Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 318
Death’s not the thing, my friend, for death is swift,
And I shall live when Spring returns again,
For this my welling blood, my vital gift,
Shall glow in cheerful flowers on the plain
Among the hedges where the children dance,
A breath of fragrance and a bit of France.
BY THE OLD CHTEAU
WE died last night by the old château
Before the Boches fled;
Downed in the barbs in the gulch below,
But the boys swept on ahead
Into the smoke and we saw them go,
And a cheer rose from the dead.
We died last night in the burning woods —
Men, did you hear us cheer?
Caught where the breath of the battle broods
Still are we waiting here;
Waiting behind in the burning woods —
We wait till the woods are clear.
We died last night by the old château
Before the Boches fled.
We cannot rest and we cannot go,
Our bayonets were never red.
We watch and wait and we will it so,
We are the waiting dead.
We fell last night and they sent us West
At the turn of another day.
We have not gone to our final rest
Though ye wished us luck on our way.
The faith still flames in the spirit breast,
We’re here, and we’re here to stay.
Men who followed us through that night,
Men of the first advance,
We who no longer can share the fight
Wait where the gas wreaths dance,
Never to lift our wings in flight
Till the Boches are clear of France!
THE LIBERATORS — 1918
THEY’VE taken Bruges, they’ve taken Thielt, they’re marching down the coast;
They’re mopping up the Kriemhild line, they’ve liberated Lille,
And the mighty Prussian army fades before the Allied host
That is hewing ground from underneath the bloody Prussian heel.
And the grim, relentless anguish of the unrequited years
Like a shadow moves across the stricken land;
Turn ye back ye peasant people and ye women dry your tears,
For the freedom of your country is at hand.
They’ve taken Lens and Le Cateau, they’re at the gates of Ghent;
They’re marching on Valenciennes, they moved across the Scheldt
And the vaunted blood and iron ring is broken and is bent
As the Allies battle forward and the Prussian legions melt.
There is sorrow in the meadow, there is famine in the field,
In a pall of ragged smoke the village lies
As before their ruined holdings, once so glorious with yield,
The peasants stand with wonder in their eyes.
They’ve crossed the Serre, they’ve crossed the Oise, they’ve breached the Hunding line;
They’ve taken Thun and Pont-à-Chin, they’re pushing through the mud
And across the soggy meadowlands the homing missiles whine
As the Prussian boots are battered till the spurs are dripping blood.
There is death among the hedges, there is grief among the lanes
Where the bitterness of war has cast its blight,
But the peasants seek their homesteads as the autumn glory wanes
And the ruins soften in the shades of night.
They’ve taken Pecq and Herpy Mill; they’ve cleared the Belgian coast;
They’ve taken Marle and Wassigny — the armies still advance —
And they’ve bent the Prussian circle, and they’ve nailed the Prussian boast
To the everlasting glory of the Allied arms in France.
Now across the furrowed country lie the legions of the dead,
From the shadow of the mountains to the sea,
And an ancient peasant standing in the twilight lifts his head,
In the ruins of his dwelling he is free.
THE HAND IN THE SKY
The chalice of our days now lies in bits,
And twilight settles down upon the soul,
The scheme by which we lived no longer fits
The sorry facts of life — no longer whole
And undisturbed our happy old beliefs,
But rent by secret fears and secret griefs.
Like children frightened in a dismal wood
We lose our gathered flowers one by one.
We stand no longer now where once we stood
And now we falter where we used to run.
Our visions fade and vanish from our sight
For some great hand is held before the light.
Along the whispering galleries of our fear
The dust of memory stirs and ghosts are blown
From out the Golden Once to plead and peer
Until we dare not trust ourselves alone
Across the hostile gloom the silence sighs
And trembling curtains shadow watching eyes.
The echoes of the years on padded feet
Fall stealthily, a swift, pursuing sound,
Like panthers creeping in to block retreat,
Black panthers leaping valleys at a bound.
We turn to flee, but still the hand remains
Across the sky — its fingers sear our brains.
The world is locked in labour. Grief and hate
And wrath and bitterness unknown before
Brood in the heart, while Death, insatiate,
Lays hands upon the latchstring of the door
Of silent homes from which all joy has flown,
Where those within dwell in their souls alone.
