Children of the Night

Two Quatrains

       I

      Unity

     As eons of incalculable strife
     Are in the vision of one moment caught,
     So are the common, concrete things of life
     Divinely shadowed on the walls of Thought.

       II

      Paraphrase

     We shriek to live, but no man ever lives
     Till he has rid the ghost of human breath;
     We dream to die, but no man ever dies
     Till he has quit the road that runs to death.

     Romance

       I

      Boys

     We were all boys, and three of us were friends;
     And we were more than friends, it seemed to me: —
     Yes, we were more than brothers then, we three. . . .
     Brothers? . . .  But we were boys, and there it ends.

       II

      James Wetherell

     We never half believed the stuff
     They told about James Wetherell;
     We always liked him well enough,
     And always tried to use him well;
     But now some things have come to light,
     And James has vanished from our view, —
     There is n't very much to write,
     There is n't very much to do.

     The Torrent

     I found a torrent falling in a glen
     Where the sun's light shone silvered and leaf-split;
     The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it
     All made a magic symphony; but when
     I thought upon the coming of hard men
     To cut those patriarchal trees away,
     And turn to gold the silver of that spray,
     I shuddered.  Yet a gladness now and then
     Did wake me to myself till I was glad
     In earnest, and was welcoming the time
     For screaming saws to sound above the chime
     Of idle waters, and for me to know
     The jealous visionings that I had had
     Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go.

     L'Envoi

     Now in a thought, now in a shadowed word,
     Now in a voice that thrills eternity,
     Ever there comes an onward phrase to me
     Of some transcendent music I have heard;
     No piteous thing by soft hands dulcimered,
     No trumpet crash of blood-sick victory,
     But a glad strain of some still symphony
     That no proud mortal touch has ever stirred.

     There is no music in the world like this,
     No character wherewith to set it down,
     No kind of instrument to make it sing.
     No kind of instrument?  Ah, yes, there is!
     And after time and place are overthrown,
     God's touch will keep its one chord quivering.