November, 1917. The piazza of San Marco._

A chill air emphasizes the weather stains on arcade and collonade. Now and then the pale sunlight glitters faintly on a bit of mosaic, but the lacy fretwork of St. Marks and the Palazzo Giustizia are nearly covered by sandbags and scaffoldings. The statues are all removed from their pedestals. The four famous bronze horses are once more removed; also the giants on the famous clock tower. The winged lion of St. Mark and the little St. Theodore and his crocodile have been carried to places of safety. From the bronze flagstaffs in the Piazza of St. Marks the Italian flags are flying. From afar off there comes the slow booming of guns. Suddenly the piazza is a whirl with pigeons. The guns sound like huge bass chords; the pigeon wings beat a curious suggestion of delicate pastoral themes. The canals are deserted except for one gondola slowly approaching a bridge. An American war correspondent wields the great oar unaccustomedly. The American steps out at a bridge; he makes fast the gondola; he walks slowly into the deserted piazza. Near the bronze base of the flagstaffs is a single child standing among the whirling pigeons. The child has a small bit of black bread in his hand; now and then he breaks off a tiny bit of the bread and throws it to the birds who come eagerly to him.

Child looking at pigeons circling in the sky speaks as though to them:

_Fly--Fly! Where? In the unlibertied air! Wings of gray instinct, All opal tinct, Pulses of pleasure, Feathery measure-- Wings of delicate vibrant life, Cutting blue air with halcyon knife; Sky-strewn garlands of pleasant days, No more your turret and tower ways! Nowhere--nowhere Do hearers your sweet counsels share! Nowhere--nowhere Is your place in the militant air!_

The American advances slowly; he is clad in khaki, and carries field glasses; his broad brimmed hat is worn down low over his eyes which, burned out and weary, are fixed on the Duomo of St. Marks.

As he notices the Italian flags, his lips close firmly together, and he looks down at the little American flag set in his button-hole. He stares around the deserted piazza and shivers. Taking out his notebook he sits down on the steps of the Duomo and commences writing:

(American, writing) Here in the Piazza Where the colonnades Dripped with globules Of colored beads, Where delicate shapes Of Venetian glass Expanded like flowers In cavelike booths; Here where the band played strains, Wild and rich and forlorn, Till the very stars dropped down, Like gold tears on the night; And the moon, like an orbèd lyre, Tried to echo the strain Through strings of fine-drawn cloud.... Here where the musing crowds Sat in the coffee stalls Of Florian’s and drank Tiny glasses of green Or golden yellow Chartreuse; In a sweet dazed waking dream-- Here is emptiness now, Emptiness like a curse, Emptiness like a house With the light and life all gone; All the loving turned to dread, The children statues of Fear, The windows closed and stark, And the pictures turned to the wall, The people are fled away To Padua and the plains, Because the Prussian comes. All the men are on the lagoons, With Latin passion and pride Fighting the Prussians back; But here in this empty place, Thronged once by a brilliant world, Stands a little Venetian child Feeding the hungry doves.

Child, moving over near the American, curiously watches him at his writing. At last the little one sits soberly down beside the war correspondent, who smiles at him but goes on rapidly scribbling his notes:

While up from the Lido’s calm, Where the yellow sails once sank Into gold dusted sky; Where the great green waves crashed on The lilac shadowed sands, Grey tides move like a dirge. Young waters that once lapped The dream-lanes of canals, Where marble faces smiled In shadows green as moss, Now are wrinkled and old; The morning-tinted shores Are now brittle and old; And here, where on festa days The banners clasped the breeze, And the tapestries rolled down Over the galleries, And the air-ships, like great beads, Buoyed them on the sun Floating over the roofs, Those days, fanning with sails And fairy trails of boats, And somnolent dip of oars-- Those nights, fruited with lights Spattered with gleam and gold-- All are ended and gone, Blasted before the guns. Venetian people are gone, Fled to Bologna’s plains, Away from Piave’s floods To Padua’s pallid walls. The decadent boom of guns-- Sullen, brutish guns-- Tired, moody guns-- Sick, disillusioned guns-- Is all that comes to the ear.

The child, sitting placidly near the war correspondent, keeps on throwing the tiny crumbs of bread to the pigeons; the American looks at him absently, and then bends again to his writing:

Glutted are all the guns, Glutted with fiendish drink Of hot young human blood; Brutal ennuyeux! Fat With soft delicious food Brought them from every land. Now the very guns are shamed; The hideous tanks are shamed; The fields and mountains are shamed; The Zeppelins are shamed; The submarines are shamed; Men’s faces are set and stern With an solemn awful shame. The world turns from its trough, And knows its swinishness; The guns are glutted now, Yet, if the flood be passed On Piave’s fertile plains, Venice shall come to their maw; All the delicate high-bred bones Of the Bride of the Seas will come To be crunched by the wild-boar guns Venice the fragile, grey Queen of the lamped lagoons-- Of slender lily tower-- Of rich dustcovered bronze-- Of history-crusted stone-- Of luminous Christs and saints And Gods of golden lands-- Of dreaming palace and port-- Of wingèd winy glass And vine-hung water-gate-- Venice must go to the guns.

The war correspondent closes his book; getting wearily to his feet he walks around the corner of the Palazzo Giustizia and gazes out on the Grand Canal toward the lagoons. He turns and looks sorrowfully toward the Bridge of Sighs, to the restored Campanile and the Procurate Nuova. The grey pigeons whirl around him; the child follows him.

