Katharine Lee Bates (1859-1929)
"She is attached to Wellesley College; and having
printed many fugitive poems, they were collected into a volume by the
alumnae. She recently won a prize for a quatrain on the subject of
poetry Felices appeared in the Independent.." (Crandall)
From America the Beautiful and Other Poems (1911).
"Let me be blesséd for the peace I make."
"Let me be blesséd for the peace I make."
God grant that old Shakespearean praise may glow,
Columbia, on thy brows most royal so,
Girt with a crown no mortal chances break.
The eagle that from ruined Rome we take
Hath but a pagan heart. His kingdoms go,
That the dove's kingdom still may come, and flow
O'er all the world. Ere the New Century wake,
Make straight her paths, her sweet Triumphal Way,
For not by might and power earth's sorrows cease;
Nor shall the stars in our young banner dim
While in its stripes is set the sign of Him
Who won by sufferance an eternal sway,
The King of Glory and the Prince of Peace.
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.
But they, above the battle, throng a space
Of starry silences and silver rest.
Commingled ghosts, they press like brothers through
White, dove-winged portals, where one Father's face
Atones their passion, as the ethereal blue
Serenes the fiery glows of east and west.
America to England
Who would trust England, let him lift his eyes
To Nelson, columned o'er Trafalgar Square,
Her hieroglyph of duty, written where
The roar of traffic hushes to the skies;
Or mark, while Paul's vast shadow softly lies
On Gordon's statued sleep, how praise and prayer
Flush through the frank young faces clustering there
To con that kindred rune of sacrifice.
O England, no bland cloud-ship in the blue,
But rough oak plunging on o'er perilous jars
Of reef and ice, our faith will follow you
The more for tempest roar that strains your spars
And splits your canvas, be your helm but true,
Your courses shapen by the eternal stars.
The nightmare melts at last, and London wakes
To her old habit of victorious ease.
More men, and more, and more for over-seas,
More guns until the giant hammer breaks
That patriot folk whom even God forsakes.
Shall not Great England work her will on these,
The foolish little nations, and appease
An angry shame that in her memory aches?
But far beyond the fierce-contested flood,
The cannon-planted pass, the shell-torn town,
The last wild carnival of fire and blood,
Beware, beware that dim and awful Shade,
Armored with Milton's sword and Cromwell's frown,
Affronted Freedom, of her own betrayed.
A lonely burial-ground is on Cape Cod.
Claiming the privilege of age, each stone
Leans as it will, its scarred front overflown
With winged cherubic head. By grace of God,
Fulfilled in nature's gentle period,
All ghastly blazonry of skull and bone,
Muffled in moss and lichen-overgrown
Hath made its peace with beauty. Seldom trod
These grasses are, where, ghosts of old regret,
Once-tended vines run wild, but should a guest
Stoop there, this weathered epitaph to trace,
'Twill whisper him of all the human race.
Here lies, beneath a heartsease coverlet,
"Patience, wife of Experience," at rest.
The Tree of Song
An idle tree, whose timber builds no ships,
Whose wilding growth is all unfit to trace
Trim parallels in park and market-place,
Yet precious for the fragrant dew that drips
From blowing sprays to comfort fevered lips,
For lilt of hidden birds, for changeful grace
Of leafy shade that sunbeams interlace,
For heaven's dear blue about the spiring tips.
The world's great highway takes no heed of it,
Though paths wind thither through the April green.
The earth's blind forces feel no need of it;
Yet was there shaped, before the shaping hours,
A subtle league and sympathy between
This rhythmic tree and all effectual powers.
Who called himself your priest, Immortal Choir?
Not Dante, though in ruddiest altar-flame
He plunged his torch, and bore it through the shame
Of deepening hell to domes of starry fire,
In steadfast temple-service. Not that sire
Of glorious chant, our Milton, he who came
With solemn tread and vestments purged from blame
To swing the censer of divine desire.
But Horace, sipping at your crystal spring
As lightly as he quaffed his Sabine wine,
Caught up that lute, about whose golden string
The rose and myrtle he was deft to twine,
And sweetly sang, in pauses of the feast:
"The poet is the gods' anointed priest."
Hearing the autumnal wind, I muse on thee,
O Shelley, bird of most aerial note,
Whose songs came pulsing from a kindred throat,
As passionate, impetuous and free,
As sudden-shrill with visionary glee,
And hoarse with human agonies which smote
Thy gentlest heart till it would fain devote
Its music unto man's captivity,
Singing the day when wrath and pride and fear,
With the spectral troop of their unholy kind,
Shall melt in love, as shadows disappear
Before the sun; to evil unresigned,
Urging the nobler discontent I hear
In all these restless voices of the wind.
The summer comes again, by vale and hill
With blossoms fashioning her fragrant way;
But thou, the child of summer, to the day
Art long unknown, and all thy steps are still.
In summer thou wert born, and didst fulfill
Thy scanty urn of years while summer spray
Whitened the shores where thy mute image lay
Robbed of its poet. Hence the summers will
Seek thee in vain. The eye that watched the cloud
Hath locked its sight beneath the fallen lid;
The ear that heard the skylark's note is vowed
To a perpetual quiet. Thou art hid
Beyond the summers, and thy name belongs
But to a ceaseless melody of songs.
