 Section 23 of Selected Works, Poems, by Voltairene DeClaire, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lucy Perry. The Feast of Vultures from Selected Works, Poems, by Voltairene DeClaire. As the three anarchists, Valiant, Henry and Caeserio, were led to their several executions, a voice from the prison cried loudly, Viva la Anarchy! Through watch and ward the cry escaped, and no man owned the voice, but the cry is still resounding through the world. A moan in the gloom in the air-peaks heard, the bird of Omen, the wild-fierce bird. A flight, in the night, like a whizz of light. Arowee winging before the storm, far away flinging, the whistling singing, white curdle drops, wind-blown and warm. From its beating, flapping, thunderous wings, crashing and clapping, the split night swings, and rocks and totters. Bled of its leaven and reels and mutters accursed to heaven. Reels and mutters and rolls and dyes, with a wild light streak in its black, blind eyes. Far, far, far, through the red mad moan, like a hurtling star through the air, rub-borne, the herald-singer, the terror-bringer, speeds and behind through the cloud-rags-torn, gather and wheel a million wings, clanging as iron where the hammer rings. The whipped sky shivers, the white gate shakes, the rip-throne quivers, the dumb-god wakes, and feels in his heart the talon stings, the dead body's hurl from beaks for slings. Ruin, ruin, the whirlwind cries, and it leaps at his throat and tears his eyes. Death for death, as ye long have dealt, the heads of your victims, your head shall pelt, the blood ye wrung to get drunk upon. Drink and be poisoned, on, herald, on! Behold, behold, how a moan is grown, a cry hurled high against a scaffold's joist, the voice of defiance, the loud wild voice, world through the world, a smoke-wreath curled, breath-thround hot kisses, around a fire, see the ground hisses with curses and glisses, with red-streaming blood-clots of long-frozen ire, by the flying wild voice as it passes, groaning and crying, the surge of the masses rolls and flashes, with thunderous roar, seams and lashes, the livid shore, seams and lashes and crunches and beats, and drags a ragged wall to its howling retreats. Swift, swift, swift, thought the blood rains fall, through the fire-shot rift of the broken wall, the prophet crying, the storm-strong sighing, flies and from under nights lifted Paul, swarming menace ten million darts, uplifting fragments of human shards. Ah, white-teeth chatter and dumb jaws fall, while winged fire scatter till gloom gulfs all, save the boom of the cannon that stormed the forts, that the people bombard with their comrade's hearts, vengeance, vengeance, the voices scream, and the vulture pinions whirl and stream. Knife for knife as ye long have dealt, the edge ye wetted for us be felt, ye chopper of necks on your own, your own, bear it cowered, on profit on, behold how high rolls of prison cry. Philadelphia, August 1894. End of the Feast of Vultures. Recording by Lucy Perry, in Bath, on March 23, 2009. Section 24 of Selected Works. Poems by Valterine DeClaire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Suicide's Defense. From Selected Works. Poems by Valterine DeClaire. To say in my defense? Defense of what? Defense to whom? And why defense at all? Have I wronged any? Let that one accuse. Some priests there, mutters, I have outraged God. Let God then try me, and let Nondair judge himself as fit to put Heaven's ermine on. Again I say, let the wronged one accuse. I, silence, there is none to answer me. And whom could I, a homeless, friendless tramp, to whom all doors are shut, all hearts are locked, all hands withheld? Whom could I wrong? Indeed, by taking that which benefited none, and menaced all. I, since ye will it so, know then your risk. But Mark, tis not defense, tis accusation that I hurl at you. See to it that ye prepare your own defense. My life, I say, is an eternal threat to you and yours. And therefore it were well to have foreborn your unasked services. And why? Because I hate you. Every drop of blood that circles in your plethoric veins was wrung from out the gaunt and sapless trunks of men like me. Who in your cursed mills were crushed like grapes within the wine-press ground. To us ye leave the empty skin of life. The heart of it, the sweet of it, ye pour defeat your dogs and mistresses with all. Your mistresses, our daughters, bought for bread to grace the flesh that once was father's arms. Yes, I accuse you that ye murdered me. Ye killed the man, and this that speaks to you is but the beast that ye have made of me. What, is it life to creep and crawl and beg and slink for shelter where rats congregate, and for one's ideal dream of a fat meal? Is it then life to group like pigs and sties and