Light : a narrative poem / by Joaquin Miller [electronic text]

BOOK THIRD

CANTO I

I

OF all fair trees to look upon, Of all trees " pleasant to the sight," Give me the Poet's tree of white— Pink cherry trees of blest Nippon With lovers passing to and fro— Pink cherry lanes of Tokio: Ten thousand cherry trees and each Hung white with Poet's plaint and speech.

II

Of all fair lands to look upon, To feel, to breathe, at Orient dawn, I count this baby land, the best, Because here all things rest and rest. And all men love all things most fair And beautiful and rich and rare;

And women are as cherry trees With treasures laden, brown with bees.

III

Of all loved lands to look upon, Give me this love land of Nippon, Its bright, brave men, its maids at prayer, Its peace, its carelessness of care.

IV

A mobile sea of silver mist Sweeps up for morn to mount upon: Then yellow, saffron, amethyst— Such changeful hues has blest Nippon! See but this sunrise, then forget All scenes, all suns, all lands save one, Just matin sun and vesper sun; This land of inland seas of light; This land that hardly recks of night.

V

The vesper sun of blest Nippon Sinks crimson in the Yellow Sea: The purple butterfly is gone, The rainbow bird housed in his tree— Hushed, as the last loved, trembling note Still thrills his tuneful Orient throat—

Hushed, as the harper's weary hand Waits morn to waken and command.

VI

Fast homeward bound, brown, busy feet In wooden shoon clang up the street; But not through all the thousand year In Buddha's temple may you hear One step, see hue of sun or sea, Though wait you through eternity; All is so still, so soft, subdued— The very walls are hueless hued.

VII

Behold brown, kneeling penitents! What perfumed place of silent prayer! Burned Senko-ho, sweet frankincense! And hear what silence everywhere! Pale, pensive priests pass here and there And silent lisp with bended head The Golden Rule on scrolls of gold As gentle, ancient Buddhists read These precepts sacred unto them, And watched the world grow old, so old, Ere yet the Babe of Bethelehem.

VIII

How leaps the altar's forky flame! How dreamful, dense, the sweet incense, As pale priests burn, in Buddha's name, Red-written sins of penitents— Mute penitents with bended head And unsaid sins writ deep in red.

IX

Now slow a priest with staff and scroll, Barefoot, as mendicant, and old— You sudden start, you lift your head, You hear and yet you do not hear, A sound, a song, so sweet, so dear It well might waken yonder dead. His staff has touched the sacred bowl Of copper, silver, shot with gold And wrought so magic-like of old That all sweet sounds, or east or west, Sought this still hollow where to rest. Hear, hear the voice of Buddha's bell, Bonsho-no-oto! All is well!

X

And you, you, lean, lean low to hear: You doubt your ears, you doubt your eyes, Your hand is lifted to your ear,

You fear, how cruelly you fear The melody may die—it dies— Dies as the swan dies, as the sun Dies, bathed in dewy benison.

XI

It lives again; you breathe again! What cadences that speak, that stir, Take form and presence, as of her Whom first you loved, ere yet of men. It utters essence as a sound; As Santalum sends from the ground For devotee and worshipper Where saints lie buried, balm and myrrh.

XII

But now so low, so faint, so low You lean to hear yet hardly hear. Again your hand is to your ear, Your lips are parted, leaning so, And now again you catch your breath! Such breath as when you lie becalmed At sea, and sudden start to feel A cooling wave and quickened keel And see your tall sail court the shore. You hear, you more than hear, you feel, As when the white wave shimmereth.

Your love is at your side once more, An essence of some song embalmed, Long hidden in the house of death—You breathe it, as your Lady's breath!

XIII

Now low, so low, so soft, so still, As when a single leaf is stirred, As when some doubtful matin bird Dreams russet morning decks his hill— Then nearer, clearer, lilts each note And longer, stronger, swells each wave— Ten thousand dead have burst the grave, An angel's song in every throat! The forky flame turns and returns To burn and burn red sins away;Such incense on the altar burns As some may breathe but none may say, Though cherished to their dying day.

XIV

And now the sandaled pilgrims fall With faces to the jeweled floor — The incense darkens as a pall, As clouds that darken more and more. You dare not lift your bended head — The silence is as if the dead

Alone had passed the temple door. And now the Bonsho notes, the song! So stronger now, so strong, so strong!

