Society and the World

Beware My Captain

You have to cross the darkness of the night
A desert vast and a hill of great height,
And an ocean, fathomless and dark.
Travellers, beware and look sharp.


The boat is trembling,
The water is swelling,
The sail is torn asunder,
And the boatman is losing his way,
Who will sit at the helm at this hour?
Who has the courage and the power?
The future calls your,
Come forward, all who are bold and true.


The night is dark, the storm is great,
You must look sharp, there is no time to hesitate.
You must make haste or it would be too late
To ferry the boat across the other side.
The night is dark, Be your own guard.
your, soldiers of the country,
Age old grievances have declared a fight,
The deprived heart is demanding its right.
You must take them along, the poor and the weak,
You must make them strong, no longer mild and meek


You must lead them to victory.
O Captain, my captain,
The helpless nation is going under water,
It does not know how to swim.
I shall watch tonight
Your determination, grim yet bright,
To free the country from slavery.
'Are they Hindus or Muslims? '
Who ask this question, I say.
Tell him, my Captain,
The children of the motherland are drowning today.


Doubts assail the mind of the travelers still,
There is thunder in the sky and danger over the hill.
Captain, will you lose the way
And leave us in the lurch?
You must not waver or sway,
You must carry on the march.


Those who sang the victory of life
With the nose of the gallows round their neck
Come and gather round quietly today.
What price do you pay for that, friends,
What sacrifice do you make?
It is a test, dear Captain,
Do you save the country or the cast at this hour?
The boat is trembling,



The water is swelling,
Beware, my Captain, beware.
[Translation: Kabir Chowdhury]

Baby Sparrow

From its nest behind the termite-eaten
wooden beams of the huge building
a baby sparrow cried out for its mother.
The mother, catching dragonflies
in the nearby field heard the cry.
'Must be that some mischievous child is trying to
take away my baby,' she thought
and, with her heart overcome with anxiety,
desperately headed back for the nest.
The fledgling saw its mother coming
and thought, 'Why don't I fly to her chest?'
and tried to do just that.
Alas, it hadn't learn to fly yet
and therefore fell all the way down to the floor. T
he mother, with tearful eyes saw this
and without any thoughts for her own life
flew down to her baby, trying
to protect her under her wings.
But soon some children came running,
chasing after them and finally catching the baby.
They showed no concern for
how precious the baby was to its mother.
They kept putting it inside an umbrella,
inside pockets, etc.
They all were laughing, except for one boyhis
eyes were overcome with tears.
His mother had passed away long ago,
he'd even forgotten what it was like
to be loved by his mother,
Yet, he felt a cry of pain deep within his heart.
With a ladder, he put the baby sparrow back in its
The tearful eyes of the baby sparrow
held heartfelt blessings for him.
The mother kept looking at the boy with great surprise,
her eyes too expressing her heartfelt gratitude for him.
These silent blessings that
the mother bird bestowed upon him,
the entire world cannot equal by a single speck.


[Original: Chorui Pakhir Chhana; Translation: Sajed Kamal]

Anwar


[A dark prison-house guarded by sentries at Constantinople. Thc mid-night of a new
moon with silence prevailing everywhere, except occasional footsieps of sentries
walking with heavy boots. A young soldier belonging to the National Army under the
command of Anwar is lying captive there. Although rebellious in appearance, he looks
older than his age. Today he has faced a Court Martial. Tomorrow he will be shot dead.
So this is the last night of the luckless warrior fastened by iron chains around his
limbs'. Suddenly he wakes up.Shouting, but finds nobody nearby. Only cold wind
weeps for him, 'O the motherless'! ' The young rebel bites his left arm, loosing temper
as he remembers' the treachery of his countrymen. He remembers his commander,
who gave him the weapons to free his motherland. He shouts loudly calling his
commander, 'ANWAR'.]


Anwar. Anwar.


Valiant as you are,
Drive your sword hard,
Kill them all, and annihilate those beasts


Anwar, alas!
It's but an irony of fate that
the b1ood has no more that warmth and valour,
The shamsir is broken, its scabbard left-over.


Anwar! Anwar!
What makes you cry if everything goes undisturbed?
Look, muslims are pet animals in today's world.


