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In a spirit tongue
By wind and dust and birds；
The high mass of liberty；
While wave the banners red：
Sung round the soap…box；
A mass for soldiers dead。
When you leave your faction in the once…loved hall；
Like a true American tongue…lash them all；
Stand then on the corner under starry skies
And get you a gang of the worn and the wise。
The soldiers of the Lord may be squeaky when they rally；
The soldiers of the Lord are a queer little army；
But the soldiers of the Lord； before the year is through；
Will gather the whole nation； recruit all creation；
To smite the hosts abhorred； and all the heavens renew
Enforcing with the bayonet the thing the ages teach
Free speech！
Free speech！
Down with the Prussians； and all their works。
Down with the Turks。
Down with every army that fights against the soap…box；
The Pericles； Socrates； Diogenes soap…box；
The old Elijah； Jeremiah； John…the…Baptist soap…box；
The Rousseau； Mirabeau； Danton soap…box；
The Karl Marx； Henry George； Woodrow Wilson soap…box。
We will make the wide earth safe for the soap…box；
The everlasting foe of beastliness and tyranny；
Platform of liberty： Magna Charta liberty；
Andrew Jackson liberty； bleeding Kansas liberty；
New…born Russian liberty：
Battleship of thought；
The round world over；
Loved by the red…hearted；
Loved by the broken…hearted；
Fair young Amazon or proud tough rover；
Loved by the lion；
Loved by the lion；
Loved by the lion；
Feared by the fox。
The Russian Revolution is the world revolution。
Death at the bedstead of every Kaiser knocks。
The Hohenzollern army shall be felled like the ox。
The fatal hour is striking in all the doomsday clocks。
The while； by freedom's alchemy
Beauty is born。
Ring every sleigh…bell； ring every church bell；
Blow the clear trumpet； and listen for the answer：
The blast from the sky of the Gabriel horn。
Hail the Russian picture around the little box：
Exiles；
Troops in files；
Generals in uniform；
Mujiks in their smocks；
And holy maiden soldiers who have cut away their locks。
All the peoples and the nations in processions mad and great；
Are rolling through the Russian Soul as through a city gate：
As though it were a street of stars that paves the shadowy deep。
And mighty Tolstoi leads the van along the stairway steep。
But now the people shout：
〃Hail to Kerensky；
He hurled the tyrants out。〃
And this my song is made for Kerensky；
Prophet of the world…wide intolerable hope；
There on the soap…box； seasoned； dauntless；
There amid the Russian celestial kaleidoscope；
Flags of liberty； rags and battlesmoke。
Moscow and Chicago！
Come let us praise battling Kerensky；
Bravo！ Bravo！
Comrade Kerensky the thunderstorm and rainbow！
Comrade Kerensky； Bravo； Bravo！
August； 1917。
Fourth Section
Tragedies； Comedies； and Dreams
Our Guardian Angels and Their Children
Where a river roars in rapids
And doves in maples fret；
Where peace has decked the pastures
Our guardian angels met。
Long they had sought each other
In God's mysterious name；
Had climbed the solemn chaos tides
Alone； with hope aflame：
Amid the demon deeps had wound
By many a fearful way。
As they beheld each other
Their shout made glad the day。
No need of purse delayed them；
No hand of friend or kin
Nor menace of the bell and book；
Nor fear of mortal sin。
You did not speak； my girl；
At this； our parting hour。
Long we held each other
And watched their deeds of power。
They made a curious Eden。
We saw that it was good。
We thought with them in unison。
We proudly understood
Their amaranth eternal；
Their roses strange and fair；
The asphodels they scattered
Upon the living air。
They built a house of clouds
With skilled immortal hands。
They entered through the silver doors。
Their wings were wedded brands。
I labored up the valley
To granite mountains free。
You hurried down the river
To Zidon by the sea。
But at their place of meeting
They keep a home and shrine。
Your angel twists a purple flax；
Then weaves a mantle fine。
My angel； her defender
Upstanding； spreads the light
On painted clouds of fancy
And mists that touch the height。
Their sturdy babes speak kindly
And fly and run with joy；
Shepherding the helpless lambs
A Grecian girl and boy。
These children visit Heaven
Each year and make of worth
All we planned and wrought in youth
And all our tears on earth。
From books our God has written
They sing of high desire。
They turn the leaves in gentleness。
Their wings are folded fire。
Epitaphs for Two Players
I。 Edwin Booth
An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth
first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California。
There were few theatres； but the hotels were provided
with crude assembly rooms for strolling players。
The youth played in the blear hotel。
The rafters gleamed with glories strange。
And winds of mourning Elsinore
Howling at chance and fate and change；
Voices of old Europe's dead
Disturbed the new…built cattle…shed；
The street； the high and solemn range。
The while the coyote barked afar
All shadowy was the battlement。
The ranch…boys huddled and grew pale；
Youths who had come on riot bent。
Forgot were pranks well…planned to sting。
Behold there rose a ghostly king；
And veils of smoking Hell were rent。
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet； then
The camp…drab's tears could not but flow。
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned。
She felt the frail queen…mother's woe；
Thrilled for Ophelia； fond and blind；
And Hamlet； cruel； yet so kind；
And moaned； his proud words hurt her so。
A haunted place； though new and harsh！
The Indian and the Chinaman
And Mexican were fain to learn
What had subdued the Saxon clan。
Why did they mumble； brood； and stare
When the court…players curtsied fair
And the Gonzago scene began？
And ah； the duel scene at last！
They cheered their prince with stamping feet。
A death…fight in a palace！ Yea；
With velvet hangings incomplete；
A pasteboard throne； a pasteboard crown；
And yet a monarch tumbled down；
A brave lad fought in splendor meet。
Was it a palace or a barn？
Immortal as the gods he flamed。
There in his last great hour of rage
His foil avenged a mother shamed。
In duty stern； in purpose deep
He drove that king to his black sleep
And died； all godlike and untamed。
。 。 。 。 。
I was not born in that far day。
I hear the tale from heads grown white。
And then I walk that earlier street；
The mining camp at candle…light。
I meet him wrapped in musings fine
Upon some whispering silvery line
He yet resolves to speak aright。