XV

The black smokes of the ashen urn Where brown priests burn red sins away Begin to stir, to start, to turn, To seek the huge, bossed copper door— As evil things that dare not stay. The while the rich notes roll and roar To drive dread, burned sin out before Calm Dia-busta, the adored, As cherubim with flaming sword.

XVI

And far, so far, such rich notes roll That barefoot fishers far at sea Fall prone and pray all silently For wife and babes that wait the strand, The tugging net clutched tight in hand, The while they bow a space to pray; For every asking, eager soul Knows well the time and patiently It lists, an hundred Ri away.

XVII

The thousand pilgrims girt in straw That press Fujame's holy peak, Prone, fasting, penitent and meek, Hear notes as from the stars and pray, As we who know and keep the Law— As we who walk Jerusalem With pilgrim step and pallid cheek. How earnestly they silent pray To keep their Golden Rule alway, To do nothing, or night or day, Though tempted by a diadem, They would not others do to them!

XVIII

And wee, brown wives, on high, wild steeps Of terraced rice or bamboo patch Where toil, hard toil incessant, keeps Sweet virtue, sweet sleep, and a thatch, They hear and hold, with closer fold, Their bare, brown babes against the cold. They croon and croon, with soothing care, To babes meshed in their mighty hair, And loving, crooning, breathe a prayer.

XlX

The great notes pass, pass on and on, As light sweeps up the doors of dawn, And now the strong notes are no more, But feebler tones wail out and cry, As sad things that have lost their way At night and dare not bide the day But turn back to the shrine to die, And steal in softly through the door And gently fade along the floor.

XX

The barefoot priest slow fades from sight, Faint and more faint the last notes fall; You hear them now, then not at all, And now the last note of the night Wails out, as when a lover cries At night, and at the altar dies.

XXI

How sweet, how sad, how piteous sweet This last note at the bowed monk's feet That dies as dies some saintly light — That dies so like the sweet swan dies— So loving sad, so tearful sweet, This last, lost note—Good night, good night. Good night to holy Buddha's bell—

Bonsho-no-oto! All is well— A mist is rising to the eyes!

CANTO II

I

THIS water town of Tokio Is as a church with priests at prayer, With restful silence everywhere, Or night or day, or high or low. You sometimes hear a turtle dove, A locust trilling from his tree In chorus with his mated love, May see a raven in the air, Wide-winged and high, but even he Is as a shadow in the stream; As dreamful, silent as a dream.

II

They could but note the silent maids That carried, with a mother's care, The silent baby, ofttimes bare As birthtime through their Caran shades. Ten thousand babies, everywhere, But not one wail, or day or night, To put the locust's love to flight,Or mar the chorus of the dove.

And why? Why, they were born of love: Born soberly, born sanely, clean, As Indian babes of old were born Ere yet the white man's face was seen, Ere yet the sensuous white man came; Born clean as love, of lovelight born Some long lost Rocky Mountain morn Where snow-topt turrets first took flame And flashed God's image in God's name!

III

Tell me, my flint-scarred pioneer, My skin-clad Carson, mountaineer, Who met red Sioux, met dusk Modoc, Red hand to hand in battle shock Where men but met to dare and die, Did ever you once see or hear One poor brown Indian baby cry?

IV

The long, hot march by ashen plain, The burning trail by lava bed, Babes lashed to back in corded pain Until the swollen bare legs bled, But on and on their mothers led, If but to find a place to die. Yet who, of all men that pursued

This dying race, year after year, By burning plain or beetling wood, Did ever see, did ever hear, One bleeding Indian baby cry?

V

The starving mother's breasts were dry, There scarce was time to stop and drink, The swollen legs grew black as ink— There was not even time to die. And yet, through all this fifty year, What hounding man did ever hear One piteous Indian baby cry?

VI

Nay, they were born as men were born Far back in Jacob's Bible morn;Were born of love, born lovingly, Unlike the fretful child of lust, When love gat love and trust gat trust— And trusting, dared to silent die In torture and disdain a tear, If mother willed, nor question why. Yea, I have seen so many die, This cruel, hard, half-hundred year, And I have cried, to see, to hear— But never heard one baby cry.

VII

Shot down in Castle Rocks I lay One midnight, lay as one shot dead, A lad, and lone, years, years of yore. I heard deep Sacramento roar, Saw Shasta glitter far away— I never saw such moon before And yet I could not turn my head, Nor move my lips to cry or say. Red arrows in both form and face Held form and face tight pinned in place Against the gnarled, black chaparral, As one fast nailed against a wall With scant half room to wholly fall— The hot, thick, gurgling, gasping breath, The thirst, the thirsting unto death!