bury decency and common filth, because forsooth your income must be made, though human flesh rotten your plague-rid dens? Is it then life to wait another's nod for leave to turn yourself to gold for him? Would it be life to you? And was I less than you? Was I not born with hopes and dreams and pains and passions even as were you? But these ye have denied. Ye seized the earth, though it was none of yours, and said, Hereon shall none rest, walk or work, till first to me ye render tribute. Every art of man, born to make light of the burdens of the world, ye also seized and made a tenfold curse to crush the man beneath the thing he made. Houses, machines, and lands, all, all are yours, and us you do not need. When we ask work ye shake your heads, homes ye evict us. Bread? Here, officer, this fellow's begging, jails the place for him. After the stripes, what's next? Poison. I took it. Now you say twas sin to take this life which troubled you so much. Sin to escape insults, starvation, brands of felony inflicted for the crime of asking food. Ye hypocrites, within your secret hearts the sin is that I failed. Because I failed, ye judge me to the stripes, and the hard toil denied when I was free. So be it, but beware. A prison sells an evil bed to grow morality. Black swamps breed black miasms. Sickly soils yield poison fruit. Snakes warm to life will sting. This time I was content to go alone. For chance the next, I shall not be so kind. End of The Suicide's Defense. Recording by Rhonda Federman. A novel of colour, from selected works, poems, by Valterine de Claire. CHAPTER I Chipmunks three sat on a tree, and there were as green as green could be. They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late, and chirrupt and chirrupt and ate and ate. Tis a pity of chipmunks, without nuts, and annoying hunger in their guts. But they should be wise, like you and me, and colour themselves to suit the tree. Achii achii, achii achii. Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three. Inelephant white, in sorry plight, hungry and dirty and sad bedite, straggled one day on the nutting-ground. Low chattered the chipmunks, our chance is found. Behold the beast's colour, were he as we, green and sleek and not full were he. But the beast is big, and the beast is white, and his skin full of emptiness serves him right. Achii achii, achii achii. Let us sit on him, sit on him, chipmunks three. CHAPTER II Three chipmunks, green right gay were seen, to leap on the beast his brows between. They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin, and sad and sad and sad on him. Not a single available spot of hide, where a well-sleaked chipmunk could sit with pride. But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked, till ought but an elephant must have flunked? Achii achii, achii achii. What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three. CHAPTER III BRRRRRR CHAPTER IV What was it blue? A hue, a hue. Three green chipmunks have all turned blue. The elephant smiles a peaceful smile, and lifts off a tree trunk, sans haste or guile. Seize him, seize him, he's stealing our tree. We're undone, undone, shriek the chipmunks three. The elephant calmly upraised his trunk, and said, Did I hear a green chipmunk? Achii achii, achii achii. Chippy, you're blue, so are you, so are you. End of A Novel of Color Recording by Joseph Nagy Of www.josephnagy.com That's J-O-Z-E-F-N-A-G-Y End of Selected Works Palms by Volterine DeClaire Section 26 of Selected Works Palms by Volterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. GERMINAL from Selected Works Palms by Volterine DeClaire GERMINAL, the field of Mars is plowing, and a hard the still that cuts, and a hot the breath of the great oxen, straining flanks and bowing beneath his goat, who guides the share of death. GERMINAL, the dragon's teeth are sewing, and a stern and white the silver flanks of the seed he shall not gather, though full swift the growing. Straight down, death furrowed heads and does not heed. GERMINAL, the helmet heads are springing far up the field of Mars in gleaming fires. With the wider ward notes, the bursting earth is ringing within his grave, the sober sleeps and smiles. End of GERMINAL, recording by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, February 2009. Section 27 of the Selected Works Palms by Volterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Light upon Walderheim from Selected Works Palms by Volterine DeClaire. The figure on the monument over the grave of the Chicago martyrs in Walderheim cemetery is a warrior woman dropping with her left hand a crown upon the forehead of a fallen man just past his agony, and with her right drawing a dagger from her bosom. Light upon Walderheim, and the earth is grey, a bitter