Child looking earnestly at the American, points to the doves:

(_Child, singing_:)

_There go the doves, the flowers of the water-- Leaves of the steeples and seed of the sea; They know never our commerce nor barter, Yet the doves are no longer free. All of their flight among starry steeples Fanning of wings over militant peoples, Brings us no harmony. Yet the work of the pigeons is not done, For the work of wings is never done._

American looking down at the child wonderingly:

The work of wings is never done. That, me-thinks, is a wise small song. Who gave it you to sing?

The child stands gazing up at the American; he keeps mysterious dark eyes fixed upon him answering solemnly:

The Woodcarver,--he sings A song of many lines And all about the doves. “Pigeons,” he sings, “are wise They know their way so well, For they mark it out by stars And spiral paths of air; They know their way so well, And their way is always home To quietness and peace--”

The child, keeping his eyes gravely fastened on the war correspondent, chants with a weird insistence:

_The Woodcarver, he knows The meaning of everything; What makes the flowers grow, What makes the bright stars fall, What makes the echoes stay After the priests’ intoning, And boom around the walls Of our cathedral there. He says to keep on watching The doves with soaring wings, The peaceful, happy doves, For they have a message for men-- Feverish, stupid men Who are caught in a tangling net Of their own imaginings._

The American looks puzzled, he puts his hand on the child’s head and searches the large mournful eyes; he mutters something under his breath, and shakes his head sadly.

American caressing the child’s hair:

Your city is lonely, Child. Are you the only thing That lives--comes out to the sun? Do the Venetians hide In cellars and in tombs-- They who were made of sun? The palaces are closed, The gondolas are gone, But your people--all the play Of their merry liquid eyes, The white of their perfect teeth, The olive glow of their skins, And their saucy ragged ways; The dark faced coral women, The laughing lacemakers, The choruses clamoring Under the bobbing lanterns At night on the canals-- Are they sleeping a happy sleep? A long siesta-hour? (Ah! that siesta-hour, It has grown very long For many Italian youths.) Where have the people gone?

The child, slipping from under the war correspondent’s hand, looks away from him up to the pigeons that stream in circles around them, saying simply:

There is no one left here now But the Woodcarver and me. The Woodcarver makes saints And angels young and sweet; They poise all over his shop, They smile at us from the walls, We sit with the angels there And eat the bitter bread The Woodcarver has saved; Though the guns go snarling on, We are not much afraid; We stay to guard the doves. The Woodcarver has said They watch over Venice, So we watch over them.

American to himself:

A child and an old Italian Who carves his dreams in wood And “is not much afraid,” All that is left in Venice, To stay and guard the doves.

The child regarding the war correspondent curiously:

Stranger, why do you come? Venice is ugly now; The strangers come no more-- Only the officers come With charts and clanging boots; Their talk is swift and stern, Their eyes are burned like yours, And no-one ever smiles. Signori used to come; My father rowed them around; They laughed and sang and threw Money in the canal, As the Doges once threw rings. The kind merry strangers! They loved the bobbing lanterns, The songs on the water-ways, And the black gondolas swaying.... They were Americans And English; yes, and French-- But always Americans, Always feeding the doves, Always caressing the doves, Always protecting the doves!

War correspondent sombrely:

Yes--we used to feed the doves; Now we are feeding guns.

The child, his eyes fixed upon the birds, breaks again into song:

_All on the sunset evening, In the cortile’s peace, The soft grey doves came streaming In ecstasied release; Doves on my mother’s head As she walked abroad with her laces, Doves near the baby’s bed, Doves in the window places, Doves fanning the cornices there, Doves flooding, rippling the square, Cooing and preening and circling where The fountain sprayed on its Graces-- Purple breasted graylings that fly Into the blue tranquillity. Now it seems they have no sky. Bombs and smoke and horrors hover.... The day of wings and soaring is over._

The American, half smiling at the child’s fantastic quality--half angry at his pathos:

Why! Look you, the peace of a dove Were a witless, silly thing! Your doves there have their quarrels. Notice that down-charged wing! Hear that fretting and quarreling cooing Trouble among the pigeons brewing!

The war correspondent laughs at his own impatience, then takes the child’s hand, stroking it tenderly and saying:

Now the peace of a dove Is sent into the world On stronger enduring wings-- The peace of a mighty world, Rises on sturdier wings. The doves must rest awhile; The sky is filling now With wings of a mightier make. What of the flying planes, The noble charging planes, The squadrons of flying planes, Sweeping the fields of sky, Hovering over the earth? That is the new Parliament. The wingèd Parliament, The true Parliament, Which comes to bring us peace. Watch in the vault of heaven Where soaring birdmen fly-- On a splendid errantry, The Parliament of Peace!

The child smiles doubtfully; but the tenderness in the war correspondent’s voice gains his confidence; he slips his hand into the stranger’s, saying almost gayly:

You talk like the Woodcarver, A wonderful talk of wings. Oh! come and see the Woodcarver, And hear his wonderful things, The way he reads the message This dreadful war-time brings.

The two cross the deserted piazza toward the cálles where there are many little shops and booths now all boarded up; one, however, remains open. It is a small, dark, dingy cave, with small wooden angels, beautifully carved, festooned over the doorway. As one peers into the dimness of the interior, one has the sense of the fluttering of delicate carved wings. The Woodcarver comes to the door; he has in one hand his chisel, in the other a shapeless block of olive wood. The Woodcarver is old and bowed, but as he lifts his cavernous, dark eyes he smiles, and his whole face is irradiated with a look of the genius of simplicity.

