Marsden Hartley

From “Kaleidoscope”

I

“I DON’T know where

We’re going to,” one said—

“’Tis but a week has sped

Since I saw the blooming sun

Up there where it is day,

And every day was fair.

How the water gurgles by the port!

I hear the tread

Of dreadful waves

Above my head—

Or is it just the sea,

Or is it just, eternity?

They do not call us now,

Who have a sorrow

On their brow.”

I heard the thunder

Climb the bleeding hill—

I heard it loud, and then

I heard it still.

They must have got some more

For the long rows in our yard!

I heard someone implore

How many—have you heard?

And one said ten thousand,

One said not a word!

I heard the spades go clinking

In our earth:

“We must go clinking

All we’re worth,”

The bright spades said,

“For they are piling

Up the youngest dead;

And they must have a place

By heaven’s grace—

There must be rest

For those that cannot longer

Heave a breast.”

III

They speak of death

Among deep roots of grass;

They speak of death

Among deep waves of glass.

They tell of light, and star, and love—

But who shall ever them believe?

The earth is not the sea,

Nor sea the earth can be;

But death is much the same

To them, and me—

It is but one felicity!

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