Classic Poem

Beauty, thy call must wait.
Let others sing
Of hills and stars and every lovely thing —
The world needs all too sadly what they bring
Of solace and enchantment. I would lift
A reverent heart and glad, to praise their gift
Of beautiful, imperishable words —
Amazing voices, eloquent as birds
Singing at nighttime. But for me
There sounds another and a louder plea;
It soundeth early and it soundeth late —
Beauty, they call must wait.
Beauty, thou hast such soft, endearing ways,
Such tender melody of nights and days,
My spirit scarce can hold its eager praise —
The doe-brown dusk that mellows to its close
Within the evening's amber afterglows;
Blue billowing mist
Forever keeping tryst
With mountains blurring as they rise
And fall in rounded symphonies ...
These are thy ministers and give thee voice,
Yearning as I. Yet I have made my choice,
For, look! The furrows of thy velvet plain
Are graves of precious youths, who died in vain.
Beauty, thy song will keep.
Another song is sounding in my sleep
And in my waking. All my pulses leap
To hear it trumpeting from every hedge
And every mountain ledge
Where streaming sumach bleeds.
Greatly it pleads
Where trees afire with silver in the sun
March every one
With plumed helmet and with flashing shield
To tell the tumult of the battlefield.
Even thy storming jewels on the sea
Seem but the blazonry of war, to me;
And while my eyes rejoice,
My ears must listen to that other Voice,
My soul must suffer and my heart must break
For justice' sake.
Beauty, thy flame will wait.
Another torch is burning at the gate,
It burneth early and it burneth late;
Another fire is seething in my soul;
Till I have said the whole
It bids me say, Beauty, thy flame must wait.
Beauty, thy universe is wide
And passionate with myriad suns that stride
Illimitable space. I may not hide
From thee, for thou art everywhere
And thou art rapturous even in despair.
Endless thou art, like to the radiant sand
Running obedient to my hand
And to my fingers tame
Yet, though my spirit to thy rhythmic name
Flows like a river, every thought shall bend
Its pleading to another end.
And if, for just this while
Beauty, I leave thy smile
To answer the insistent human call,
I shall return again unto thy thrall.
The world's great wound must heal,
Her tears must dry, e'er I may feel
The sanction of my spirit, to relate
All I would say of thee. And so, Beauty,
Thy call must wait.