VIII

And then a child against my feet Crawled feebly and crept close to die; I moaned, "Oh baby, won't you cry? 'Twould be as music piteous sweet To hear in this dread place of death Just one lorn cry, just one sweet breath Of life, here 'mid the moonlit dead, The mingled dead, white men and red.

IX

"Oh bleeding, blood-red baby, cryJust once before I, choking, die! And maybe some white man will hear In yonder fortressed camp anear And bring blest drink for you and I— Oh, baby, please, please, baby, cry?

X

A crackling in the chaparral And then a lion in the clear From which the dying babe had crept, Swift as a yellow sunbeam leapt And stood so tall, so near, so near! So cruel near, so sinuous, tall— Some Landseer's picture on a wall.

XI

I never saw such length of limb, Such arm as God had given him! His paws, they swallowed up the earth, His midnight eyes shot arrows out The while his tail whipped swift about— His tail was surely twice his girth!

XII

His nostrils wide with smell of blood Reached out above us where he stood

And snuffed the dank, death-laden air Till half his yellow teeth were bare. His yellow length was bare and lank— I never saw such hollow flank; 'Twas as a grave is, as a pall, A flabby black flank—scarce at all!

XIII

He sudden quivered, tail to jaws, Crouched low, unsheathed his shining claws— "Oh, baby, baby, won't you cry, Just once before we two must die?" I felt him spring, clutch up, then leap Swift down the rock-built, broken steep; I heard a crunch of bones, but I— I did not hear that baby cry!

CANTO III

I

I WOULD forget—help me forget, The while we fondly linger yet The flower-field so sweet, so sweet, With Buddha at fair Fuji's feet. Fair Fuji-san, throned Queen of air! Fair woman pure as maiden's prayer; As pure as prayer to the throne Of God, as lone as God, as lone

As Buddha at her feet in prayer— Fair Fuji-san, so more than fair!

II

Fair Fuji-san, Kamkura, and Reposeful, calm Buddha the blest, With folded hands that rest and rest On eld Kamkura's blood-soaked sand. Here russet apples hang at hand So russet rich that when they fall 'Tis as if some gold-bounden ball Sank in the loamy, warm, wet sand Where hana, kusa, carpet earth That never knows one day of dearth.

III

Kamkura, where Samurai bled, Where Buddha sits to rest and rest! Was ever spot so beauteous, blest? Was ever red rose quite so red?

IV

Fair Fuji from her mountain chine Above her curtained courts of pine Looks down on calm Kamkura's sea So tranquil, dreamful, restfully You fold your arms across your breast

And rest with her, with Buddha rest, The silence musks the warm sea air— Just silence, silence everywhere.

V

Here midst this rest, this pure repose, This benediction, peace, and prayer, That as religion was, and where A breath of senko blessed the air, The erstwhile children of the snows Came silently and sat them down Within a Kusa coigne that lay Above the buried Bushi town, Above the dimpled, beauteous Bay Of sun and shadow, gold and brown, And Care blew by the other way—A breath, a butterfly, a fay.

VI

And one was as fair Fuji, fair, True, trusting as some maid at prayer, Aye, one as Buddha was, but one Was turbulent of blood and was An instant of the earth and sun; As when the ice-tied torrent thaws And sudden leaps from frost and snow Headlong and lawless, far below—

As when the sap flows suddenly And warms the wind-tost mango tree.

VII

He caught her hand, he pressed her side, He pressed her close and very close, He breathed her as you breathe a rose,. Nor was in any wise denied. Her comely, shapely limbs pushed out As elden on her golden shore; Her long, strong arms reached round about And bent along the flowered floor, While full length on her back she lay Like some wild, beauteous beast at play,

VIII

He thrust him forward, caught her, caught Her form as if she were of naught. His outstretched face was as a flame, His breath was as a furnace is, He kissed her mouth with such mad kiss Her rich, full lips shut tight with shame.

IX

As one of old who tilled the mould, Took triple strength from earth and thrust His burly foeman to the dust, She sprang straight up, and springing threw

Him from her with such voltage he Knew not how he might, writhing, rise, Or dare to meet again those eyes That seemed to burn him through and through; Or daring, how could he undo His coward, selfish deed of shame Enforced as in religion's name? And she so trustful, so alone! 'Twas as if some sweet, sacred nun Had opened wide her door to one Who slew her on her altar stone.