No more, Anwar, no more!
Whose heart does not tremble?
The sword shines no more, Smarna is insignificant, as well.
Lool there tremble the gates of Madina.
No more Anwar, no more. Anwar! Anwar!
Tear the chest apart and bring out the liver,
Kill them all, kill all those coward beasts.


Anwar! are we pigs in chain?
The chain jingles on, and listen,
the fountain of flame is almost extinguished.
Our necks are in shackles, too.


Anwar! Anwar!
Why does the poor fox jump and brag?
Where is that mighty lion? - Anwar is full of wounds.
Anwar! it's really hard to wake up a narrow heart.
It is not least aware of the wild fire that comes all around.
My brother plays the part of a satan, he bribes me with his feast.
Anwar! we are, indeed, in a fix.


Anwar! Anwar!
We are all non-believers, having not even half the heart.
Where do you look for muslims? - they are all wild beasts.



Anwar! everything ends indeed,
Though the blood remains in the veins!
The occident has robbed you of your fake sword. I
t is now womanlike to surrender, weeping,
Anwar, although ends everything.


Anwar! Anwar!
It is useless to repent in this barren land.
Those, who are still living, are maddened animals.
Anwar! none is there. Weapon? - no, nowhere.
The sea is also dreadfully stagnant and dark, having no waves.
Even the beduin has put on shackles around his neck.
Anwar! none is left any more.


Anwar! Anwar!
He who calls him a muslim, drag him by his tongue.
The unfaithful knows only to save his own life.


Anwar, what a pity!
They have beggar's bags on their shoulders,
who learnt the lesson of liberty with the sword in hand.
The intrepid have turned disgusted today.
Anwar, what a pity!


Anwar! Anwar!
The world is now ruled by the killers,
Why then to abide by bloodred eyes! -
Devilry is today's tricks, indeed.


Anwar! hold your fists firm!
They persuade us in vain,
The suffering rebel heart dances in storms,
The blood-eater swords want the war,
Anwar, hold your fist firm.


Anwar! Anwar!
You are a Pasha, now turn a destroyer of muslim beasts,
The home is full of enemies, why do you hit the outsiders?
Come Anwar, O my brother,
I want today end of everything,
Islam, too, sets in; nowhere exists a liberated homeland!
So we have worn the guise of a beggar leaving aside the sword.
Come Anwar, a my brother.


(Suddenly a negro sentry shouted challengingly, 'Get alert, young man', The blood in
young man's vein boiled in agitation, He, too, shouted like a young lion.)


a Khuda! a Ali! Take my sword,


(Then the image of the chained mother-Turkey flashed before his eyes. Beside it the
image of his own mother appealed in the guise of a chained beggar-maid. Eye-corners
of both of them held drops of tears. Shocked as he was, the son turned his face aside



and cried out)


Who is it'? Deprived and deceived'?
No, mother, no,
It's no use afflicting a dead heart with a scar.
Anwar! Anwar!


(The coward sentry again tortured the young captive, who groaned in pain. I firmly
believe with my eyes full of tears, 'Days are near, good days'.)


[Original: Anwar; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

Anwar


[A dark prison-house guarded by sentries at Constantinople. Thc mid-night of a new
moon with silence prevailing everywhere, except occasional footsieps of sentries
walking with heavy boots. A young soldier belonging to the National Army under the
command of Anwar is lying captive there. Although rebellious in appearance, he looks
older than his age. Today he has faced a Court Martial. Tomorrow he will be shot dead.
So this is the last night of the luckless warrior fastened by iron chains around his
limbs'. Suddenly he wakes up.Shouting, but finds nobody nearby. Only cold wind
weeps for him, 'O the motherless'! ' The young rebel bites his left arm, loosing temper
as he remembers' the treachery of his countrymen. He remembers his commander,
who gave him the weapons to free his motherland. He shouts loudly calling his
commander, 'ANWAR'.]


Anwar. Anwar.


Valiant as you are,
Drive your sword hard,
Kill them all, and annihilate those beasts


Anwar, alas!
It's but an irony of fate that
the b1ood has no more that warmth and valour,
The shamsir is broken, its scabbard left-over.