Woodcarver to the war correspondent:

Bon Giorno. Ah, Signore! Welcome forestiere! Strangers are good to see. It is like those other days, When they drifted over the square Like scattered, unstrung beads, Or corn flung to the doves-- Or stood in the twilight churches, Staring through the incense, Hearing the organ roll, And priests voice imploring The Virgin’s intercession.

American, placing his hand on the old man’s arm;

’Tis good to find someone here, Only officials greet me Along the shivering streets. Where are the people of Venice? The lazy and happy and motley? The vendors and hawkers and idlers? The shop keepers and glass blowers? The courtly bankers and merchants? Ah! it is lonely in Venice.

Woodcarver, his cracked voice faltering:

All fled to ancient Padua, To the Good St. Anthony. And we--we only stay To watch the doves--and pray.

American, looking wistfully about him:

And when the doves fly off-- Rather than meet Teutons, In their compelling drive?

Woodcarver fiercely:

The doves will never leave; St. Mark has willed it so. ’Tis they who must not leave; If they leave Venice will fall. ’Tis for that I stay behind, I and the little child, To feed and sooth the doves. And you--how come you here? You must have been in the field--

Glancing up eagerly at the war correspondent:

Tell us--how fare our armies?

American solemnly and reluctantly:

Cadorna has retreated Before the Teutonic drive. They have unloosed the Piave; The Germans cannot cross, But the sacrifice was dear. They have unloosed the Piave To keep the Prussian back. Cadorna has been routed; Italians have retreated.

The Woodcarver stand there, looks at the war correspondent for a dazed moment, then jumps suddenly at him snarling into his very face:

Retreat--that is a lie!

The old man looks wildly about him, grasping at the American’s shoulder, and slightly shaking him, sobbing querelously:

What a silly childish tale To tell a Venetian ear! The Colleoni armed, Astride his savage horse In the Campello there-- A Mercenary, yet, Filled with Italian pride, Would fling you back on your words-- Your coward, lying words. For Italy, retreat? For Latin blood--retreat? Was any retreat for France? For Belgium any retreat? Another stand perhaps, Another flash of the eyes, Another gritting of teeth, Another steeling of heart, Another bracing of flesh, Another surge of the blood, Another smell of the fray, Then hell to the weltering hog That plunges forth on our land, Gnashing his filthy tusks! Gas and fire and cold, Water and steel and smoke, Roaring fires of hell, Vermin, disease and wounds Against them--Latin blood! Oh! that I had wells of it, I, a bloodless man, Faltering--old, and weak, But I mind me how once it burned-- Fire, blazing and quick-- Floods, scarlet and hot-- Flowers, passionate sweet-- Spirit, dauntless and bold-- Instinct, sure and keen-- Supremest Latin blood!

The old man paused, breathless and trembling; his hand drops weakly from the war correspondent’s shoulder; he draws himself up, saying with gentle dignity:

I lose my manners, Sir; But you will see the truth. Our life lies in the folds Of the sweeping allied flags. We are made of Latin blood, Blood on whose rising tide Rides the ark of ideals, Instincts of Liberty-- Freedom’s flowering stars. Yea--I have Latin blood; For me there is no retreat.

The American, silent and touched, looks quietly at him; there is sympathy and understanding in his face, yet he remains coolly reflective. The old Woodcarver staggers to his stool, and begins fiercely cutting at the shapeless block of wood. All about the small cavelike shop the sun strikes the smooth glistening bodies of wooden angels, the golden brown nakedness of little cherubs.

The American also sitting down rolls and lights a cigarette, the child collecting shavings and bits of wood from the floor, sits in the doorway sorting them and arranging them in patterns.

The American quietly inhaling his cigarette:

Your city is very drear. The houses closed and blind; The opal waters grown dun With the muddied silt that comes From the Piave’s plains. You carve while the cannon booms; Under your knife there grows A figure, supple-soft, Springing from uncouth wood, And you give it branching wings, And fashion its gentle face As though there were angels still.... You go on making angels. Do the angels know, think you, Of all the passion and hate, And waste and cursing and lies, And pride and fierce world-strife, Back of the making of wars? These angels, do they preen Their wings over it all, And smile upon us men?

The old Woodcarver for a moment drops his head; he passes his hand across anguished eyes; then he points to the child sitting in the doorstep, and puts his finger on his lip.

Woodcarver, fiercely:

Hush! It is to calm His timid, childish thought. The poor Bambino believes These angels will keep him safe. It is to keep serene The thoughts ’neath his innocent curls, That I go on carving angels.

American, bitterly:

Yes--only I have been Down in Servia, On Armenian plains. In blasted fields of France, In England’s wooded ways. Seeing many little forms, The angels forgot to save.

The Woodcarver stops carving; he drops his head into his hand; the American bites his lips, and curses himself. With sombre eyes he stares at the floor. Suddenly he notices a bit of wood lying in the shavings at his feet. It is a half-carved cross. The war correspondent, picking it up holds it loosely in his hand, ruminating. At last he puts it very gently on the table near the Woodcarver’s listless arm, and turns to the door, staring out to the grey vistas of the empty calles. As he smokes in silence the far-off guns boom steadily, and the whirl of grey pigeons comes once more past the little shop into the piazza.