When laughter left the earth the Dark Host came
Across the dawn, a gray, relentless horde,
And laid our lovely villages in flame
And leveled all before its searching sword,
While high above our murdered maidens’ screams
The cannon spoke and tore away our dreams.
We dream no more. Our star-blown dreams are done —
Trailed in the dust With dim, remembering eyes
We search the lifting gloom to find the sun
Lost in the cloud-locked valleys of the skies.
Not dead our dreams! Not dead! Grim, unafraid,
Men fight for dreams, blade leaping out to blade.
Not dead our tattered dreams. Our sacred blood
Shall flow unchecked for them until release
Is won and we can weave from out the flood
Our dreams into an everlasting peace.
Not dead our dreams. The hand shall be withdrawn
And men shall lift their eyes and see the dawn.
HAUNTS AND BY-PATHS
THE ROAD TO CHALMODIE
The road that runs to Chalmodie
In Whittleshire that lies among
The hills is very dear to me.
Though little known and seldom sung
The names are proper to the tongue
And there are many things to see
By those whom fate or fame has flung
Along the road to Chalmodie.
Along the road to Chalmodie,
I met a face bespread with smiles,
A rugged sailor man was he
Who spoke of fairy fashioned isles
And maids of hardly righteous wiles;
His talk was very loose and free,
And as we trod the dusty miles
He sang some wicked songs to me.
I met a man of humble rank
Who staggered slightly as he went.
His wife was pretty when he drank,
He said, and so he often spent
In buying rum his final cent,
And thus became a mighty tank.
She liked, said he, the compliment,
And only had herself to thank.
And there was one whose verbal flow
Was adequate to say the least.
His eyes were wild, his hair was tow,
His dissertation never ceased.
A barrister, perhaps, or priest?
With crushing scorn he answered “No.
A poet I.” His scorn increased;
I fawned on him and murmured “Oh!”
When asked for rhymes I saw him wince.
“I never rhyme,” replied the bard.
“I do,” said I, “the rhyme is quince,”
And left him breathing very hard.
I met a noble, spurred and scarred,
Who swore about a neighboring prince.
He offered me his calling card.
I haven’t seen the fellow since.
Oh, there are many things to see.
And there are many things to do
Along the road to Chalmodie,
But most of them are scarcely true.
A maiden tripped across the dew
At dusk and blew a kiss to me
And there were only just we two
Along the road to Chalmodie.
And no one ever hurries by,
But stops awhile to rest his load,
And ask the which and where and why,
One’s state of health and last abode;
And once I met a talking toad
Who failed to wait for my reply —
You know of no such silly road,
You say? Oh, well, no more do I.
GREEN LAWNS
I love green lawns, green rolling lawns,
With trees nearby,
Where one can catch the tread of fawns.
I never try
To see them, but I know they’re there,
And maidens, too, with flowing hair,
And goblins and a sleepy bear
That blinks one eye.
I think green lawns, green rolling lawns,
A pleasant sight;
Brushed clean by silver singing dawns
All fresh and bright,
And glad beneath a scarf of dew
Reflecting lofty skies and blue,
Where purple stars come trickling through
The trees at night.
I love green lawns where pine trees are
And water spills,
A drowsy voice that flows afar
Among the hills.
I love green lawns where blossoms blow,
And shadows come and shadows go,
Where goldenrod and wild things grow
And daffodils.
I think that I shall search some day
For such a place,
Where quite contented I can stay
And press my face
Against the fresh and fragrant grass,
The while the golden hours pass,
As cloud flotillas wheel and mass
And ply through space.
I feel I know of such a spot,
Or so it seems;
Perhaps I saw it from my cot
Last night in dreams —
This land that I am looking for,
Where one can rest and burn no more,
And limbs are never throbbing sore,
And sunshine streams.
I saw green lawns and slanting skies
That seemed to meet,
Where cool-armed maids with starry eyes
And voices sweet,
Sang songs among the swaying trees,
And danced with neat and nimble knees
To vagrant gipsy melodies
On silver feet
St. Vincent’s Hospital — October, 1918.
NEAR A PINE FOREST
So that you may enjoy the beauty
Of the light that falls on the mountains,
I give you your freedom now,
And I place in your hand
A reed still wet from the lake
From which I drew it
In the hush of the morning mist
For I knew you would go
Outward to-day on a path that I could not follow
And I feared for you lest you might weary
Along the way.