Anwar! Anwar!
What makes you cry if everything goes undisturbed?
Look, muslims are pet animals in today's world.


No more, Anwar, no more!
Whose heart does not tremble?
The sword shines no more, Smarna is insignificant, as well.
Lool there tremble the gates of Madina.
No more Anwar, no more. Anwar! Anwar!
Tear the chest apart and bring out the liver,
Kill them all, kill all those coward beasts.


Anwar! are we pigs in chain?
The chain jingles on, and listen,
the fountain of flame is almost extinguished.
Our necks are in shackles, too.


Anwar! Anwar!
Why does the poor fox jump and brag?
Where is that mighty lion? - Anwar is full of wounds.
Anwar! it's really hard to wake up a narrow heart.
It is not least aware of the wild fire that comes all around.
My brother plays the part of a satan, he bribes me with his feast.
Anwar! we are, indeed, in a fix.


Anwar! Anwar!
We are all non-believers, having not even half the heart.
Where do you look for muslims? - they are all wild beasts.



Anwar! everything ends indeed,
Though the blood remains in the veins!
The occident has robbed you of your fake sword. I
t is now womanlike to surrender, weeping,
Anwar, although ends everything.


Anwar! Anwar!
It is useless to repent in this barren land.
Those, who are still living, are maddened animals.
Anwar! none is there. Weapon? - no, nowhere.
The sea is also dreadfully stagnant and dark, having no waves.
Even the beduin has put on shackles around his neck.
Anwar! none is left any more.


Anwar! Anwar!
He who calls him a muslim, drag him by his tongue.
The unfaithful knows only to save his own life.


Anwar, what a pity!
They have beggar's bags on their shoulders,
who learnt the lesson of liberty with the sword in hand.
The intrepid have turned disgusted today.
Anwar, what a pity!


Anwar! Anwar!
The world is now ruled by the killers,
Why then to abide by bloodred eyes! -
Devilry is today's tricks, indeed.


Anwar! hold your fists firm!
They persuade us in vain,
The suffering rebel heart dances in storms,
The blood-eater swords want the war,
Anwar, hold your fist firm.


Anwar! Anwar!
You are a Pasha, now turn a destroyer of muslim beasts,
The home is full of enemies, why do you hit the outsiders?
Come Anwar, O my brother,
I want today end of everything,
Islam, too, sets in; nowhere exists a liberated homeland!
So we have worn the guise of a beggar leaving aside the sword.
Come Anwar, a my brother.


(Suddenly a negro sentry shouted challengingly, 'Get alert, young man', The blood in
young man's vein boiled in agitation, He, too, shouted like a young lion.)


a Khuda! a Ali! Take my sword,


(Then the image of the chained mother-Turkey flashed before his eyes. Beside it the
image of his own mother appealed in the guise of a chained beggar-maid. Eye-corners
of both of them held drops of tears. Shocked as he was, the son turned his face aside



and cried out)


Who is it'? Deprived and deceived'?
No, mother, no,
It's no use afflicting a dead heart with a scar.
Anwar! Anwar!


(The coward sentry again tortured the young captive, who groaned in pain. I firmly
believe with my eyes full of tears, 'Days are near, good days'.)


[Original: Anwar; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

Anwar


[A dark prison-house guarded by sentries at Constantinople. Thc mid-night of a new
moon with silence prevailing everywhere, except occasional footsieps of sentries
walking with heavy boots. A young soldier belonging to the National Army under the
command of Anwar is lying captive there. Although rebellious in appearance, he looks
older than his age. Today he has faced a Court Martial. Tomorrow he will be shot dead.
So this is the last night of the luckless warrior fastened by iron chains around his
limbs'. Suddenly he wakes up.Shouting, but finds nobody nearby. Only cold wind
weeps for him, 'O the motherless'! ' The young rebel bites his left arm, loosing temper
as he remembers' the treachery of his countrymen. He remembers his commander,
who gave him the weapons to free his motherland. He shouts loudly calling his
commander, 'ANWAR'.]


Anwar. Anwar.


Valiant as you are,
Drive your sword hard,
Kill them all, and annihilate those beasts


Anwar, alas!
It's but an irony of fate that
the b1ood has no more that warmth and valour,
The shamsir is broken, its scabbard left-over.