The child, looking up at them, chants dreamily:

_Laws of humanity hold them Safe for the sunlit feeding, Protected always, and heeding Laws of the place that enrolled them; Spiral their flights, midst the steeples Pinnacles and Campanile; Silver fanfare of wings, Soothing the thoughts of the peoples. They spell Humanity, Love, Tenderness, Peace--But the air Is rent with wild thunder--Despair.... Where is the end of it? Where?_

The Woodcarver, lifting his face from his hands, looks anxiously at the child; he passes his rough hand swiftly over his eyes and smiles. Rising he pats the little shoulder of the child sitting in the doorway, saying laughingly:

Why their’s is a small Parliament. Peace to their soaring counsels! Weaving strange laws, Making a Cause For the new born nations. Note how they fly, Tieing the sky, Looping the heavens, Wreathing the square, Binding blue air Into golden-garlanded sheaves! There are the glad manoeuvres, The shiftings and the shaping, The mist and the cloud-escaping. Higher they fly and higher, Looping their winged desire, While we stand down here gaping.

The Woodcarver stands by the child, tapping his shoulder gently, and with the other hand pointing out the difference in pigeon flight.

Woodcarver explaining whimsically:

There are the Ones, the Twos and the Threes, The ablest, sagest counsellors, these.... The Threes soar higher than most, The Twos have a most responsible post, And the Ones--Oh! the separate lonely Ones-- Dreamers and Hopers and Prayers, the Ones! Stretching their wings over the world, Wavering over Humanity, hurled Man against man, gun against gun, Waiting until the madness be done.... Further and Further away from dust, Higher and Higher and Higher and Higher, Every separate, keen-eyed flier, Their’s is the flight of trust!

The Woodcarver turns shamefacedly back to the American, who smiles understanding his little diversion.

American--You speak quaintly, in childish parlance; but I like the fancy. What was your drollery about those who fly singly?

The Woodcarver, his dark eyes lighting with imagination, stands before the stranger arms akimbo, explaining,--

Woodcarver shyly:

Why! Look you! I am a man Without kith nor kin; No wife, nor any child But this adopted one, Whose parents fled away, And left him homeless here. And it seems to me that I dwell Closer to mine own heart, Where many counsels come, Than if a woman plunged Her fingers in my brain, And mixed my reason up.

The war correspondent laughs heartily at this, but the Woodcarver is quite serious. The old man stands slightly bent in the centre of the little place, regarding the stranger intently, and says slowly and gravely:

The lonely people know Much that is shut away From those that go in crowds, Companioned all the time. And look you--when the mass Of human beings act, ’Tis on the thought of those Who sit high up, alone, Studying the Stars; Or sit low down, alone, Studying the Sands; Or middle way, alone Studying the Times.

The American, drawing on the last bit of his cigarette, looks through the light cloud of smoke, and nods smiling.

The Woodcarver:

And the pigeons all alone, Circling the dreamy domes Of the Salute, there.... Why! look you! They fly so high, That earth-eyes cannot see; They lose all sight of lands; They feel the boundless air-- Air of the universe; And the little plans of men, And the little lands of men, Like stupid little maps, Like little colored charts, Spread out under their wings So little and so brief.... Each nation for itself, Each mortal for himself, All working different ways, Striving against each other, Pulling away from each other, Until some great Snarl comes, And all are choked to death By the tangle in their hands, And the tangle in their minds.

The birds feel boundless air-- Air of the Universe, Air of unbounded Life, Freedom and liberty; They see the first faint dawn Of a Boundless Peoples’ soul, Freed for a mighty world-- World-Race, World-Life, World-God. And on the sun-pathed clouds, That toss like high white seas, The dauntless birds fly out, Out to a rimless Space, Out to the path of Worlds, And the solemn ways of stars, Where they glimpse God himself; And like a precious message, Heaven-indicated sign Under their small sweet wings, They hold our dream for us.

Then we take to the air.... Battalioned aeroplanes, Squadrons of flying men, Winged holy priests, Winged lawyers and doctors, Winged men and women, Flying up from the earth Into pure unmeasured air, Where not a house can pry With narrow stupid eyes, And cramping stifling roof; Where not a printed word Sprays poison of old thought Over the sky-cleansed Mind. Where the clean squadrons fly, Like soaring splendid birds, Comes knowledge and buoyancy. There is the liberty, The freedom and the power, Prescience and omniscience, The Vision and the gift And the prophecy of birds.

The American, tossing away the stub of cigarette, reflectively surveys the speaker.

American:

Strange how he talks, This old Venetian man, This Carver of Wood-angels, Seeing the glorious planes Charging over the world! A child-like, passionate theme. Strange how the Carver talks!-- So talked the flying men, Victor Chapman himself, Dark as a gypsy prince, With mind so just and stern, Exact and science-full; Chapman, adventurer, Into the enemy lines, Gallant plane-fighter, Bronze plume-spreader, Wild wing-worker-- Once said a thing like that. Pegoud, though such a man Through all his fighting fame, And such a soldier, too, With duty in his eyes, France alight in his face, His body like a tool, The spirit used and kept Light and sharp as steel To be used for the piercing of air, Like lance darting at fate-- In one of his laughing moods Pegoud said things like that.... Like eagles in their hoods, Poised on their swooping planes, The aviators know Things not far off from that. The solemn flying men, The spear-eyed avions, Whose radiant, soaring wings Gild the blue summer air, Who take the surf of clouds, And thread the net of stars, Emerging into Space, Keen for new reckonings-- New delicate balancings, Keen for new sciences And new far beckonings. They break all barriers, Sweep all boundaries, Surmount all mountains, And soaring over seas That have for countless years Ensnared the minds of men To barter and piracy-- They give the new air-path To Peace and the interchange Of mutual benefits. Chapman, Pegoud, Gunymener-- They all said things like that, They were too busy killing, To make the thing come true; (And others were busy killing Chapman and Pegoud,) So their soarings ended soon, They folded their wings and slept.... But from their Grand Parliament, Their high and scatheless Parliament, Their steep-ascending Parliament, Senate of silver wings, Pageant of balanced Thought, Aerial conference, Congress of flying men, And forward flying minds-- Come many, many thoughts And many many dreams And thrilling glorious hopes.... Thus, all that battle now, All that struggle now, And all that are dying now, All that are starving now, Do so smiling and strong, Do so happy and sure, Knowing that this age stands On supremest level of all-- Highest peak of man’s mind, That dares his nature down, Fastens his blood in leash, Refines his passion, until It calms under his hand, And goes to _war with War_.