And because I knew you would want for the sound of music
I have notched a hole in the reed
And fashioned a flute,
So that you might play as you pass through the criss-cross shadows
That swarm so heavy and silent among the trees
And that those who await your coming
Might hear your music
And hasten to meet you
And play with you on the way;
But tarry not long in the woods
For One will be waiting
At the end of the path to welcome you back to His fields,
His woods and His lakes and His hills and His silent places
For which you have longed
And which you have gone to find.
I place a rose at your breast,
See, little traveler,
For you to bear on your way
As a gift to Him
From one who would fain have kept you a little longer,
But being unworthy has let you return again
To that land from which you departed
One singing morning,
One morning all drenched with the singing of
boughs and of birds.
So that you may travel unbruised
Through the rugged country,
I cover your feet with sandals
And bind them with thongs,
And, see, I drape on your form
With reverent fingers
A scarf of purple and scarlet and green and gold,
As gay as the heart
That sorrowed awhile at the ending
Because it was burdened with things
That it could not bear.
And now you are well arrayed
For the glad outgoing,
And He, when He sees you, will know
I have treasured you well,
For you are more fair and more beautiful
Now at the leaving
Than when you came singing your way
Through the spreading dawn,
A song that was laden with faith
And glowing with dreams.
You will leave me now to the past
In a haunted vista,
Where the pine trees whisper your name
To the stars at night;
So, I shall press on your lips
This kiss at the parting.
Now it is over and ended;
I turn away;
But the sound of your song
Is following, following after
And the tread of your feet falls close
And I see your eyes
And feel the breath of your lips,
And among the shadows
You have hidden yourself from me.
You were fond of hiding.
It is over and ended now,
And the ending is over.
I turn my back,
See, I have turned away.
If you fear the shades in the woods
When the night is falling
Remember to call, and Love, I shall answer your call
Though you will not hear,
For you will be far from hearing
The cry that breaks and tears itself from my heart
For the traveler so little and lonely among the trees.
Be gay as you go
And take care in your flight to remember
The reed, and the rose, and the beautiful scarf, that you wear,
For He will be happy and pleased
When He sees you are near Him
To know that I treasured you well
And clad you in raiment
As fair as the dawn
Out of which you came to me singing
A song that washes like sobs
In the vaults of my ears.
You are gone! You are no more here,
And the light is ebbing.
Is it dark where you tread, little traveler,
And strange and cold?
Play loud on your flute, play loud!
Perhaps they will hear you.
Play loud, little one, play loud,
And send back an echo.
Is it dark in the woods?
Play on, I shall not grieve!
ROSE-GATHERERS OF THE NIGHT
They pluck at night the roses that are left
By those who pluck the roses in the day.
Quite furtively they pluck with fingers deft,
Then steal away;
A little rose hid warmly in each breast
So none would ever know that it was there.
And as they hurry frightened to the West
They loose their hair,
Which is so light and fairy-thistle spun
It floats like mist across the fields and hills,
And if by chance you rise to greet the sun
When nature thrills
With dawning you will see them in their flight,
A silver haze swept on before the wind,
The ones who gather roses in the silence of the night
As if they’d sinned.
BACK TO THE DAY
Dawn is hiding among the hills, shall we look for it together
Where the great crags rear and the valley fills with mist from the distant sea?
Already the wind is running its hand through the tousled hair of the heather —
Love, will you run to the hills and away with me?
Stars and shadows and balsam boughs, a loon on the lake is crying
And the pine-steeped wind as it sifts and soughs through the reeds is alert with dawn;
The heathery hills inveigle the moon, a hawk from his nest is flying,
Stars quiver out like the dew on a dusky lawn.
See, the wings of the night are spread, the bird in the bush is waking,
And the dim, gray vault of the east is red-awake; it is time to run
Together across the rim of the dawn to the shore where the waves are breaking;
Up, let us shout to the sea and salute the sun!
IN THE WOODS
Were they the sounds of fairy feet?
Oh, I hope they were;
The hurried patter, the hush and beat
And the gentle stir
Of the old crisp, crinkled winter leaves
In the fresh green wood.
Were they the sound of fairy feet,