Anwar! Anwar!
What makes you cry if everything goes undisturbed?
Look, muslims are pet animals in today's world.


No more, Anwar, no more!
Whose heart does not tremble?
The sword shines no more, Smarna is insignificant, as well.
Lool there tremble the gates of Madina.
No more Anwar, no more. Anwar! Anwar!
Tear the chest apart and bring out the liver,
Kill them all, kill all those coward beasts.


Anwar! are we pigs in chain?
The chain jingles on, and listen,
the fountain of flame is almost extinguished.
Our necks are in shackles, too.


Anwar! Anwar!
Why does the poor fox jump and brag?
Where is that mighty lion? - Anwar is full of wounds.
Anwar! it's really hard to wake up a narrow heart.
It is not least aware of the wild fire that comes all around.
My brother plays the part of a satan, he bribes me with his feast.
Anwar! we are, indeed, in a fix.


Anwar! Anwar!
We are all non-believers, having not even half the heart.
Where do you look for muslims? - they are all wild beasts.



Anwar! everything ends indeed,
Though the blood remains in the veins!
The occident has robbed you of your fake sword. I
t is now womanlike to surrender, weeping,
Anwar, although ends everything.


Anwar! Anwar!
It is useless to repent in this barren land.
Those, who are still living, are maddened animals.
Anwar! none is there. Weapon? - no, nowhere.
The sea is also dreadfully stagnant and dark, having no waves.
Even the beduin has put on shackles around his neck.
Anwar! none is left any more.


Anwar! Anwar!
He who calls him a muslim, drag him by his tongue.
The unfaithful knows only to save his own life.


Anwar, what a pity!
They have beggar's bags on their shoulders,
who learnt the lesson of liberty with the sword in hand.
The intrepid have turned disgusted today.
Anwar, what a pity!


Anwar! Anwar!
The world is now ruled by the killers,
Why then to abide by bloodred eyes! -
Devilry is today's tricks, indeed.


Anwar! hold your fists firm!
They persuade us in vain,
The suffering rebel heart dances in storms,
The blood-eater swords want the war,
Anwar, hold your fist firm.


Anwar! Anwar!
You are a Pasha, now turn a destroyer of muslim beasts,
The home is full of enemies, why do you hit the outsiders?
Come Anwar, O my brother,
I want today end of everything,
Islam, too, sets in; nowhere exists a liberated homeland!
So we have worn the guise of a beggar leaving aside the sword.
Come Anwar, a my brother.


(Suddenly a negro sentry shouted challengingly, 'Get alert, young man', The blood in
young man's vein boiled in agitation, He, too, shouted like a young lion.)


a Khuda! a Ali! Take my sword,


(Then the image of the chained mother-Turkey flashed before his eyes. Beside it the
image of his own mother appealed in the guise of a chained beggar-maid. Eye-corners
of both of them held drops of tears. Shocked as he was, the son turned his face aside



and cried out)


Who is it'? Deprived and deceived'?
No, mother, no,
It's no use afflicting a dead heart with a scar.
Anwar! Anwar!


(The coward sentry again tortured the young captive, who groaned in pain. I firmly
believe with my eyes full of tears, 'Days are near, good days'.)


[Original: Anwar; Translation: Mohammad Nurul Huda]

A Tribute From the Poet

Allahu Akbar!
Allahu Akbar!
From Allah comes today
Rahmat, Kauthar.
Those of whom Allah is patron
This victory is of them,
It is the victory of God's Will,
Not for our vain fame.


It is a victory, but
Merely the stepping stone, no more;
From so much bondage-affliction
Toward above we have to soar.


So much division, schism
Jealousy, greed and arrogance,
All these will simply disappear
With His one merciful glance.


You are the new travelers
You are bound toward Him,
Following your footsteps
Here comes a heavenly beam.


Yes, coming are the travelers
Young warriors of new age,
Soon world's misery and suffering
Will be confined in their cage.