There is a sudden tremendous sound of guns. The child flings himself on the floor in fear; he crosses himself and lies there looking pitifully up to the walls where the wooden angels poise. The Woodcarver stops his work, and regards the child with a drawn white face.

Woodcarver, shuddering:

Christos!--A bitter sea, That booming sea of guns. Yet men dare to swim through The Surf of mittrailleuse, The solemn tides of blood, The still, white foam of fear, The cold blank sands of death.... Yea, men dive into it, Men swim into it, Forging beyond its depths To Something seen ahead, Until their feet touch shore. Oh! that the shore they touch Would be the coasts of Peace!

American bitterly:

Still the guns boom and boom Over the minds of men, Drowning the wills of men, The thinking powers of men. So they boomed in the days When the Fallieri fought, When Colleoni took The desperate cities’ pay, When the Hohenstauffen clutched Italy’s throbbing heart, When wily Metternich Closed up the mouths of men And universities. The black glutted guns Boomed for Garibaldi, And for Gambetta’s cause. For that Napoleon, Who dickered in big wars-- With the great solemn head And little pompous frame And cold and martial eye And strange abnormal dream.

The whole world loathed the sound Of the sea of Mittrailleuse, The roaring cannon-waves. Yet on the swimmers came, And dove through the frightful Surf, Until whole millions lay Like dead fish in that sea, That broke in barren waves Upon posterity. So shall the millions die In this chartless blasting Sea, Till someone finds its Source-- The Power in Berlin, And binds his pilfering hands, And heals his crazy brain, And ends his Mania.... Till someone leads the world In a new solemn Vow And endless chanting hymn, A vow such as this--

A vow that every race And every blood shall sign And seal with the memory Of children who have died, Of torment and of fright; Of Women who have died, Bearing the children of rape; Of Men who gave their lives, Fighting the filthy wars, Of commerce and of greed; Under so high a word, So clean and pure a word As Patriotic faith! A vow that shall be sealed By the whole world, rising Requiring this one Thing, Saying--“And with Him go The marshalled powers of killing. With him go out the Guns, With us come in the Wings; Bearing us on our Thought The kingdoms of our Mind And wisdoms of our Soul!”

As the American finished, the Woodcarver looks shrewdly up from his work:

Is that how America talks? How is it in your land? Your people bright and gay And full of sprightliness. The keenness of their face, The quickness of their mind, And their slowness to all passion.... Their big ambitions, and Their proud impulsiveness.... America, fine and free, What does she think of guns And working out a thought With a massed artillery?

The American, lighting another cigarette, ruminatingly regards it, and the old Italian smiling shakes his head and poises a half shaped figure of Christ in his hand, saying:

Nay, Nay! She does not know Your land of tapering towers And groves of shining lights, The women light of foot, Men white-haired but young-faced. Your land knows not the guns, Your land sends ships and men Fuel, clothes, machines And gold, and curing Of medicines, and stuffs; Every device of strength, All scientific ways, To heal and mend and save. Yet your land does not know The devastating hell Of war, and war for War-- The hells that took the bloom From off the women’s faces, And blasted children’s minds In every other land. Your country does not know Pray heaven she shall not know!

With a groan, the Woodcarver once more takes up the Christ, he runs his skilful sensitive fingers and supple wrist along the thin side of the young crucified figure. The American lost in thought staring at him. At last the latter as if speaking to himself thinks aloud, says softly:

“Our land sends ships and men, The youth of the country’s loins, The precious toll of her towns, The noble gift of her hills; Men who were born to peace, Who curse vile trickeries Of hateful modern war; Who trusted with smiling face, A certain honesty, And could not fathom hate, And could not relish greed. Ship after ship has sailed To carry them to their graves, The smiling sacrifice Of this despairing age.”

The Woodcarver looks up, in a kind of awe, as the American relates:

They sail out on the night, The young unhardened boys, Whispering goodbye To headlands and to Home, To sweetheart and to wife, With lips of passionate youth-- Set to a priestly task Of waging _war on War_. On stranger foreign soil They laugh in sordid tents, Go down into the trench, Or Sail the gallant air, Making their _war on War_. Yea, the world might once have said That we were long in peace. No longer can it say America knows not war.

The American, after brooding upon the idea, takes up his argument more earnestly, continuing:

America does not know? I think we know too well, I think we know at last. Not with the passion that bursts From the brave tormented heart At sight of French fields torn And orchards murdered down; Not with the doomed despair Of Servia, race-extinct, Watching the women and girls, Packed like frightened beasts Herded, in slavish fear Of many shames and deaths, Looking back to the hills Where the bodies of murdered men Spell the End of the Race. Not with the frightful sense Of tangled pride and lies, And great undisciplines Of Russia’s wolving hordes. Not with that English heart That bears its burden dumb, And puts its sorrow by, And keeps its firm face fixed Toward its solemn duty, dumb Against outside attacks, Dumb under awful grief, Dumb under bitter trial, But with a knowledge strong Of the Faith that comes with death And with the Duty born Of a perfect fearlessness.... Not with passions like these America goes to the Test, But with new Law in her eyes And a new Dream in her heart-- Dying into her birth.

