Blessed with the green of rains, charged sweet with scent of May,
The garden paths caressed her as she walked with slow foot-fall;
Slight was her frame, but took no pressure of decay,
And age had found age beautiful as when youth gave youth all.
Far over dreamy meadows bells toll the dying sun,
And a quiet is on her spirit for the tender drooping balm
Of the evening filled with perfume the spring has swiftly won,
And the rising moon that greets her in the garden of her calm.
The ebony stick has brought her by the phlox and marigold,
And a dream of one is with her who loved this place the best of all,
Who was straight and clean of stature as Bayard was of old—
Who when the drummers beat the fields obeyed the drummers' call.
His letters breathed a brighter hope than any she had heard,
Nor any hint he gave to her that for his fairest youth
Death leapt and chattered daily, and daily was deterred
From staying all the transient joys that chased across his mouth.
The mother thrilled with sense of beauty infinite:
For here it was the lithe, strong arms had pressed her to his breast,
And his proud mouth had sealed on hers the proudest right
That lovely tenderness may plan in gardens of the West.
And so the moon grew white to silver all the lawns,
While the garden wicket grows more white because a shadow near
Has come to steal the wakened joy of any further dawns.
The hand upon the wicket trembles, the vision is not clear
Of the one woman in the garden who is so quiet and still.
At last the shadow enters and knows a form has sudden fled,
And now is lonely weeping upon a haunted hill—
For with it entered a company of France's hidden dead.
[Pg 17]
At the sound of feet she turns, while her heart has made such stir
That makes her grip her stick more close and head grow more erect:
She sees a priest's worn cassock, and priests are sore to her,
For as a child she knew they moved where life's best ships were wrecked.
"Madame, your son is dead," said he, with lowered glance:
"But he bade them say the lilies yet are strong within the gale,
He died a hero's death for honour and for France!"
Then the mother faced and fixed his eyes, but the cheeks were drawn and pale.
"I thank you for these words, for I see God spared him speech
Before he died, and there are mothers for whom no words atone
For speech of those they love, and whom no tidings reach.
I thank you. And now leave me, for I would be alone."
And there she sits so quiet in the light of the young moon,
While the flowers are dead, and the fruits are dead along with the young life
That someone sped to the depth of the last dim lagoon.
But only the priest in the fields of youth hears the requiem guns of strife.
And he knows that strife goes on and on, for ever on and on,
While the harps of the world shall play no more, nor any more shall bring
The maids and youths to laughter until that the end be won,
And the eyes of men grow young again, and the heart of the world can sing.