Frank Oliver Call

Old Lohan peers through the dusty glass, From a jumble of curios quaint and rare; And he watches the hurrying crowds that pass The whole day long, through the ancient square.

Wrapped in his robe of gold and jade, Here by the window he patiently waits For the sound that the gongs and the conches made, In the days of old at the temple gates.

He heaves no sighs and he sheds no tears, For his heart is bronze, and he does not know That his temple has been for a thousand years But a mound of dust where the bamboos grow.

So here he sits through the nights and the days, And the sun goes up and down the sky; But he often looks with a wistful gaze At the crowds that always pass him by.

And his eyes half closed in a mystic dream Of his poppy-land of long ago, Turn back to the shores of the sacred stream And the kneeling throng he used to know.

But he sometimes smiles as he sees the crowd Of human folks that pass him by; Then he wraps himself in his mystic shroud,-- And the sun once more goes down the sky.

Silver birch and dusky pine, Reaching up to find the light From the forest's gloomy night, From the thicket where entwine Stunted shrub and creeping vine, From the damp where witch-fire glows And the poison fungus grows, High you lift your heads, O trees, To the kisses of the breeze, To the far-off vaulted sky, To the clouds that pass you by, To the sun that shines on high.

From the dusk of earthly night Strive, O soul, to reach the light.

They have made me a lovely garden With walls that are rugged and gray; They have filled it with pinks and roses And lilies that bloom but a day; But the walls are so high and frowning, And the paths are so smooth and straight, And even their smallest winding Leads straight to the chapel gate.

I have planted a bed of pansies Along by the chapel wall, But though I have watered and weeded They never have blossomed at all. The sunshine of God cannot fall there, For the chapel tower is too high; So under its cold, gray shadow My poor little blossoms die.

The Mother of God--in marble-- Gleams white where the willows toss, And at the far end of the pathway The dear Christ hangs on the cross; And when the vespers are over, If I have not sinned all day, I may walk to the end of the garden And kneel by the cross and pray.

But oh, for the wild, wild garden That I knew in the days gone by, Where the birches and elms and maples Stretched up to the wind-swept sky; Where, murmuring silver music, The brook through the ferny dell Ran down to the fields of clover,-- But hush, there's the vesper bell!

You went away in summertime When leaves and flowers were young, And birds still lingered in the fields With many songs unsung.

I'm glad it was in summertime When skies were clear and blue, I could not say good-bye to you And bear the winter too.

Why must you sing of sorrow When the world is so full of woe? Why must you sing of the ugly? For the ugly and sad I know. Why will you sing of railways, Of Iron and Steel and Coal, And the din of the smoky cities? For these will not feed my soul.

But sing to me songs of beauty To gladden my tired eyes,-- The beauty of waving forest, Of meadows and sunlit skies; Sing me of childish laughter, Of cradles and painted toys, Of the sea and the brooks and the rivers, And the shouting of bathing boys.

For the earth has a store of beauty Deep hid from our blinded eyes, And only the true-born poet Knows just where the treasure lies. So lead me from paths that are ugly, From the dust of the city street. To paths that are fringed with flowers, Where the sky and the meadows meet.

And though Sorrow may walk beside me To the far, far end of the road, If Beauty but beckon me onward, Less heavy will seem my load; And led in the paths of beauty, The world from its strife will cease; For I know that the paths of beauty Lead on to the paths of peace.

The mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun as it mounts the sky; And life to him is a haunting dream Or a motley pageant passing by.

Sorrow and joy go on their way, Passion and lust and love and hate; Only a band of mummers they, Blindly led by the hand of fate.

Though the pageant is real and himself the dream, Though men are born and strive and die, Yet the mystic sits by the sacred stream Watching the sun go down the sky.

I made a little song to-day, And then I wandered down Broadway, And saw the strange mad people run And dance about me in the sun, Or dive into the Underground Like rabbits frightened by the sound Of their own scampering through the grass; I watched a thousand people pass, But not a one did I hear say-- I made a little song to-day.

I made a little song to-day, It sang beside me all the way Until I reached the lower town, Where crowds went surging up and down. Their eyes were hard and faces white, But some of them looked glad and bright, Because the Bulls--or was it Bears?-- Had brought them gold for worthless shares; But I was happier than they;-- I made a little song to-day.

I lie beneath a dark green pine Where sunbeams scarcely ever shine, And if I'm still as still can be Shy forest birds come down to me.

Brown thrushes run along the ground, Goldfinches flit without a sound, And humming-birds with ruby throats Alight to smooth their emerald coats.

And when some day alone I lie Beneath the ever-changing sky, I'm glad to know the birds will come To welcome me to my new home.

For I will lie so still that they Will linger by me all the day, And lulled at evening by their song I shall not find the darkness long.