"Come unto Me"
We labor, and are heavy-laden. Where
Shall we find rest unto our souls? We bleed
On thorn and flint, and rove in pilgrim weed
From shrine to shrine, but comfort is not there.
What went we out into thy desert bare,
O Human Life, to see? Thy greenest reed
Is Love, unmighty for our utmost need,
And shaken with the wind of our despair.
A voice from heaven like dew on Hermon falleth,
That voice whose passion paled the olive leaf
In thy dusk aisles, Gethsemane, thou blest
Of gardens. 'Tis the Man of Sorrows calleth,
The Man of Sorrows and acquaint with grief:
"Come unto Me, and I will give you rest."
We count them happy who have richly known
The sweets of life, the sunshine on the hills,
The mosses in the valley, love that fills
The heart with tears as fragrant as thine own,
O tender moonlight lily, over-blown,
When the inevitable season wills,
By gentle winds beside thy native rills--
We count them happy, yet not these alone.
There is a Crown of Thorns, Way of the Cross,
Consuming Fire that burns the spirit pure.
By luster of the gold set free from dross,
By light of heaven seen best through earth's obscure,
By the exceeding gain that waits on loss--
Behold, we count them happy who endure.
Thou knowest, Thou Who art the soul of all
Selfless endeavor, how I longed to make
This deed of mine, adventured for love's sake,
Thy deed,--sweet grapes upon a sunny wall,
A rose whose petals into fragrance fall,
A glint of heaven glassed in some lonely lake
Amidst the heather and the fringing brake,
Our secret,--ah, Thou knowest.
Though it call
Only for pardon, still to Thee I bring
My poor, shamed deed that craved the Beautiful,
--To Thee, the Master-Artist, Who alone
Wilt of Thy grace see in this graceless thing
The pattern marred by the imperfect tool,
And know that dim, wronged pattern for Thine Own.
To a Crow
Come hither, taunted bird, and I will stroke
Thy ruffled plumage with a verse, O triste
And sombre minstrel at our Twelfth Night feast,
A music masquerading in thy croak.
How often, when the wild March mornings broke,
Have I descried thee, like a demon priest,
Heaping hoarse curses on the riotous East
From the bare branches of some tossing oak!
Yet ever welcome is thy wizard flight,
--Most welcome now, when Earth lies imaging
The sleep of death beneath a winding-sheet
Of frozen snow intolerably white,
A pallid waste crossed by the sudden, fleet,
Beautiful shadow of thy sable wing.
A naked tree against the sunset sky,
A tall, black tree whose leaves of emerald sheen,
That blissful birds were wont to peep between,
Long since have fallen. Through her summit high
The winter winds have swept with bitter cry
And left her desolate, a crownless queen,
Yet beautiful for amber lights serene
That all the ebon outlines glorify.
The Light! The Light! 'Mid her abandoned, bare,
Stript branches like a tracery of jet,
Streams heavenly splendor. Fairer to behold
Than all those summer graces they forget,
Her boughs are as a shadow on the air,
A foil, a fretwork in the flood of gold.
Into the Night
Arise, come forth into the night! Arise,
Belovéd, for her dusky lips will teach
A nobler tale than any mortal speech,
And the pure lights of her eternal eyes,
Beyond all anger, sorrow and surprise,
Look with the same large loveliness on each,
Not human-fashion, scorning who beseech
To cherish those who scorn. The gleaming skies
Are royal with old goddesses and queens
Whose faces lit the earth till, banished thence,
They watch from heaven the fair, familiar scenes
That nevermore shall do them reverence,
Though humbled Cassiopaea earthward leans,
And Cynthia sheds her old beneficence.
When It Befortunes Us
When it befortunes us, who love so dearly,
To hurt each other, let us haste to wring
This joy from our remorseful passioning,--
The wound is witness that we love sincerely.
So slight a weapon, word or silence merely,
Would scarce effect surprisal of a sting,
Were't not my word, thy silence, for we cling
One soul together. Life allots austerely
Unto the rose of love the thorny power
To tear the heart, but ah, love's anodyne!
The prick but proves the presence of the flower,
Our one white rose from gardens all divine.
Then, only then, could grief outlast her hour
Were I ungrieved by least rebuff of thine.
"The Rest Is Silence"
The shadow of Death's wing had fallen grey
Upon her face, the mother-face, our star
Of home since life first read its calendar
Within our smiles; we felt her slip away,
Our vain hold clinging to an empty clay,
Down that hushed valley where the white mists are,
On to its utmost verge, so far, so far
That her return was but as spirits may
Briefly revisit earth. For oh, she shone
Transfigured, yet so winsome, that our awe
Was blended with her own beatitude.
The burden of her fourscore years was gone;
Escaped from Time, she mocked his mighty law;
Her children looked upon her maidenhood.
Eager and shy, as when among her peers
A girl will pour her confidence, she told
In voice where laughter ran a thread of gold
A history all novel to our ears.
Her blissful eyes oblivious of tears,
With lingering touch she one by one unrolled
Her bridal memories from fold on fold
Of fragrant silence. Dead thse fifty years
Was he with whom, young hand in hand, she went
To their first home, which simple neighbor-folk
Had filled with garden-bloom and forest scent;
Yet still of him, and that June path they fared,
Those welcoming flowers, her failing accents spoke;
--Of how Love led her to a place prepared.
When the bruised heart, bewildered first and numb,
Quickened to pain, how passing strange it seemed