X

She passed and silent passed and slow. What strength, what length of limb, what eyes! She left him lying low, so low, So crested and so surely slain He deemed he never more might rise, Or rising, see her face again. And yet, her look was not of hate, But pity, as akin to pain; And when she touched the temple gate She paused, turned, beckoned he should go, Go wash his hands of carnal clay And go alone his selfish way — Forever, ever and a day!

CANTO IV

I

HOW cold she grew, how chilled, how changed, Since that loathed scene by Nippon's sea! No longer flexile, trustful, she Held him aloof, hushed and estranged, A fallen star, yet still her star, And she his heaven, earth, his all, To follow, worship, near or far, Let good befall or ill befall. But he was silent. He had sold His birthright, sold for even less Than any poor, cheap pottage mess, His right to speak forth, warm and bold, And look her unshamed in the face. Mute, penitent, he kept his place, As silent as that Nippon saint That knew not prayer, praise, or plaint.

II

Saint Silence seems some maid of prayer, God's arm about her when she prays And where she prays and everywhere,Or storm-strewn or sun-down days. What ill to Silence can befall, Since Silence knows no ill at all?

III

Saint Silence seems some twilight sky That leans as with her weight of stars To rest, to rest, no more to roam, But rest and rest eternally. She loosens and lets down the bars, She brings the kind-eyed cattle home, She breathes the fragrant field of hay And heaven is not far away.

IV

The deeps of soul are still the deeps Where stately Silence ever keeps High court with calm Nirvana, where No shallows break the noisy shore Or beat, with sad, incessant roar, The fettered, fevered world of care. As noisome vultures fret the air.

V

The star-sown seas of thought are still, As when God's plowmen plant their corn Along the mellow grooves at morn In patient trust to wait His will. The star-sown seas of thought are wide, But voiceless, noiseless, deep as night; Disturb not these, the silent seas

Are sacred unto souls allied, As golden poppies unto bees. Here, from the first, rude giants wrought, Here delved, here scattered stars of thought To grow, to bloom in years unborn, As grows the gold-horned yellow corn.

VI

They lay low-bosomed on the bay Of Honolulu, soft the breeze And soft the dreamful light that lay On Honolulu's Sabbath seas— The ghost of sunshine gone away— Red roses on the dust of day, Pale, pink, red roses in the west Where lay in state dead Day at rest.

VII

Their dusky boatman set his face From out the argent, opal sea Tow'rd where his once proud, warlike race Lay housed in everlasting dust. He sang low-voiced, sad, silently, In listless chorus with the tide, Because his race was not, because His sunborn race had dared, defied The highest, holiest of His laws

And so fell stricken and so died— Died stricken of dread leprosy Begot of lust—prone in the dust— Degenerating love to lust.

VIII

Sweet sandal-wood burned bow and stern In colored, shapely crates of clay; Sweet sandal-wood long laid away, Long caverned with dead battle kings Whose dim ghosts rise betimes and burn The torch and touch sweet taro strings— Such giant, stalwart, stately kings!

IX

Sweet sandal-wood, long ages torn From cloud-capt steeps shere thunders slept, Then hidden where dead giants kept Their sealed Walhalla, waiting morn— Deep-hidden, till such sweet perfume Betrayed their long-forgotten tomb.

X

The sea's perfume and incense lay About, above, lay everywhere; The sea swung incense through the air— The censer, Honolulu's Bay.

And then the song, the soft, low rune, As sad, as if dead kings kept tune.

XI

The moon hung twilight from each horn, Soft, silken twilight, soft to touch As baby lips—and over much Like to the baby breath of morn. Huge, five-horned stars swung left and right O'er argent, opal, amber night.

XII

What changeful, dreamful, ardent light, When Mauna Loa, far afield, Uprose and shook his yellow shield Below the battlements of night; Below the Southern Cross, o'er seas That sang such silent symphonies!

XIII

Far lava peaks still lit the night, Like holy candles foot and head, That dimly burned above the dead, Above the dead and buried Light. There rose such perfume of the sea, Such Sabbath breath, soft, silently, As when some burning censer swings, As when some surpliced choir sings.

XIV

He scarce had lived save in such fear, But now yon mitered tongues of flame That tipped the star-lit lava peak Brought back some fervor to his cheek And made him half forget his shame. He could but heed, he could but hear That call across the walls of night From triple mitered tongues of Light, That soulful, silent, perfumed night. He said—and yet he said no word; No word he said, yet all she heard, So close their souls lay, in such Light, That holy Honolulu night.

