Classic Poem

I.

Blow trumpets; roll drums —
The straining banners snap and tug at their ropes;
Now the flags of my spirit leap,
And my heart is a town full of cheering.
Sing boldly, oh my soul;
Sing battle-hymns, now that the battle is over,
Sing praises and bravuras.

Long have I waited for this day.
Often have I said " It will come to-morrow;
And failing then, surely the morning after. "
Often I thought I saw it in her looks, and then I said. " At last — it is to-day! "
Often it seemed. I read the miraculous news —
Her face, her talk was full of hints of it.
But they were only hints and lights and promises;
Signals that flashed through the long and ghostly struggle
Where she was fighting grimly — and alone.

But now the clouds are rolled back;
And out of a morbid darkness,
See, she emerges.
Brightly she comes
With cleared eyes and a laughing mouth,
And hands that carry love as a child bears flowers.
Let my songs run before me to greet her.
Sing praises, oh my soul;
Sing, as she stands there, flushed and confident,
Watching, over her shoulder, the rout of her confused and retreating fears.
Sing — she is victorious and transfigured;
Sing — she has conquered herself!

2.

Listen, my love and my victorious companion;
Let me confess
When you came out of the struggle without a scar,
I was ashamed.
Your rallying strength, your unsuspected courage
Were a reproach to me.
When you passed, with your hair flying like happy pennants in the wind,
Your shining spirits seemed to cry out:
" See, we have triumphed without you! "

Yet I was glad —
Glad that I had not made the fight less hard;
Glad that the old, hereditary ghosts,
By your strong stubbornness and stronger faith
Had been dispelled forever. . .
Watching you tear veil after veil and scatter them light-heartedly;
Seeing you look at last on things, not shadows and distortions;
Hearing you laugh out loud,
I knew, victorious companion,
None but ourselves can fight the battles of ourselves;
And I was glad,
Knowing your victory was real — because it was your own.

3.

May — and the rush of love
Over an eager world.
The earth, like a young bride, trembling
Under the hot hands of Spring.

May — and the push of winds
Tender, resistless and wild.
And Spring pressing close, like a lover
With gentle and conquering strength.

May — and the quivering night
Beating upon us and through us.
Hold back no longer ... no longer. . .
Come ... with the rush of love.

4.

You remember that night after they had all gone,
We went down the twisting pine-road and sat by the shore.
The beach was deserted,
The bathing-houses seemed like a row of grotesquely marching tombstones;
The sea was tumbled grass in an old grave-yard,
And even the stars seemed strangely lifeless and remote.
Nothing of life was around us;
Only a weary night-bird circling disconsolate.

We seemed to be planted in sterile space,
Far off and forgotten.
Then the moon rose over the smooth sea,
Making a path on those blue-marbled waters
So straight, so substantial, it seemed we could walk on it;
And walking thus, walk out beyond the world.
Pillowed upon your soothing breasts
I lay,
Half hoping for such a calm and mystical escape.

How long ago it seems.
Two years — two million years from our desire.
There is no end for us now, but radiant and fresh beginnings.
We have achieved a firmer peace than death's
Not an escape from life,
But daily, for the long and spirited encounter,
The peace that spurs, that strengthens — — and fights on!

5.

Blow trumpets; roll drums —
Give her to me, oh May, triumphant and trans-figured.
Earth, like a soft-cheeked mother, shall embrace us,
And there shall be new bride-songs and holier bridals.
My arms shall be strong with rejoicings,
My love shall cry hosannas!
And heaven shall be made roomier for our nuptials. . .
Withhold no longer; no longer.
Give her to me, oh May, as though for the first time —
Mine more than ever!