ARAB SONGS (II)

The poet reproaches those who have affronted him.

Ye know not why God hath joined the horse
  fly unto the horse
Nor why the generous steed is yoked with
  the poisonous fly: 
Lest the steed should sink into ease and lose
  his fervour of nerve
God hath appointed him this:  a lustful and
  venomous bride.

Never supine lie they, the steeds of our folk,
  to the sting,
Praying for deadness of nerve, their wounds
  the shame of the sun;
They strive, but they strive for this:  the fullness
  of passionate nerve;
They pant, but they pant for this:  the speed
  that outstrips the pain.

Sons of the dust, ye have stung:  there is
  darkness upon my soul. 
Sons of the dust, ye have stung:  yea, stung
  to the roots of my heart. 
But I have said in my breast:  the birth
  succeeds to the pang,
And sons of the dust, behold, your malice
  becomes my song.

* * * * *

SHANE LESLIE

A DEAD FRIEND (J.S., 1905)

I drew him then unto my knee, my friend who
  was dead,
And I set my live lips over his, and my heart
  by his head.

I thought of an unrippled love and a passion
  unsaid,
And the years he was living by me, my friend
  who was dead;

And the white morning ways that we went,
  and how oft we had fed
And drunk with the sunset for lamp—­my friend
  who was dead;

Now never the draught at my lips would thrill
  to my head—­
For the last vintage ebbed in my heart; my
  friend he was dead.

Then I spake unto God in my grief:  My wine
  and my bread
And my staff Thou hast taken from me—­my
  friend who is dead.

Are the heavens yet friendless to Thee, and
  lone to Thy head,
That Thy desolate heart must have need of my
  friend who is dead?

To God then I spake yet again:  not Peter
  instead
Would I take, nor Philip nor John, for my
  friend who is dead.

FOREST SONG

All around I heard the whispering larches
  Swinging to the low-lipped wind;
God, they piped, is lilting in our arches,
  For He loveth leafen kind.

Ferns I heard, unfolding from their slumber,
  Say confiding to the reed: 
God well knoweth us, Who loves to number
  Us and all our fairy seed.

Voices hummed as of a multitude
  Crowding from their lowly sod;
’Twas the stricken daisies where I stood,
  Crying to the daisies’ God.

THE BEE

Away, the old monks said,
Sweet honey-fly,
From lilting overhead
The lullaby
You heard some mother croon
Beneath the harvest moon. 
Go, hum it in the hive,
The old monks said,
For we were once alive
Who now are dead.