Ina Coolbrith Poems

"THE song were sweeter and better
If only the thought were glad."
Be hidden the chafe of the fetter,
The scars of the wounds you have had;
Be silent of strife and endeavor,
But shout of the victory won!
You may sit in the shadow forever,
If only you'll sing of the sun.

There are hearts, you must know, over tender
With the wine of the joy-cup of years;
One might dim for a moment the splendor
Of eyes unaccustomed to tears:
So sing, if you must, with the gladness
That brimmed the lost heart of your youth,
Lest you breathe, in the song and its sadness,
The secret of life at its truth.

O, violets, born of the valley,
You are sweet in the sun and the dew,
But your sisters, in yonder dim alley,
Are sweeter—and paler — than you!
O, birds, you are blithe in the meadow,
But your mates of the forest I love;
And sweeter their songs in its shadow,
Though sadder the singing thereof!

To the weary in life's wildernesses
The soul of the singer belongs:
Small need, in your green, sunny places,
Glad dwellers, have you of my songs.
For you the blithe birds of the meadow
Trill silverly sweet, every one,
But I can not sit in the shadow
Forever, and sing of the sun.
...

Not to the brave upon the battle-field
Alone, the palms of victory belong;
Nor only to the great of earth the song
Of praise and paean should the singer yield.
Greater the souls that, single handed, wield
The battle-ax against the hosts of wrong,
Unknown, un-noted, in life's reckless throng,
And only in God's day to stand revealed.
How many such, in patient, humble guise,
Beside us walk their grief-appointed way!
Nobly enduring; worthiest to shine
As fixed stars in fame's eternal skies.
For these, for this, I reverently lay
On her dear dust this little leaf of mine.
...

I GATHERED flowers the summer long;
I dozed the days on sunny leas,
And wove my fancies into song,
Or dreamed in aimless ease.

Or watched, from jutting cliffs, the dyes
Of changeful waters under me,
The lazy gulls just dip and rise,
White specks upon the sea —

And far away, where blue to blue
Was wed, the ships that came and went;
And thought, O happy world! and drew
Therefrom a full content.

My mates toiled in the ripening field,
Nor paused for rest in cool or heat;
The yellow grain made haste to yield
Its harvesting complete:

My mates toiled in their pleasant homes,
They plucked the fruit from laden boughs,
And sang—'For if the Master comes
And find no ready house!' —

And far and strange their singing seemed,
And harsh the voices every one,
That woke the pleasant dream I dreamed
To thought of tasks undone.

Yet still I waited, lingered still,
Won by a cloud, a soaring lark;
Till, by-and-by, the land was chill,
And all the sky was dark.

And lo, the Master! — Through the night
My mates come forth to welcome Him:
Their labor done, their garments white,
While mine are stained and dim.

They bring to Him their golden sheaves,
To Him their finished toil belongs,
While I have but these withered leaves,
And these poor, foolish songs!
...

From the dust of Herrick's pages
Maytime dances down the ages,
Youth and maiden tell the old
Tale, that never quite is told;
Nodes the primrose by the rill,
Tulip gay, and daffodil,
And from dusk-dewed, scented vale
Flutes the old-world nightingale.

Let the volume open lie-
Day the sweeter made thereby;
With its Maytime in the boughs,
In the lily-leaves adrowse,
In the field-lark's liquid note,
All earth's joyance in his throat-
Sing, O Herrick! Maytime lies
In the song's eternities!
...

"THE world is old and the world is cold,
And never a day is fair,' I said.
Out of the heavens the sunlight rolled,
The green leaves rustled above my head,
And the sea was a sea of gold.

'The world is cruel,' I said again,
'Her voice is harsh to my shrinking ear,
And the nights are dreary and full of pain.'
Out of the darkness, sweet and clear,
There rippled a tender strain:

Rippled the song of a bird asleep,
That sang in a dream of the budding wood;
Of shining fields where the reapers reap,
Of a wee brown mate and a nestling brood,
And the grass where the berries peep.

'The world is false, though the world be fair,
And never a heart is pure,' I said.
And lo! the clinging of white arms bare,
The innocent gold of my baby's head,
And the lisp of a childish prayer!
...

The dead are beneath the sod,
And the flowers above them blooming;
The birds are singing again,
And the bees in the clover humming.

The skies are glory above
In the dawn, and the sunset flushes.
And the wind a lullaby croon
Of a mother, her babe that hushes.

For Earth is a patient Earth,
And pardon is quick to win her-
But the heart of her child, of Man,
Is a quenchless flame within her.
...

UPON the patient earth
A thousand tempests beat,
To call to life the flowers
That make her glad and sweet.

So, o'er the human heart,
The countless griefs that roll,
But wake immortal joy
To bloom within the soul.
...

As grows the rose
The thistle grows-
Each to its purpose
God He knows:
But who may deem
The lordlier scheme-
The weed unsung,
Or the poet's theme?
...

NEVER a leaf is shorn
But the vine surely misses;
From ministering night-dews torn,
From the sun's kisses.

Dozing the warm light in,
In cool winds rustling greenly —
A leaflet with its leafy kin
Dwelling serenely.

Not ever bud doth fall
With blighted leaves yet folden —
Never to wear its coronal
Or white or golden —

But from the mother - stem
Flutters a far, faint sighing:
Is it a tender requiem
Above the dying?

Who knows what dear regrets
Cling to the blossom broken?
Who knows what voiceless longing frets,
What love unspoken.

So through the summer - shine,
Your frail, brief lives securely
Keep, all ye tender blossoms mine,
Looking up purely.

Enough to breathe the air
Made sweet with your perfuming;
To see through golden days your fair
And perfect blooming:

The bees that round you hum,
The butterflies that woo you—
And happy, happy birds that come
And sing unto you.
...

I
Closer the curtain. Still the sun is flame,
And the sands metal, molten!
Ah, to lie
By the cool waters, breathing
The air that lifts the palm-fronds,
Hear my garden nightingale
Sing to the roses-
Clasp my Rose and Roses!

II
Hasten your speed, O weary Camel-driver!
There is a catch in the bells, a lull, a drift to silence;
Night will be here,
Heavy the way,
Far lies the City-
Far!
And the gates close, Hassan.

III
Strange was my dream mirage, of many scenes,
And in them I
I would not greatly care
Again to dream, Hassan,
Or to my Shadows:
Tho by the Prophet, man, fair foe I was,
My fights with equal odds!

IV
O my Saharan dawns,
Catching the fires at the horizon's edge
And flaming to the zenith!
Great moons that blurred the stars-
Silver above,
Silver beneath,
A Sea of silver whose vast waves
Broke into silver foam-
And stillness-stillness-stillness, that was prayer!


V
My Mare, Hassan!
Nay, bring her-I would see,
Would feel her nostrils nuzzle to my hand.
O my Delight! My Wonderful!
Bird of the Desert! Wings of the Winds of flight! . .
Mind you the great simoom?
She sheltered me-tho, by the Crescent, we
Had like to be one mound.

How does the Arab love?
First, aye, the Prophet, spiritually!
His son: he transmits his name;
His bride: be sure, the last;
His steed-I do think Hassen,
That ranks him next the Prophet!
Dah-ma, she is your care-
Let her lack nothing, least of all-love. . .
And. . .Hassan. . .
Not miss me overmuch.

VI
Why stilled the Camel bells, my Camel-driver?
Not stilled? The City near? . . .
Fling wide the curtains!
Lift me, that I see
The sunset blazing upon tower and dome,
Hear the muezzin from his minaret-
‘A-l-l-a-h-‘i-l-A-l-l-a-h' …
Are the Gates wide, Hassan?
...