Volume 3 — Smokehouse Poetry

Three months had passed since she had knelt before The grate of the confessional, and he, The priest, had wondered why she came no more To tell her sinless sins—the vanity Whose valid reason graced her simple dress, The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads— The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds, Which made the sum of her unrighteousness. She was the fairest maiden in his fold, With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice, Her deep gray eyes, her hair’s tempestuous gold, Her gracious, graceful figure’s perfect poise. Her happy laugh, her wild, unconscious grace, Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad, The comprehending sympathy she had, Had made of her the idol of the place. And when she grew so silent and so sad, So thin and quiet, pale and hollow-eyed, And cared no more to laugh and to be glad With other maidens by the waterside, All wondered; kindly grieved the elders were, And some few girls went whispering about, “She loves—who is it? Let us find it out?” But never dared to speak of it to her. But the priest’s duty bade him seek her out And say, “My child, why dost thou sit part? Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt? Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart. God’s absolution can assuage all grief And all remorse and woe beneath the sun, Whatever thou hast said, or thought or done, The holy church can give thy soul relief.” He stood beside her, young and strong, and swayed With pity for the sorrow in her eyes, Which, as she raised them to his own, conveyed Into his soul a sort of sad surprise. She answered, “I will come;” and so at last, Out of the summer evening’s crimson glow, With heart reluctant and with footsteps slow, Into the cool, great, empty church she passed. “By my own fault, my own grievous fault, I cannot say, for it is not,” she said, Kneeling within the gray stone chapel’s vault, And on the ledge her golden hair was spread. “Love broke upon me in a dream; it came Without beginning, for to me it seemed That never otherwise than as I dreamed Through all my life this thing had been the same. “I only knew my heart, entire, complete, Was given to my other self, my love; That I through all the world would gladly move So I might follow his adored feet. I dreamed I had all earth, all time, all space, And every blessing, human and divine; But hated the possessions that were mine, And only cared for his beloved face.” “I never knew I loved him till that dream Drew from my eyes the veil, and left me wise. What I had thought was reverence grew to seem Only my lifelong love in thin disguise. And in my dream it looked so sinless, too, So beautiful, harmonious, and right; The vision faded with the morning light, The love will last as long as I shall do.” “Child, have you prayed against it?” “Have I prayed? Have I not clogged my very soul with prayer; Stopped up my ears with sound of praying; made My very body faint with kneeling there Before the sculptured Christ, and all for this, That when my lips can pray no more, and sleep Shuts my unwilling eyes, my love will leap To dreamland’s bounds, to meet me with his kiss! “Avoid him? Ay, in dewy garden walk How often have I strayed, avoiding him, And heard his voice mix with the common talk, Yet never turned his way. My eyes grow dim With weeping over what I lose by day And find by night, yet never have to call My own. O God! is there no help at all— No hope, no chance, and no escapeful way?” “And who is he to whom thy love is given?” “What? Holy church demands to know his name? No rest for me on earth, no hope of heaven Unless I tell it? Ah, for very shame I cannot—yet why not?—I will—I can! I have grown mad with brooding on my curse. Here! Take the name; no better and no worse My case will be. Father, thou art the man!” An icy shock shivered through all his frame— An overwhelming, cold astonishment; But on the instant the revulsion came, His blood felt what her revelation meant. “Lord Christ,” his soul cried, while his heart beat fast, “Give strength in this, my hour of utmost need;” And with the prayer strength came to him indeed, And with calm voice he answered her at last: “Child, go in peace! Wrestle and watch and pray, And I will spend this night in prayer for thee, That God will take thy strange great grief away. Thou hast confessed thy sin. Absolvo te.” Silence most absolute a little while, Then passed the whisper of her trailing gown Over the knee-worn stones, and soft died down The dim, deserted, incense-memoried aisle. All night he lay upon the chancel floor, And coined his heart in tears and prayers, and new Strange longings he had never known before, Her very memory so thrilled him through. He lay so tempest-tossed, ’twas still without, And moaned: “Oh, God! I love her, love her so! Oh, for one spark of heaven’s fire to show Some way to cast this devils passion out! “Christ, by Thy passion, by Thy death for men, Oh, save me from myself, save her from me!” And at the word the moon came out again From her cloud-palace, and threw suddenly A shadow from the great cross overhead Upon the priest; and with it came a sense Of strength renewed, of perfect confidence In Him who on that cross for men hung dead. But as the ghostly moon began to fade, And moonlight glimmered into ghostlier dawn, The shadow that the crucifix had made With twilight mixed; and with it seemed withdrawn The peace that with its shadowy shape began, And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased The wild devotion that had filled the priest— And with full sunlight he sprang up—a man! He strode straight down the church and passed along The grave-set garden’s dewy grass-grown slope; The woods about were musical with song, The world was bright with youth, and love, and hope. Soon would he see her—cry, “I am thine own, As thou art mine, now, and forevermore!” And at her worshipped feet would kneel before, And she should kiss the lips that had not known The kiss of love in any vanished year. And as he dreamed of his secured delight, A mourning band, and in their midst a bier, Round the curved road came slowly into sight. He hastened to pass on; a covering-fold Veiled the dead, quiet face—and yet—and yet— Did he not know that hand, so white and wet? Did he not know those dripping curls of gold? “We came to you to know what we should do, Father, we found her body in the stream, And how it happened, God knows!” One other knew— Knew that of him had been her last wild dream— Knew the full reason of that life-disdain—Knew how the shame of hopeless love confessed And unreturned had seemed to stain her breast, Till only death should make her clean again. They left her in the church where sunbeams bright Gilded the wreathed oak and carven stone With golden floods of consecrating light; And here at last, together and alone, The lovers met, and here upon her hair He set his lips, and, dry-eyed, kissed her face, And in the stillness of the holy place He spoke in tones of bitter, blank despair: “Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see! Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling! This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee, Since for the right’s sake thou hast done this thing. Oh, poor weak heart, forever laid to rest, That could no longer strive against its face, For thee high heaven will unbar its gate, And thou shalt enter in and shalt be blessed. “The chances were the same for us,” he said, “Yet thou has won, and I have lost, the whole; Thou would’s not live in sin, and thou art dead— But I—against thee I have weighed my soul, And, losing thee, have lost my soul as well. I have cursed God, and trampled on His cross; Earth has no measurement for all my loss, But I shall learn to measure it in hell!”