[Original: Kabir Proshosti (Bengali) ,
Translator: Mohammad Omar Farooq]

Where do you search me

Moko Kahan Dhundhere Bande
Mein To Tere Paas Mein
Na Teerath Mein, Na Moorat Mein
Na Ekant Niwas Mein
Na Mandir Mein, Na Masjid Mein
Na Kabe Kailas Mein
Mein To Tere Paas Mein Bande
Mein To Tere Paas Mein
Na Mein Jap Mein, Na Mein Tap Mein
Na Mein Barat Upaas Mein
Na Mein Kiriya Karm Mein Rehta
Nahin Jog Sanyas Mein
Nahin Pran Mein Nahin Pind Mein
Na Brahmand Akas Mein
Na Mein Prakuti Prawar Gufa Mein
Nahin Swasan Ki Swans Mein
Khoji Hoye Turat Mil Jaoon
Ik Pal Ki Talas Mein
Kahet Kabir Suno Bhai Sadho
Mein To Hun Viswas Mein

English Translation:

Where do you search me?
I am with you
Not in pilgrimage, nor in icons
Neither in solitudes
Not in temples, nor in mosques
Neither in Kaba nor in Kailash
I am with you O man
I am with you
Not in prayers, nor in meditation
Neither in fasting
Not in yogic exercises
Neither in renunciation
Neither in the vital force nor in the body
Not even in the ethereal space
Neither in the womb of Nature
Not in the breath of the breath
Seek earnestly and discover
In but a moment of search
Says Kabir, Listen with care
Where your faith is, I am there.

Tell me Brother

Tell me, Brother, how can I renounce Maya?
When I gave up the tying of ribbons, still I tied my garment about me:
When I gave up tying my garment, still I covered my body in its folds.
So, when I give up passion, I see that anger remains;
And when I renounce anger, greed is with me still;
And when greed is vanquished, pride and vainglory remain;
When the mind is detached and casts Maya away, still it clings to the letter.
Kabîr says, 'Listen to me, dear Sadhu! the true path is rarely found.'

O lord Increate, who will serve Thee?

O lord Increate, who will serve Thee?
Every votary offers his worship to the God of his own creation:
each day he receives service-
None seek Him, the Perfect:
Brahma, the Indivisible Lord.
They believe in ten Avatars;
but no Avatar can be the Infinite Spirit,
for he suffers the results of his deeds:
The Supreme One must be other than this.


The Yogi, the Sanyasi,
the Ascetics, are disputing one with another:


Kabîr says, 'O brother! he who has seen that radiance of love,
he is saved.'

It Is Needless To Ask Of A Saint

It is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs;
For the priest, the warrior. the tradesman, and all the
thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for God.
It is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be;
The barber has sought God, the washerwoman, and the carpenter-
Even Raidas was a seeker after God.
The Rishi Swapacha was a tanner by caste.
Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End, where remains no mark of
distinction.

It Is Needless To Ask Of A Saint

It is needless to ask of a saint the caste to which he belongs;
For the priest, the warrior. the tradesman, and all the
thirty-six castes, alike are seeking for God.
It is but folly to ask what the caste of a saint may be;
The barber has sought God, the washerwoman, and the carpenter-
Even Raidas was a seeker after God.
The Rishi Swapacha was a tanner by caste.
Hindus and Moslems alike have achieved that End, where remains no mark of
distinction.

His Death In Benares

His death in Benares
Won't save the assassin
From certain hell,


Any more than a dip
In the Ganges will send
Frogs—or you—to paradise.


My home, says Kabir,
Is where there's no day, no night,
And no holy book in sight


To squat on our lives.

Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?

Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?
Talk and talk and the real things get lost.

Talk and talk and things get out of hand.
Why not stop talking and think?

If you meet someone good, listen a little, speak;
If you meet someone bad, clench up like a fist.

Talking with a wise man is a great reward.
Talking with a fool? A waste.

Kabir says: A pot makes noise if it's half full,
But fill it to the brim - no sound.

Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?

Hey brother, why do you want me to talk?
Talk and talk and the real things get lost.

Talk and talk and things get out of hand.
Why not stop talking and think?

If you meet someone good, listen a little, speak;
If you meet someone bad, clench up like a fist.

Talking with a wise man is a great reward.
Talking with a fool? A waste.

Kabir says: A pot makes noise if it's half full,
But fill it to the brim - no sound.