XV

"Lies yonder Nebo's mount, my Soul?— The Promised Land beyond, beyond The grave of rest, the broken bond, Where manly force must lose control, Must press the grapes and fill the bowl, Go round and round, rest, rise up, eat, Tread grapes, then wash the wearied feet?

XVI

"I know I have enough of bliss, I know full well I should not dare

To ask a deeper joy than this, This scene, your presence, this soft air, This incense, this deep sense of rest Where long-sought, sweet Arcadia lies Against these gates of Paradise.

XVII

"And yet, hear me, I dare ask more. Lone Adam had all Paradise And still how poor he was, how poor, With all things his beneath the skies! Aye, sweet it were to roam or rest, To ever rest and ever roamAs you might reck and reckon best; But still there comes a sense of home, Of hearthstone, happy babes at play, And you and I— not far away.

XVIII

"Nay, do not turn aside your face — 'Be fruitful ye and multiply' Meant all; it meant the human race, And he or she shall surely die Despised and pass to nothingness Who does not love the little dress, The heaven in the mother's eyes, The holy, sacred, sweet surprise

The time she tells how truly blest, With face laid blushing to his breast.

XlX

How flower-like the little frock — The daffodil forerunning spring — The doll-like shoes, socks, everything, And each a secret, secret stored! And yet each day the little hoard, As careful merchants note their stock, Is noted with such happy care As only angel mothers share.

XX

"At last to hear her rock and rock— Behold her bowed Madonna face! She lifts her baby from its place, Pulls down the crumpled, dampened frock, And never Cleopatra guessed The queenliness, the joy, the pride, She knows with baby to her breast— His chub fists churning either sides!

XXI

"The bravest breast faith ever bared For brother, country, creed or friend, However high the aim or end, Was that brave breast a baby shared

With kicking, fat legs half unfrocked, The while sweet mother rocked and rocked."

CANTO V

I

AS when first blossoms feel first bees, As when the squirrel hoists full sail And leaps his world of maple trees And quirks his saucy, tossy tail; As when Vermont's tall sugar trees First feel sweet sap, then don their leaves In haste —a million Mother Eves; As when strange winds stir strong-built ships Long ice-bound fast in Arctic seas, So she, the strong, full woman now, Felt new life thrilling breast and brow And tingled to her finger tips. Her limbs pushed out, outreached her head As if to say—she nothing said. But something of the tender light That lit her girl face that first night, The time she pulling poppies sat The sod and saw the golden sheep Safe housed within the hollowed deep, Was hers; and how she blushed thereat! Yet blushing so, still silent sat.

II

She would forget his weakness, yet Try as she would, could not forget. He knew her thought. She raised her head And searched his soul, and searching said: "He who would save the world must stand Hard by the world with steel-mailed hand And save by smiting hip and thigh. The world needs truth, tall truth and grand, And keen sword-cuts that thrust to kill. The man who climbed the windy hill To talk, is talking, climbing still, And could not help or hurt a fly. The stoutest swimmer and most wise Swims somewhat with the sweeping stream, Yet leads, leads unseen as a dream. The strong fool breasts the flood and dies, The weak fool turns his back and flies."

III

He did not answer; could not dare Lift his shamed eyes to her fair face, But looked right, left, looked anywhere, And mused, mused mutely out of place: "If yonder creedists may not teach, For all their books, and bravely preach

That here, right here, the womb of night Gave us God's first-born, holy Light, Why, pity, nor yet blame them quite; Because they know not, cannot read, Save as commanded by some creed. What eons they may have to wait Within their wall, without the gate,Nor once dare lift their eyes to look Beyond their blinding creed and book, We know not, but we surely know Yon lava-lifted, star-tipt height Is bannered still by that first Light. We know this phosphorescent glow, At every dip of dripping oar, Is but lost bits of Light below, Where moves God's spirit as of yore. Aye, here, right here, from out the night, God spake and said: "Let there be light!"

IV

"And dare ask doubting, creed-made men Why we so surely know and how? Why here 'the waters,' now as then? Why here 'the waters,' then as now? We know because we read, yet read So little that we much must heed. We read 'God's spirit moved upon,

The waters' ere that burst of dawn. What waters? Why, 'The Waters,' these, These soundless, silent, sundown seas.

V

"The morning of the world was here, Twas here 'He made dry land appear,' Here 'Darkness lay upon the deep.' What deep? This deep, the deepest deep That ever rolled beneath the sun When night and day were then as oneAnd dreamless day lay fast asleep, Rocked in this cradle of the deep."

