Then came I near
And questioned of that Ghost, who answer made
Like a deep, murmuring wind that slowly draws
Through dim memorial aisles of ancient time:—
"I am the mother of men, and from my womb
Came all the dead and living. I am curst
With memory, with knowledge of what is,
And what shall be; yet, verily, am I blest
With these three knowledges,—my children I
Have seen these myriad years grow, age by age,
More wise, more just, more joyous, yet have I
Seen mutual slaughter sow the earth with tears.
In this New World here had I hoped my children
Would learn to unlearn the path mankind had climbed
Over its slain to happiness and power;
For soon or late I know that boon shall come,
And in the wars of peace the race shall wax
Manlier, purer, gentler, and more wise.
"But now again the sacred truce is broken,
And bleeds this breast at every wound and sigh,
And aches my mother-heart with the new pain
Of mortal mothers comfortless forever."
Then past the Spirit from my dream at dawn;
I woke into another day of war
With news of splendid deeds, and victory—
Yet still I heard that brooding shade lament.
1898.
THE WORD OF THE WHITE CZAR
This day, a strange and beautiful word was spoken,—
Not with the voice of a child, nor the voice of a woman,
Nor yet with the voice of a poet, the melody sounded,—