To a Young Poet who Killed Himself
When you had played with life a space
And made it drink and lust and sing,
You flung it back into God's face
And thought you did a noble thing.
"Lo, I have lived and loved," you said,
"And sung to fools too dull to hear me.
Now for a cool and grassy bed
With violets in blossom near me."
Well, rest is good for weary feet,
Although they ran for no great prize;
And violets are very sweet,
Although their roots are in your eyes.
But hark to what the earthworms say
Who share with you your muddy haven:
"The fight was on -- you ran away.
You are a coward and a craven."
"The rug is ruined where you bled;
It was a dirty way to die!
To put a bullet through your head
And make a silly woman cry!
You could not vex the merry stars
Nor make them heed you, dead or living.
Not all your puny anger mars
God's irresistible forgiving.
"Yes, God forgives and men forget,
And you're forgiven and forgotten.
You may be gaily sinning yet
And quick and fresh instead of rotten.
And when you think of love and fame
And all that might have come to pass,
Then don't you feel a little shame?
And don't you think you were an ass?"

The White Ships and the Red
(For Alden March)
With drooping sail and pennant
That never a wind may reach,
They float in sunless waters
Beside a sunless beach.
Their mighty masts and funnels
Are white as driven snow,
And with a pallid radiance
Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
Here is a Spanish galleon
That once with gold was gay,
Here is a Roman trireme
Whose hues outshone the day.
But Tyrian dyes have faded,
And prows that once were bright
With rainbow stains wear only
Death's livid, dreadful white.
White as the ice that clove her
That unforgotten day,
Among her pallid sisters
The grim Titanic lay.
And through the leagues above her
She looked aghast, and said:
"What is this living ship that comes
Where every ship is dead?"
The ghostly vessels trembled
From ruined stern to prow;
What was this thing of terror
That broke their vigil now?
Down through the startled ocean
A mighty vessel came,
Not white, as all dead ships must be,
But red, like living flame!
The pale green waves about her
Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
By the great scarlet stream that flowed
From out her wounded side.
And all her decks were scarlet
And all her shattered crew.
She sank among the white ghost ships
And stained them through and through.
The grim Titanic greeted her
"And who art thou?" she said;
"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
Arrayed in living red?
We are the ships of sorrow


Who spend the weary night,
Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
Obscure and still and white."
"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
"Though I sink through the sea,
A ruined thing that was a ship,
I sink not as did ye.
For ye met with your destiny
By storm or rock or fight,
So through the lagging centuries
Ye wear your robes of white.
"But never crashing iceberg
Nor honest shot of foe,
Nor hidden reef has sent me
The way that I must go.
My wound that stains the waters,
My blood that is like flame,
Bear witness to a loathly deed,
A deed without a name.
"I went not forth to battle,
I carried friendly men,
The children played about my decks,
The women sang -- and then --
And then -- the sun blushed scarlet
And Heaven hid its face,
The world that God created
Became a shameful place!
"My wrong cries out for vengeance,
The blow that sent me here
Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
Has reached Jehovah's ear.
Not all the seven oceans
Shall wash away that stain;
Upon a brow that wears a crown
I am the brand of Cain."
When God's great voice assembles
The fleet on Judgment Day,
The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
In sea and strait and bay.
Though they have lain for ages
Beneath the changeless flood,
They shall be white as silver,
But one -- shall be like blood.

The White Ships and the Red
(For Alden March)
With drooping sail and pennant
That never a wind may reach,
They float in sunless waters
Beside a sunless beach.
Their mighty masts and funnels
Are white as driven snow,
And with a pallid radiance
Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
Here is a Spanish galleon
That once with gold was gay,
Here is a Roman trireme
Whose hues outshone the day.
But Tyrian dyes have faded,
And prows that once were bright
With rainbow stains wear only
Death's livid, dreadful white.
White as the ice that clove her
That unforgotten day,
Among her pallid sisters
The grim Titanic lay.
And through the leagues above her
She looked aghast, and said:
"What is this living ship that comes
Where every ship is dead?"
The ghostly vessels trembled
From ruined stern to prow;
What was this thing of terror
That broke their vigil now?
Down through the startled ocean
A mighty vessel came,
Not white, as all dead ships must be,
But red, like living flame!
The pale green waves about her
Were swiftly, strangely dyed,
By the great scarlet stream that flowed
From out her wounded side.
And all her decks were scarlet
And all her shattered crew.
She sank among the white ghost ships
And stained them through and through.
The grim Titanic greeted her
"And who art thou?" she said;
"Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet
Arrayed in living red?
We are the ships of sorrow


