'Twould rather be begun.

I'd bet my moon against his stars,

And gamble for the sun."

XI. The Spice-tree

This is the song

The spice-tree sings:

"Hunger and fire,

Hunger and fire,

Sky-born Beauty --

Spice of desire,"

Under the spice-tree

Watch and wait,

Burning maidens

And lads that mate.

The spice-tree spreads

And its boughs come down

Shadowing village and farm and town.

And none can see

But the pure of heart

The great green leaves

And the boughs descending,

And hear the song that is never ending.

The deep roots whisper,

The branches say: --

"Love to-morrow,

And love to-day,

And till Heaven's day,

And till Heaven's day."

The moon is a bird's nest in its branches,

The moon is hung in its topmost spaces.

And there, to-night, two doves play house

While lovers watch with uplifted faces.

Two doves go home

To their nest, the moon.

It is woven of twigs of broken light,

With threads of scarlet and threads of gray

And a lining of down for silk delight.

To their Eden, the moon, fly home our doves,

Up through the boughs of the great spice-tree; --

And one is the kiss I took from you,

And one is the kiss you gave to me.

XII. The Scissors-grinder

(What the Tramp Said)

The old man had his box and wheel

For grinding knives and shears.

No doubt his bell in village streets

Was joy to children's ears.

And I bethought me of my youth

When such men came around,

And times I asked them in, quite sure

The scissors should be ground.

The old man turned and spoke to me,

His face at last in view.

And then I thought those curious eyes

Were eyes that once I knew.

"The moon is but an emery-wheel

To whet the sword of God,"

He said. "And here beside my fire

I stretch upon the sod

Each night, and dream, and watch the stars

And watch the ghost-clouds go.

And see that sword of God in Heaven

A-waving to and fro.

I see that sword each century, friend.

It means the world-war comes

With all its bloody, wicked chiefs

And hate-inflaming drums.

Men talk of peace, but I have seen

That emery-wheel turn round.

The voice of Abel cries again

To God from out the ground.

The ditches must flow red, the plague

Go stark and screaming by

Each time that sword of God takes edge

Within the midnight sky.

And those that scorned their brothers here

And sowed a wind of shame

Will reap the whirlwind as of old

And face relentless flame."

And thus the scissors-grinder spoke,

His face at last in view.

*And there beside the railroad bridge

I saw the wandering Jew*.

XIII. My Lady in her White Silk Shawl

My lady in her white silk shawl

Is like a lily dim,

Within the twilight of the room

Enthroned and kind and prim.

My lady! Pale gold is her hair.

Until she smiles her face

(C) 2013 Как раскрутить сайт навсегда