Byway, you, so foully marred;
You, whose sodden walls and scarred,
See no light, but only where
Fevered lamps are set to stare
In the eyes of such despair! 
Tell me—­as a Byway can—­
Was this Beggar once a Man?
‘Rich man—­Poor man—­Beggar man—­Thief!’
Like and lost as leaf and leaf. 
Stammering out your wrongs and shames,
Must you cry their very names? 
Must you sob your shame, your grief?
—­’Poor man—­Poor man!—­Beggar—­Thief.’

III

Highway, where the Sun is wide;
Byway, where the lost ones hide,
Byway, where the Soul must hark,
Byway, dreadful with the Dark: 
    Can you nothing do with Man? 
Doctor, Lawyer, Merchant, Chief,
Learns he nothing, even of grief? 
Must it still be all his wonder
Some men soar, while some go under? 
He has heard, and he has seen: 
Make him know the thing you mean. 
He has prayed since time began,—­
He’s so curious of the Plan! 
He will pray you till he die,
For the Whence and for the Why;
Mad for wisdom—­when ’tis cheaper!
’Why should my way lead me deeper? 
Am I, then, my Brother’s keeper?’

Show him, Byway, if you can;
Lest he end as he began,
Rich and poor,—­this beggar, Man.

But we did walk in Eden,
  Eden, the garden of God;—­
There, where no beckoning wonder
Of all the paths we trod,
No choiring sun-filled vineyard,
No voice of stream or bird,
But was some radiant oracle
And flaming with the Word!

Mine ears are dim with voices;
Mine eyes yet strive to see
The black things here to wonder at,
The mirth,—­the misery. 
Beloved, who wert with me there,
  How came these shames to be?—­
  On what lost star are we?

Men say:  The paths of gladness
  By men were never trod!—­
But we have walked in Eden,
  Eden, the garden of God.

THE FOUNDLING

Beautiful Mother, I have toiled all day;
    And I am wearied.  And the day is done. 
    Now, while the wild brooks run
Soft by the furrows—­fading, gold to gray,
  Their laughters turned to musing—­ah, let me
  Hide here my face at thine unheeding knee,
    Beautiful Mother; if I be thy son.

The birds fly low.  Gulls, starlings, hoverers,
    Along the meadows and the paling foam,
    All wings of thine that roam
Fly down, fly down.  One reedy murmur blurs
  The silence of the earth; and from the warm
  Face of the field the upward savors swarm
    Into the darkness.  And the herds are home.

All they are stalled and folded for their rest,
    The creatures:  cloud-fleece young that leap and veer;
    Mad-mane and gentle ear;
And breath of loving-kindness.  And that best,—­
  O shaggy house-mate, watching me from far,
  With human-aching heart, as I a star—­
    Tempest of plumed joys, just to be near!