Who spend the weary night,
Until the dawn of Judgment Day,
Obscure and still and white."
"Nay," said the scarlet visitor,
"Though I sink through the sea,
A ruined thing that was a ship,
I sink not as did ye.
For ye met with your destiny
By storm or rock or fight,
So through the lagging centuries
Ye wear your robes of white.
"But never crashing iceberg
Nor honest shot of foe,
Nor hidden reef has sent me
The way that I must go.
My wound that stains the waters,
My blood that is like flame,
Bear witness to a loathly deed,
A deed without a name.
"I went not forth to battle,
I carried friendly men,
The children played about my decks,
The women sang -- and then --
And then -- the sun blushed scarlet
And Heaven hid its face,
The world that God created
Became a shameful place!
"My wrong cries out for vengeance,
The blow that sent me here
Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream
Has reached Jehovah's ear.
Not all the seven oceans
Shall wash away that stain;
Upon a brow that wears a crown
I am the brand of Cain."
When God's great voice assembles
The fleet on Judgment Day,
The ghosts of ruined ships will rise
In sea and strait and bay.
Though they have lain for ages
Beneath the changeless flood,
They shall be white as silver,
But one -- shall be like blood.

The Apartment House
Severe against the pleasant arc of sky
The great stone box is cruelly displayed.
The street becomes more dreary from its shade,
And vagrant breezes touch its walls and die.
Here sullen convicts in their chains might lie,
Or slaves toil dumbly at some dreary trade.
How worse than folly is their labor made
Who cleft the rocks that this might rise on high!
Yet, as I look, I see a woman's face
Gleam from a window far above the street.
This is a house of homes, a sacred place,
By human passion made divinely sweet.
How all the building thrills with sudden grace
Beneath the magic of Love's golden feet!

St. Laurence
Within the broken Vatican
The murdered Pope is lying dead.
The soldiers of Valerian
Their evil hands are wet and red.
Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits,
His cassock is his only mail.
The troops of Hell have burst the gates,
But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.
They have encompassed him with steel,
They spit upon his gentle face,
He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal
The Church's hidden treasure-place.
Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight,
Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!
Since thou hast fought the goodly fight
A martyr's death is fixed for thee.
St. Laurence, pray for us to bear
The faith which glorifies thy name.
St. Laurence, pray for us to share
The wounds of Love's consuming flame.

St. Laurence
Within the broken Vatican
The murdered Pope is lying dead.
The soldiers of Valerian
Their evil hands are wet and red.
Unarmed, unmoved, St. Laurence waits,
His cassock is his only mail.
The troops of Hell have burst the gates,
But Christ is Lord, He shall prevail.
They have encompassed him with steel,
They spit upon his gentle face,
He smiles and bleeds, nor will reveal
The Church's hidden treasure-place.
Ah, faithful steward, worthy knight,
Well hast thou done. Behold thy fee!
Since thou hast fought the goodly fight
A martyr's death is fixed for thee.
St. Laurence, pray for us to bear
The faith which glorifies thy name.
St. Laurence, pray for us to share
The wounds of Love's consuming flame.

Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)
The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.
I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.
A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.
If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

Memorial Day
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.

Memorial Day
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.

Memorial Day
"Dulce et decorum est"
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet,
But not of war it sings to-day.
The road is rhythmic with the feet
Of men-at-arms who come to pray.
The roses blossom white and red
On tombs where weary soldiers lie;
Flags wave above the honored dead
And martial music cleaves the sky.
Above their wreath-strewn graves we kneel,
They kept the faith and fought the fight.
Through flying lead and crimson steel
They plunged for Freedom and the Right.
May we, their grateful children, learn
Their strength, who lie beneath this sod,
Who went through fire and death to earn
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed
They march, the legions of the Lord;
He is their Captain unafraid,
The Prince of Peace . . . Who brought a sword.