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George Macdonald

I HEARD him preach in Oxford years ago,

A snowy-haired and tender-faced apostle.

I watched the beech against the window blow,

And listened to the throstle.

And still a waving branch to memory brings

Those deepset eyes and drooping lids as pressed

Upon too much by earthly visionings

And wistful for their rest.

by Katharine Lee Bates

Jerusalem

AT last, at last the Crescent

Falls back before the Cross.

Great spirits, incandescent

With longing and with loss,

Gleam from the clouds, crusaders

Who knew no requiem

While Saladin's invaders

Possessed Jerusalem.

by Katharine Lee Bates

Blood Road

The Old Year groaned as he trudged away,

His guilty shadow black on the snow,

And the heart of the glad New Year turned grey

At the road Time bade him go.

"O Gaffer Time, is it blood-road still?

Is the noontide dark as the stormy morn?

Is man's will yet as a wild beast's will?

When shall the Christ be born?"

by Katharine Lee Bates

A Mountain Storm

OUR blue sierras shone serene, sublime,

When ghostly shapes came crowding up the air,

Shadowing the landscape with some vast despair;

And all was changed as in weird pantomime,

Transfigured into vague, fantastic form

By that tremendous carnival of storm.

Pilgrim processions of bowed trees that climb

To sacred summits, in the clashing hail

by Katharine Lee Bates

Babushka

THOU whose sunny heart outglows

Arctic snows;

Russia's hearth-fire, cherishing

Courage almost perishing;

Torch that beacons oversea

Till a world is at thy knee;

Babushka the Belovèd,

What Czar can exile thee?

by Katharine Lee Bates

In August

BESIDE the country road with truant grace

Wild carrot lifts its circles of white lace.

From vines whose interwoven branches drape

The old stone walls, come pungent scents of grape.

The sumach torches burn; the hardhack glows;

From off the pines a healing fragrance blows;

The pallid Indian pipe of ghostly kin

Listens in vain for stealthy moccasin.

by Katharine Lee Bates

A Song Of Riches

What will you give to a barefoot lass,

Morning with breath like wine?

Wade, bare feet! In my wide morass

Starry marigolds shine.

Alms, sweet Noon, for a barefoot lass,

With her laughing looks aglow!

Run, bare feet! In my fragrant grass

Golden buttercups blow.

by Katharine Lee Bates

Around The Sun

THE weazen planet Mercury,

Whose song is done,

— Rash heart that drew too near

His dazzling lord the Sun!—

Forgets that life was dear,

So shriveled now and sere

The goblin planet Mercury.

But Venus, thou mysterious, Enveilèd one,

by Katharine Lee Bates

Glory

At the crowded gangway they kissed good-bye.

He had half a mind to scold her.

An officer's mother and not keep dry

The epaulet on his shoulder.

He had forgotten mother and fame,

His mind in a blood-mist floated,

But when reeling back from carnage they came,

One told him: "You are promoted!"

by Katharine Lee Bates

How Long?

How long, O Prince of Peace, how long? We sicken of the shame

Of this wild war that wraps the world, a roaring dragon-flame

Fed on earth's glorious youth, high hearts all passionate to cope

—O Chivalry of Hope!—

With the cloudy host of the infidel and the Holy Earth reclaim.

For each dear land is Holy Land to her own fervent sons

Who fling in loyal sacrifice their lives before the guns,

But when they meet their foes above the battlesmoke, they laugh,

by Katharine Lee Bates

Above The Battle

Honor and pity for the smitten field,

The valorous ranks mown down like precious corn,

Whose want must famish love morn after morn,

Till Death, the good physician, shall have healed

The craving and the tearspent eyelids sealed.

Proud be the homes that for each cannon-torn,

Encrimsoned rampart have been left forlorn;

Holy the knells o'er fallen patriots pealed.

by Katharine Lee Bates

Children Of The War

SHRUNKEN little bodies, pallid baby faces,

Eyes of staring terror, innocence defiled,

Tiny bones that strew the sand of silent places,

— This upon our own star where Jesus was a child.

Broken buds of April, is there any garden

Where they yet may blossom, comforted of sun,

While their sad Creator bows to ask their pardon

For the life He gave them, life and death in one?

by Katharine Lee Bates