If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing, If you like him or you love him; tell him now; Don’t withhold your approbation ’til the parson makes oration And he lies with snowy lilies o’er his brow. For no matter how you shout it, he won’t really care about it; He won’t know how many teardrops you have shed; If you think some praise is due him, now’s the time to slip it to him, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead. More than fame and more than money is the comment kind and sunny, The hearty, warm approval of a friend, For it gives to life a savor and it makes you stronger, braver, And it gives you heart and spirit to the end. If he earns your praise—bestow it; if you like him—let him know it; Let the words of true encouragement be said; Do not wait ’til life is over and he’s underneath the clover, For he cannot read his tombstone when he’s dead.

Good night old world, good bye to all your joys, Your sorrows, pleasures, passions, pomp and noise. I leave you now, for the eternal silence of the stars— The deafness of unbounded space, Where bars no longer hold the soul in durance vile, Where naught can wound and nothing can defile, Where the pure spirit shall despise the things The sense on earth hath loved on wings. Bathed in the ether of eternity, How sweet to feel from every passion free! And yet, it is an awful leap to take Into the great unknown! Perchance to wake To greater woes indeed than we have And hoped to bury in the silent grave. But still, the great majority is there! Or tremble when the hour supreme has come. The grave at least, gives rest from trouble here, And may we hope for sweet oblivion there. When Charon, come! I signal thee tonight! Come, row me o’er the Styx! I’ve lost the fight.