Is pale with far Hellenic moods,

With thoughts that find no place

In our harsh village of the West

Wherein she lives of late,

She's distant as far-hidden stars,

And cold -- (almost!) -- as fate.

But when she smiles she's here again

Rosy with comrade-cheer,

A Puritan Bacchante made

To laugh around the year.

The merry gentle moon herself,

Heart-stirring too, like her,

Wakening wild and innocent love

In every worshipper.

XIV. Aladdin and the Jinn

"Bring me soft song," said Aladdin.

"This tailor-shop sings not at all.

Chant me a word of the twilight,

Of roses that mourn in the fall.

Bring me a song like hashish

That will comfort the stale and the sad,

For I would be mending my spirit,

Forgetting these days that are bad,

Forgetting companions too shallow,

Their quarrels and arguments thin,

Forgetting the shouting Muezzin:" --

"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

"Bring me old wines," said Aladdin.

"I have been a starved pauper too long.

Serve them in vessels of jade and of shell,

Serve them with fruit and with song: --

Wines of pre-Adamite Sultans

Digged from beneath the black seas: --

New-gathered dew from the heavens

Dripped down from Heaven's sweet trees,

Cups from the angels' pale tables

That will make me both handsome and wise,

For I have beheld her, the princess,

Firelight and starlight her eyes.

Pauper I am, I would woo her.

And -- let me drink wine, to begin,

Though the Koran expressly forbids it."

"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

"Plan me a dome," said Aladdin,

"That is drawn like the dawn of the MOON,

When the sphere seems to rest on the mountains,

Half-hidden, yet full-risen soon."

"Build me a dome," said Aladdin,

"That shall cause all young lovers to sigh,

The fullness of life and of beauty,

Peace beyond peace to the eye --

A palace of foam and of opal,

Pure moonlight without and within,

Where I may enthrone my sweet lady."

"I AM YOUR SLAVE," said the Jinn.

XV. The Strength of the Lonely

(What the Mendicant Said)

The moon's a monk, unmated,

Who walks his cell, the sky.

His strength is that of heaven-vowed men

Who all life's flames defy.

They turn to stars or shadows,

They go like snow or dew --

Leaving behind no sorrow --

Only the arching blue.

Fifth Section

War. September 1, 1914

Intended to be Read Aloud

I. Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

(In Springfield, Illinois)

It is portentous, and a thing of state

That here at midnight, in our little town

A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,

Near the old court-house pacing up and down,

Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards

He lingers where his children used to play,

Or through the market, on the well-worn stones

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