The Woodcarver drops his work. He folds his arms among the shavings on the table, and leans his head on them staring at the war correspondent, who sits shoulder dropped, knees wide apart, smoking thoughtfully, continuing:

America knows not War, As a lasting principle. But knows that War must be, Till the Germ of War be killed. Now that the way is seen, America comes forth, Makes that her battle-cry. We care for that, as we care For honesty in the eyes Of the children of our race, For fairness, squareness, right; The way we care for a road, That loops up through the hills Of our Rocky Mountain peaks, For a finely poised machine, For a finely written tale, For a deed done with despatch And sureness and brevity. We care for it, as we care For a plunge in a mountain lake, The smell of the woodland trail, The secret of purple tides, The science of charted stars. My country has a dream, The dream of equal rights, The dream of a greater self, Merging of Bignesses, Of Progress, Land and Men. The conquest of all fear For ourselves and for other men. My country cares for Peace; My country dies for Peace. But we care like the surgeon, who Hand steady and eyes set stern, Cuts without thought of shame Or pity or silly fears, Till the gangrene is excised; Cuts the dead flesh away And sees new healing powers New vigors and new healths. My country comes to yours, To all the ailing lands, And stands with face strong set, Jaws firm, eyes straight ahead, To do this surgery, And keep itself more clean To operate success, And know no poisoning. And, as the surgeon holds His body and muscles hard, His hands firm and true, As a mother’s with a child, And his eyes clear and kind-- So must we keep ourselves Strong for our mighty work; No poison of Greed and Self, No poisons of class and caste, But our hands tender and strong, Our eyes tender and cool, Our words humble and true, Our hearts--God help us!--pure.

As the American finishes, the child rushes, in wild excitement, crying:

“Master--O Master, there is a soldier come down from the front--one of the Bersagliere--from the floods of the Piave. He found a boat, and, with his one poor hand, he has rowed it down the lagoons. The boat is full of blood. His side--his eyes are bleeding--O Master--Master!” There is a startled whir of the pigeons flying past, as a man’s steps are heard dragging themselves over the stone pavement of the Calla. The child stands petrified at sight of the wounded soldier, covered with mud and blood, yet still wearing the draggled beaver hat with coque feathers, the long yellow gaiters and torn blue coat. He staggers in, makes the sign of the cross to the winged figures all about him, and sinks coughing on a bench. His head drops forward. The old Woodcarver falls on his knees before him, takes off his hat, and peers into his face. The American bends over him, takes a flask from his hip pocket, and pouring some of the contents on his handkerchief, puts it between the man’s shaking lips.

* * * * *

Woodcarver with horror:

“Holy Virgin, protect us! ’Tis Pietro! the Gondolier, Whose song was merriest On all the moving canals; Whose cry soared over the housetops And dreaming palaces Like a chain of golden moons. He was a supple figure, Leaning upon his oar, With his scarlet sash and his cap, And the saucy black on his lip, A merry scalawag. Virgin! but he has grown Older than any world; Older than anything Dug out of a month’s old grave, And set to live again.”

The Bersagliere sits panting, his eyes roll around the shop vacantly and wildly. Suddenly his glance falls on the half finished wooden Christ lying on the table. He struggles up, clutches it, and presses it to his lips. His hands close over it, his bleeding face breaks into pitiful sobs, and he moans like an animal.

The American, turning his head away, bites his lips muttering:

“Their Christ--Their Christ. They will all die for him; But Ah! it takes anguish, Anguish of many kinds, To make us humble enough To make us wise enough To try to _live_ for him.”

The war correspondent leaves the flask in the hands of the Woodcarver, who hangs over his friend like a woman, taking off the hat, smoothing the battered coque feathers, stroking the hair back from the bleeding brow. He pours water out of a flask, and bathes the grey shaking face; he finally draws a very small fragment of his black bread from his breast, and, with a strange passionate gesture of renunciation, offers it to the soldier, who wolfishly snatches, and quickly devours it. He groans with his eyes closed, then looks appealing up at the Christ in the Woodcarver’s hand, and crosses himself.

The Woodcarver in a low tone to the American:

_It is like the Sacrament._

The American: It is like---- It is like---- The war correspondent breaks off suddenly; he flings himself to the door clenching his hand. The child runs to him, beckoning and pointing to sky.

Overhead, far above the buildings, flies a squadron of airplanes. They are bronze, gold and silver in the sunlight. The correspondent looking at them with his field glasses, can distinguish them as Austrian planes. They drop no bombs. As they pass the war correspondent looks back over his shoulder at the Woodcarver--

War correspondent:

They drop no bombs on Venice, Do they treasure beauty still? So that they are loath to crush?

The Woodcarver:

They fly superbly and strong.

The American:

’Tis a short, glancing, fatal life, yet imperial as a God’s.

The Bersagliere, savagely:

“Well? Do they attack? Hell to their insolence!”

The child:

Oh! but see our pigeons fly with them!

The American:

Like the shadows of their souls.

The Woodcarver, somberly with mystic emphasis:

The planes are companied always By the souls of the young dead fliers, The air-men who have died, Not knowing victory, Who cannot rest in graves, But still ride on the air, Asking, How will it end?

The Woodcarver is still staring up into the sky. The child steals up to him, and slips his hand in his.

