Old Road to Paradise. Margaret Widdemer

Cry the pennons furled,

       Lest under Ragnarok

       Lie the shattered world!

ST. JEANNE RIDES OUT

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      (For Amy Lowell)

      ST. JEANNE she sat with Michaël,

       With Marguerite and Raphaël,

       And all the saints who sent her forth a many years ago,

       And high behind her gold-ringed head,

       The martyrs dressed in white and red

       And seraphim all silver-winged they chanted row on row.

       St. Jeanne she spoke to Michaël,

       To Marguerite and Raphaël,

       "Oh, here's no place for such as I, all white and gold and warm,

       For I was but a peasant maid

       Strong of arm and unafraid,

       Before you sent me garnering along the battle-storm."

       St. Jeanne she's laid her garlands by,

       Her crown and palm that glittered high

       And all the golden trinketry she won at Heaven Gate,

       She's out along by Mary's Street

       Where little stars lie thick and sweet,

       With helm and sword they took from her at Rouen-Town of late.

       St. Peter swore, "The gate stands wide,

       So many folk have marched inside–

       I'll drop my golden keys tonight and snatch a sword again!"

       And stalwart saints and martyrs all

       And sworded angels silver-tall

       In straight and shining companies they've followed in her train.

       And down the fields of Paradise

       The churchmen all so great and wise

       Who won to Heaven so hardly once, they've knelt to her at last,

       All they who laughed at Rouen-Town

       To see the flames beat up and down

       And learned her for a saint that day, they follow glad and fast.

       Oh, did you hear the shouting then?

       Along the fields of weary men

       There's lifted heart and strengthened arm and laughing glad accord:

       Oh, who may doubt what end may be?

       With all her wingéd chivalry

       St. Jeanne rides down her fields tonight to battle for the Lord!

A BALLAD OF THE WISE MEN

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      THE Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem

       And the Wise Men gave Him gold,

       And Mary-Mother she hearkened them

       As they prayed in the cattle-fold:

       "Smile then, smile, little Prince of Earth,

       Smile in Thy holy sleep,

       Now Thou art come, for want and dearth

       There shall be plenty and light and mirth

       Through lands where the poor folk weep."

       But Mary-Mother was still and pale

       And she raised her golden-ringed head,

       "Then why have I heard the children wail

       All night long on the far-blown gale

       While my own Child slept?" she said.

       (But far overhead the angels sang:

       "There shall be joy!" the clear notes rang!)

       The Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem

       And the censers burned for him

       That the Wise Men swung on its silver stem

       And prayed while the smoke rose dim:

       "Sleep, then sleep, little Son of God,

       Sleep while the whole world prays;

       All the world shall fear Thy nod,

       Following close Thy staff and rod,

       Praising this day of days."

       But Mary-Mother turned whispering

       There by the manger-bed

       "Then why do I hear the mocking ring

       Of voices crying and questioning

       Through the scented smoke?" she said.

       (But high overhead the angels sang–

       "There shall be faith!" the pure notes rang.)

       The Christ-Child lay in Bethlehem

       And the Wise Men gave Him myrrh,

       And Mary-Mother she hearkened them

       As they prayed by the heart of her:

       "Sleep, then sleep, little Prince of Peace,

       Sleep, take Thy holy rest,

       Now Thou art come all wars shall cease,

       Thou who hast brought all strife release

       Even from east to west!"

       But Mary-Mother she veiled her head

       As if her great joys were lost,

       And "Here is only a manger-bed,

       Then why do I hear clashed swords?" she said.

       "And why do I see the tide of red

       Over the whole world tossed?"

       (But still overhead the angels sang:

       "There shall be peace!" the sure notes rang!)

NEXT YEAR

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      UP and down the street I know,

       Now that there are Grief and War,

       All day long the people go

       As they went before;

       But when now the lads go by–

       Careless look and careless glance–

       My heart wonders–"Which shall lie

       Still next year in France?"

       When the girls go fluttering–

       Flushing cheek and tossing head–

       My heart asks–"Next year shall bring

       Which a lover dead?"

       Lord, let peace be kind and fleet–

       Put an end to Grief and War;

       Let them walk the little street

       Careless as before!

HOMES

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      THE lamplight's shaded rose

       On couch and chair and wall,

       The drowsy book let fall,

       The children's