Tours, 1918

VII — A WRECK

Survivor of an unknown past,
On this wild shore cast
By the sad desolate tides;
In a warm harbour long ago
They waited you, and waited long,
And guessed and feared at last,
But could not know. 
  Now in a language strange the waves make song,
And the flood surges round your broken sides,
And the ebb leaves you to the burning sun. 
  But when the voyage of my life is done,
And my soul puts forth no more,
Then may I sleep
Beneath the fathoms of the tideless deep,
And not be cast deserted on some dark alien shore.

Cape Cod, 1916

VIII — GRAVE STONES IN A FRONT YARD

Lest the swift world forget their names and pass
Unthinking, they have set this cold dead slate
Above their slumbers in the living grass
To warn all comers of impending fate;

Where friends made merry once at their behest,
Where young feet strolled about the shady lawn,
They welcome none but one unfailing guest,
And all the revellers but Death are gone.

Edgartown, 1916

IX — VIGIL

This is the hour when all substantial foes
Are exorcised and taunt the soul no more;
Now thinner grows the veil between the shore
Of vaster worlds and our calm garden close. 
Through the small exit of the open door
We pass, and seem to feel the eyes of those
We knew upon us; almost we suppose
The advent of the face we tremble for.

O that through this profound serenity
Might sound the answer to the heart’s deep cry;
If all those gracious presences might see
That, though we hurt them once, they shall not die
Until we also wither, we who keep
Vigil on these sweet meadows where they sleep.

Pomfret, 1919

X — WHEN THE DOOR WAS OPEN

Lonely as music from afar,
Hung the new moon and one white star,
Above the poplars black and tall
That sentineled the garden wall;
Four black poplars beyond the wall,
Two on each side of the garden gate,
In silhouette against the wide
Pale sky of the late eventide. 
Close was the garden and serene. 
The leaning reeds in quiet state
About the pool, merged in the green
Of misty leaves and hanging vines. 
The fireflies spun their silver lines
Across the deeper atmosphere,
And through the silence came the clear
Persistent tuning of the frogs
From dank recesses of the bogs.

Beyond the garden I could see
The glimmer of uncertain meadows,
Framed by the open doorway, wreathing
Sarabands of ghostly shadows,
Slowly turning, slowly breathing,
Largely and unhastily,—­
But the garden held its breath.