Woodcarver in a sort of chant to the child:

Yea, in the fair blue air, In the silken glass-blown air, Full of its flowery forms, Or un-embodied souls, These disembodied fly-- Asking, _How will it end?_ Myriad wonders soar, Fly with our flying hordes, The flying hordes of our foe, Asking, _How will it end?_ Youth with a smile on its lips, Youth with untired powers, Youth with its gallant need Of dying for a belief. Now Youth flies forward, Softly on lucid air, Lifting our earth-faces, Guiding our feet that walk In the old stubborn ways, Calling us to the air, Asking, How does it end?

What is the gain, asks Youth, That we died and never grudged Our generous young death, Unless you learn the Word, And learn that Nothing is, Nothing can ever be, Until men turn them to Their labors for a thing That shall be greater far Than any gain of war? Dead youth with untired powers-- Defeated of its life, And life it could have given-- Hangs on surrounding air, And tries to speak the Word, The new, all-languaged Word By which shall come release From the Torture of the World, The Battle cry of ... Peace!

They all cluster around the doorway watching the marvelous evolutions of the airplanes. The pigeons soar under them, and the child for the first time smiles--

The child, quaintly:

The birds taught them to fly. Will the sweet birds teach them peace?

American smiling, rumpling the child’s hair tenderly:

The scientists say, little one, That a bird develops far Beyond man’s imperfection. Who knows what we can learn, Now that we, too, have wings?

He turns to the Woodcarver pointing to the pigeons:

I mind me of one spring morning, When first I saw them whirl In their Winged Parliament; ’Twas May, and Venice was bridal. Bridal she always was, The fragile, aged city That keeps beauty within Her shadowy tragic heart. ’Twas May and Venice was bridal. Golden light on the housetops, Limpid green on the water; Palaces gleamed and thrilled, Pallidly swimming and breaking Into a lovely destruction, At every passing of oars Along their circling mirror.

The American, a look of ineffable regret on his face, recapitulates the beauty of Venice:

Ripples on white steps breaking, Wistaria over the doorways, A bright bird high in a window, Carved heads on colonnades, Musing statues smiling Through the tangles of a vine. In a hundred broken trances, A thousand flickering candles, In glooms of the sanctuary And burst of the priests strong song, In processions of Corpus Christi; A thousand broken reflections, Sweet cries of melon vendors, Swish of oars and of barges; A scented warmth with the plashing Of sinuous gondolas, Black and gold on the color, Fastened at the traghetti Lolling on freshening tides, White was the Della Salute, Bubbling with many towers. On the fluttering Giudecca, Bright with its tatters and patches, The solemn Redentore. On the ancient hooded Rialto Merchants clamoring still; On the shifting Schiavoni, Fluttering tourists and children, Eager, impressed and caught In enchantment older than love. Venice the aged queen, Took them upon her knees, And showed them her fabulous book Of melting picture-dreams, Of saints and gods and kings, Of martyrs, Doges, and Popes, Of painters and architects; Told them her amorous tales Of adventure and emprise, Of sea-fogs covering deeds, Strange and wicked and old, Of gallants in muffling cloaks, Of the lions’ mouths in the square; Told them her amorous tales, Saying, “All ends in Beauty,” And sent them out from her courts-- Whispering, “All ends in Beauty.”

Venice in delicate age, Beauty in power and age, Age like frost on the grass, Age like the age of the tree, Like a fountain that never dries-- Such was Venice that morn-- And the doves over it all!

The American suddenly turns, and shakes his fist in the direction of the booming of the guns. He faces the other two men demanding tensely:

Rheims had beauty like that. France had beauty like that. Belgium had beauty like that. What is the doom of the world? What must our science teach? What must religion work? What is it men need to know, Before beauty like this Can be spared to the hungry world, That needs to drink of the cup Of Beauty for its life?

The Bersagliere looks up; the cut on his forehead bleeds less freely but he holds his ragged handkerchief to it. As he speaks, he motions toward the unfinished Christ lying on the table--his voice a gutteral whisper.

The Bersagliere:

Never the hungry world, The desperate childish world, The feeble stupid world, Caught in its horrible webs, Of stupid desires and needs, Of pamperings and sloth, Of pride and avarice, Of class and snobbery; Never the world can be saved Until we look on this.

He reaches over, seizes the cross and embraces it, passionately continuing between moans:

In the trenches they say it, In the hospitals know it. Men have talked to each other, Lying sobbing with pain Under the misery Of stabbing knives of cold. Out under the stars, Where the broken bodies lie Of young men scattered stiff In terrible postures of death; Or sweet boys broken up In ghastly pieces of death. The broken whispers sob: _The body and blood of Christ._ “The body and blood of Christ,” It has been broken again, By all the simple people The patient humble people; A long communion table, Stretching out through all lands. The body and blood of Christ, Given to us again By these his ignorant men, Who when they crashed to death On mountain or on plain Resigned their souls to Him.

The Bersagliere raises his arm to heaven as if registering a vow:

Nevermore will I take The holy sacrament But that my lips will say, The bodies and blood of _men_, Never will I receive The wafer on my lips But after Christ’s sweet name, “Bodies and blood of _men_!” Bitter will be the wine Unless I murmur soft “The bodies and blood of men Who die, that He might live.”

Woodcarver regarding the stricken soldier. Ah! what does this chaos mean?

The American bites his lips and clenches his hand. Finally he turns to where the cross lies on the table, takes it up reverently and curiously, and looks at it as at some new thing.