VI

She would not, could not be denied Her thought, her theme but turned once more, As turns the all-devouring tide Against a stubborn unclean shore, With lifted face and soul aflame, And spake as speaking in God's name— With face raised to the living God: "Hear me! How pitiful the plea Of men who plead their temperance, Of men who know not one first sense Of self-control, yet, fire-shod, Storm forth and rage intemperately

At sins that are but as a breath, Compared with their low lives of death!

VII

"And oh, for prophet's tongue or pen To scourge, not only, and accuse The childless mother, but such men As know their loves but to abuse! Give me the brave, child-loving Jew, The full-sexed Jew of either sex, Who loves, brings forth and nothing recks Of care or cost, as Christians do— Dulled souls who will not hear or see How Christ once raised his lowly head And, all rebuking, gently said, The while he took them tenderly, 'Let little ones come unto me.'

VIII

"The true Jew lover keeps the Way. For clean, serene, and contrite heart The bride and bridegroom kneel apart Before the bridal bed and pray.

IX

"Behold how great the bride's estate! Behold how holy, pure the thought That high Jehovah welcomes her

In partnership, to coin, create The fairest form He yet has wrought Since Adam's clay knew breath and stir: To glory in her daughters, sons; To be God's tabernacle, tent, The keeper of the covenant, The mother of His little ones!

X

"Go forth among this homeless race, This landless race that knows no place Or name or nation quite its own, And see their happy babes at play, Or palace, Ghetto, rich or poor, As thick as birds about the door At morn, some sunny Vermont May, Then think of Christ and these alone. Yet ye deride, ye jeer, ye jibe, To see their plenteous babes; ye say 'Behold the Jew and all his tribe!'

XI

"Yet Solomon upon his throne Was not more kingly crowned than they These Jews, these jeered Jews of to-day— More surely born to lord, to lead, To sow the land with Abram's seed;

Because their babes are healthful born And welcomed as the welcome morn.

XlI

"Hear me this prophecy and heed! Except we cleanse us, kirk and creed, Except we wash us, word and deed, The Jew shall rule us, reign the Jew. And just because the Jew is true, Is true to nature, true to truth, Is clean, is chaste, as trustful Ruth Who stood amid the alien corn In tears that far, dim, doubtful morn— Who bore us David, Solomon— The Babe, that far, first Christmas dawn.

XIII

"You shrink, are angered at my speech? You dare avert your doubtful face Because I name this chaste, strange race? So be it then; there lies the beach, And up the beach the ways divide. I would not leave the truth untold To win the whole world to my side, Nor would I spare your selfish pride, Your carnal coarseness, lustful lie, For that would be to let you die.

Come! yonder lifts the clear, white Light For seamen, souls sea-tost at night.

XIV

"I see the spiked Agave's plume, The pepsin's plum, acacia's bloom Far up beyond tall cocoa trees, Tall tamarind and mango brown, That gird the pretty, peaceful town. That lane leads up, the church looks down— There lie the ways, now which of these? Bear with me, I must dare be true. The nation, aye, the Christian race, Now fronts its stern Sphynx, face to face, And I must say, say here to you, What' e'er the cost of love, of fame, The Christian is a thing of shame— Must say because you prove it true, The better Christian is the Jew.

XV

"I know you scorn the narrow deeds Of men who make their god of creeds— Yon men as narrow as the miles That bank their rare, sweet flower-fed isles, But come, my Lost Star, come with me To yon fond church, high-built and fair,

For God is there, as everywhere, Or Arctic snow or argent sea."

XVI

He looked far up the mango lane Below the wide-boughed banyan tree; He looked to her, then looked again, As one who tries yet could not see But one steep, narrow, upward way: "You said two ways, here seems but one, Or set of moon or rise of sun, But one way to the perfect day, And I will go. And you must stay?" She looked far up the steep of stone And said: "Aye, go, but not alone."

XVII

The boat's prow pushed the cocoa shore, The man spake not, but, leaning o'er, Strong-armed, he drew her to his side And was not anywise denied. He pointed to the failing fire, That still tipt lava peak and spire, While stars pinned round the robe of night; 'Twas here God said, "Let there be Light!"

XVIII

A little church, a lava wall, A soft light looking gently down, The Light of Christ, the second light, Where two as one passed up the town. She gave her hand, she gave her all, And said, as such brave women might, With ample right in hallowed cause: "As it in the beginning was, So let the man-child be full born Of Love, of Light, the Light of Morn!"