Charles Hanson Towne Poems

She knew that Love was dying--not so much
When Love's dear eyes were closed and blind to her,
As when, with patient word and tender touch,
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City I love—and hate!—how can I sing
The miracles of your might in such a mood?
How can I still the anger in my heart,
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The turrets leap higher and higher,
And the little old homes go down;
The workmen pound on the iron and steel--
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In every trembling bud and bloom
That cleaves the earth, a flowery sword,
I see Thee come from out the tomb,
Thou risen Lord.
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Who loves all beauty loves beyond that we see;
The gods give him a vision doubly blest;
He sees the bloom upon the hawthorn-tree,
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Three days I heard them grieve when I lay dead,
(It was so strange to me that they should weep!)
Tall candles burned about me in the dark,
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I need not shout my faith. Thrice eloquent
Are quiet trees and the green listening sod;
Hushed are the stars, whose power is never spent;
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Pale flowers are you, that scarce have known the sun!
Your little faces like sad blossoms seem,
Shut in some room, there helplessly to dream
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Across the roof-tops of the town
I saw the flaming sun go down;
For some, another day of tears
Lay buried in the hurrying years.
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I have heard the roar and clamor through the city's crowded ways
Of the never-ending pageant moving down the busy days--
...