The American, reverently:

It means, a new-raised cross; The simple things Christ knew, And a Christ that has not died. It means a new found self, And a Soul that trusts itself. It means a Mind that sees Beyond race boundaries, Beyond all Separates Of race or land or kin; One People that shall rise Throughout the nationed globe, And speak one solemn word With all their various tongues, _There shall be no more War!_ One People shall demand, For the children still to be, That Self shall be consumed In the Passion _No more War_. One Science dedicate To a solemn World-emprise, Spreading immortal health Over the whole of life; That engines be dedicate To the good and help of the world; That crops be dedicate To the strength and life of the world; That gold be dedicate To the power and might of the world; That Mind be dedicate To the reverent Law of the World.

They all regard him in wonder, until the Woodcarver demands,--

And what of race-pride?

Bersagliere:

And what of commerce?

Child:

And what of home and hearth?

The American:

I know not. I know only, All else is lost and fails. I know new forces shape Illimitable life Out of infinite Mind.

He looks at the Bersagliere, touching him gently on the shoulder, saying softly:

’Tis a long communion table; We all kneel at that table. It stretches through many lands, It is spread in many minds. How do we go from that table? _The bodies and blood of men_ Must not be given in vain.

The American, turning to the Woodcarver, looks at him wistfully. He gestures to the winged figures all about, and says gravely and reverently:

_Go on making angels!_

The American, turning to the child, puts his arm around him, and together they stand at the door looking up at the whirling doves.

American gently:

Know’st thou, little one, They be pigeons, Who bear all tidings Under their wings? Over the borders Listen, One day, Winged _men_ shall cross All the borders With messages under their wings, And the Parliaments shall meet To try their mighty wings Of fresh and buoyant thought, And the minds of men shall rise To the cleanness of the skies, And the way shall be made clear, And your world be safe once more. You shall see clouds of planes, Soaring over your home Bringing tidings of hope, Dropping flowers on the graves Of the everlasting Young, Who died to further it. Flocks of singing planes, Voyaging over the air, With singing men and women, Chanting a paeon of peace. So that your children’s sons, Their noble heritage, Shall register and say “_The warless days came in With the winged flying men, And the flying Parliaments Brought to us lasting Peace._”

The American turns to the Woodcarver. He looks long and fixedly at him. At last he smiles wistfully, and points to the winged figures all about, saying soberly:

_Go on making angels!_

He makes a slight gesture of farewell, steps out of the door and into the piazza San Marco. Standing there he looks at the Italian flag, then at the small tricolor in his own button-hole. Smiling reverently and tenderly upon them, he stretches out his arms toward the sky, and with a gesture of passionate hope and appeal, salutes the Air.

“GONE WEST”

West Wind blowing from the far clime, What seeds are you sowing for the New Time? “_Pollen of souls that died In a young smiling pride, Scattered of chivalry and world-dream sublime._”

West Wind filling all the green trees, What hope did they leave for us on our knees? “_Their happy, high Belief To you they now bequeath-- Their vast, unconquered Sky bannered with breeze._”

Bright Wind surging from the clean West, What were they urging on their gay young quest? “_High Urge and keen, That Life shall mean Bold truths, faced with a bold broad breast._”

West Wind blowing from their dim coasts, Do they see weakness of all human boasts? “_Yes, but they know That men still go Forward and Forward in strong steady hosts._”

West Wind, West Wind, what will they do
If we should fail them--should prove us untrue?
_Fail them? That cannot be._
_For all Eternity_
_Faith in World-Liberty_
_Joins them to You!_

OTHER POEMS

THE HAPPY PEOPLE

“_And as I sat, over the pale blue hills came a noise of revellers._"--ENDYMION.

Down the spring slope sweep the Happy People In a stream; Pressing naked feet in rosy clover, Flitting through the glades where songbirds hover, Following brooks that run the meadows over; (In my dream.)

Down the green lawns throng the Happy People, Joy supreme In their poised hands garlanded with flowers, Joy of soft limbs fresh from sun and showers, Joy of sweet lips tasting dewy hours; (In my dream.)

Toward the mountains fare the Happy People, And they seem Waving me a promise bright and splendid, Calling me to take the way they wended. (But that way began--so has it ended In my dream.)

FROM TREE CLOISTER

Out of the city I came, Heart aflame, Thoughts oblique, confused, amazed; My yester dreamings hurt and dazed With the stifling buildings sweeping high And the towers choking the dingy sky. But I left it all to cross the dune, Hand in hand with the crescent moon.

Out of the city I came, Dreams of Fame Dogged me up to my cottage walls, Human passions and powers and thralls Challenged the way I took By the frozen meadow brook; But the hill-top pasture bars Chapelled the winter stars, And their votive candles burned At the gate wherein I turned.

Out of the city I came. Father of endless name, Who burn there burn on thy sacred pyre-- Burn with the flame of the heart’s desire Toward flame of worthier things, Toward lifting of broader wings; And their purple gift and their scarlet boon I hang on my altars of winter noon. I speak to the brook in its icy shrine, Confess to the tall dark palmer pine, And soft on the country air, I breathe the cities’ prayer.

FROM A WINDOW

The ever-greens that line the road Bow snowy heads upon the sight; The netted horses draw the load As it were light.

The living grief I would not see, The hands in helpless quiet wrung; But the white trappings say that she Was fair and young.

The coaches blot the wintry scene Passing where snow-blue shadows lurk.... Youth, Life, Love, Death--what do they mean? Back to my work!

BIRTHRIGHT

How have I lost them, the old powers of dream? I used to float through life, as on expanse Quivering with light, slow-moving in a trance That bore me like a petal on its stream.

Now, mouth and eyes are filled with dust of life. I, once a Seer, with my crystal globe, Know now no sphere, no irridescent robe; But bear me like a thief, with hand on knife.