LITMIR.BIZ

         Then thou with thy furies outgrown,

      Not as Cybele’s beast will thy head lash tail

      So præter-determinedly thermonous,

         Nor thy cause be an Attis far fled.

         Thou under stress of the strife

         Shalt hear for sustainment supreme

         The cry of the conscience of Life:

         Keep the young generations in hail,

         And bequeath them no tumbled house!

         There hast thou the sacred theme,

         Therein the inveterate spur,

         Of the Innermost.  See her one blink

         In vision past eyeballs.  Not thee

         She cares for, but us.  Follow her.

         Follow her, and thou wilt not sink.

         With thy soul the Life espouse:

      This Life of the visible, audible, ring

      With thy love tight about; and no death will be;

         The name be an empty thing,

         And woe a forgotten old trick:

      And battle will come as a challenge to drink;

      As a warrior’s wound each transient sting.

      She leads to the Uppermost link by link;

      Exacts but vision, desires not vows.

      Above us the singular number to see;

      The plural warm round us; ourself in the thick,

      A dot or a stop: that is our task;

      Her lesson in figured arithmetic,

      For the letters of Life behind its mask;

      Her flower-like look under fearful brows.

      As for thy special case, O my friend, one must think

      Massilia’s victim, who held the carouse

         For the length of a carnival year,

      Knew worse: but the wretch had his opening choice.

      For thee, by our law, no alternatives were:

      Thy fall was assured ere thou camest to a voice.

         He cancelled the ravaging Plague,

         With the roll of his fat off the cliff.

      Do thou with thy lean as the weapon of ink,

      Though they call thee an angler who fishes the vague

         And catches the not too pink,

      Attack one as murderous, knowing thy cause

      Is the cause of community.  Iterate,

      Iterate, iterate, harp on the trite:

      Our preacher to win is the supple in stiff:

      Yet always in measure, with bearing polite:

      The manner of one that would expiate

         His share in grandmotherly Laws,

         Which do the dark thing to destroy,

      Under aspect of water so guilelessly white

      For the general use, by the devils befouled.

         Enough, poor prodigal boy!

      Thou hast listened with patience; another had howled.

      Repentance is proved, forgiveness is earned.

      And ’tis bony: denied thee thy succulent half

      Of the parable’s blessing, to swineherd returned:

      A Sermon thy slice of the Scriptural calf!

         By my faith, there is feasting to come,

         Not the less, when our Earth we have seen

      Beneath and on surface, her deeds and designs:

      Who gives us the man-loving Nazarene,

      The martyrs, the poets, the corn and the vines.

      By my faith in the head, she has wonders in loom;

      Revelations, delights.  I can hear a faint crow

      Of the cock of fresh mornings, far, far, yet distinct;

         As down the new shafting of mines,

         A cry of the metally gnome.

         When our Earth we have seen, and have linked

      With the home of the Spirit to whom we unfold,

      Imprisoned humanity open will throw

      Its fortress gates, and the rivers of gold

         For the congregate friendliness flow.

      Then the meaning of Earth in her children behold:

      Glad eyes, frank hands, and a fellowship real:

      And laughter on lips, as the birds’ outburst

      At the flooding of light.  No robbery then

      The feast, nor a robber’s abode the home,

      For a furnished model of our first den!

         Nor Life as a stationed wheel;

      Nor History written in blood or in foam,

      For vendetta of Parties in cursing accursed.

      The God in the conscience of multitudes feel,

         And we feel deep to Earth at her heart,

         We have her communion with men,

         New ground, new skies for appeal.

      Yield into harness thy best and thy worst;

      Away on the trot of thy servitude start,

      Through the rigours and joys and sustainments of air.

      If courage should falter, ’tis wholesome to kneel.

      Remember that well, for the secret with some,

      Who pray for no gift, but have cleansing in prayer,

      And free from impurities tower-like stand.

      I promise not more, save that feasting will come

      To

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