THE DISAPPOINTED.
THERE are songs enough for the hero
Who dwells on the heights of fame;
I sing for the disappointed—
For those who missed their aim.
For one who stands in the dark,
And knows that his last, best arrow
Has bounded back from the mark.
The eager, anxious soul,
Who falls with his strength exhausted,
Almost in sight of the goal;
With a sorrow all unknown,
For those who need companions,
Yet walk their ways alone.{144}
Who share love’s tender pain,
I sing for the one whose passion
Is given all in vain.
Have missed them on the way,
I sing, with a heart o’erflowing,
This minor strain to-day.
Must somewhere keep in space
A prize for that spent runner
Who barely lost the race.
Unless it held some sphere
That paid for the toil and talent
And love that are wasted here.
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"THE BLUE DANUBE" WALTZ
On the Danube's battle-plains
The unknown hosts outnumber
Who die 'neath the "Danube's" strains?
Those fall where cannons rattle,
'Mid the rain of shot and shell;
But these, in a fiercer battle,
Find death in the music's swell.
Is blended the dying groan;
But here, in the halls of fashion,
Hearts break, and make no moan.
And the music, swelling and sweeping,
Like the river, knows it all;
But none are counting or keeping
The lists of these who fall.
IF NATIONS HAD GODS OF THEIR OWN...
Said the Kaiser’s god to the god of the Czar:
‘Hark, hark, how my people pray.
Their faith, methinks, is greater by far
Than all the faiths of the others are;
They know I will help them slay.’
Said the god of the Czar: ‘My people call
In a medley of tongues; they know
I will lend my strength to them one and all.
Wherever they fight their foes shall fall
Like grass where the mowers go.’
Then the god of the Gauls spoke out of a cloud
To the god of the King nearby:
‘Our people pray, tho’ they pray not loud;
They ask for courage to slaughter a crowd,
And to laugh, tho’ themselves may die.’
AND THE CONSEQUENCE OF ALL THESE NATIONAL GODS WAS...
Little lads and grandsires,
Women old with care;
But all the men are dying men
Or dead men over there.
No one stops to dig graves;
Who has time to spare?
The dead men, the dead men
How the dead men stare.
Kings are out a-hunting—
Oh, the sport is rare;
With dying men and dead men
Falling everywhere.
Life for lads and grandsires;
Spoils for kings to share;
And dead men, dead men,
Dead men everywhere.
IMPATIENCE.
The once fleet mornings linger by the way,
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
At my unrest; they seem to pause, and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait?
Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one song,
How can I wait?
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?
A pitying night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My heart has need of patience and control;
Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll.
How can I wait?
Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you come again, oh, love of mine,
How can I wait?
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LOVE'S COMING.
With the clash of arms and the bugle's call:
But he came instead with a stealthy tread,
Which she did not hear at all.
As he rode like a prince to claim his bride:
In the sweet dim light of the falling night
She found him at her side.
Would wake her heart to a sudden glow:
She found in his face the familiar grace
Of a friend she used to know.
As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife:
He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,
And a peace which crowned her life.