wind is driving from the north. The stone is cold, and the strange cold whispers say, What do ye hear with death? Go forth, go forth, is this thy word, O mother, with the stern eyes crowning thy dead with the stoner caressing touch. May we not weep, o'er him the tomatoed lies slain our name, for that he loved us much. May we not linger till the days broad, nay, none are stirring in the stinging dawn, none but poor wretches that make no moon to God. What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn? Go forth, go forth, stand not to weep for these, till weaken with your whipping like the snow ye melt, dissolving in a covered piece. Light upon Walderheim, Brother, let us go. End of Light Upon Walderheim, Recording by Sergio Baldelli, Rome, March 2009 Section 28 of Selected Works, Poems by Valterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Love's compensation from Selected Works, Poems by Valterine DeClaire. I went before God, and he said, What fruit of the life I gave? Father, I said, it is dead, and nothing grows on the grave. Roth was the lord and stern. Hadst thou not to answer me, shall the fruitless root not burn, and be wasted utterly? Father, I said, forgive, for thou knowest what I have done, that another's life might live, mine turn to a barren stone. But the father of life sent fire and burned the root in the grave, and the pain in my heart is dire, for the thing that I could not save. For the thing it was laid on me by the lord of life to bring, fruit of the ungrown tree that died for no watering. Another has gone to God, and his fruit has pleased him well, for he sitteth high while I plod the dry ways down towards hell. Though thou knowest, thou knowest, lord, whose tears made that fruit's root wet, yet thou drivest me forth with a sword, and thy guards by the gate are set. Thou wilt give me up to the fire, and none shall deliver me, for I followed my heart's desire, and I labored not for thee. I labored for him thou hast set on my right hand high and fair. Thou lovest him, lord, and yet, twas my love won him there. But this is the thing that hath been, hath been since the world began, that love against self must sin, and a woman die for a man. And this is the thing that shall be, shall be till the whole world die. Kismet, my doom is on me. Why murmur since I am I? End of Love's Compensation, by Rhonda Federmann. The sword, the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great, painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. Federmann's gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. Tis a blood gift to an awe-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he? Well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of The Road Builders, Recording by Rhonda Federmann Section 30 of Selected Works, Poems by Valterine DeClaire. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Angiolio from Selected Works, Poems by Valterine DeClaire. We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they tortured men. His was the spirit that walked erect and met the beast in its den. Ours of the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they shrunk to see. His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that makes men free. Ours of the hands that were rung in pain in helpless pain and shame. His was the resolute hand that struck steady and keen to its aim. Ours of the lips that quivered with rage that cursed and prayed in a breath. His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the throat of death. Assassin, assassin, the world cries out with a shake of its dotted head. Germinal rings back the grave where lies the dead that is not dead. Germinal, germinal, sings the wind as driving before the storm. Few are the drops that have fallen yet. Scattered but red and warm. Germinal, germinal, sings the fields where furrows of men are plowed. Ye shall gather a harvest over rich when the ear at the full is bowed. Springing, springing at every breath the word of invincible strife. The word of the dead that is calling loud the battle ranks of life. For these are not the dead that live, though the earth upon them lie. But the doers of deeds of the night of the dead, they are the live that die. End of Angiolio. Recording by Rhonda Fetterman. Section 31 of Selected Works This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Meena. Eve at Whale from Selected Works Poems by Walter Indeclair. Comrades, what matter the watch knife tells that a new viewer comes or goes what to us are the crashing bells that clang out the centuries close what to us is the garlard dress the wool of the dancing feet the glitter and blare in the laughing press and din of Mary Street. Do we not know that our brothers die in the cold and dark to-night shelterless faces turned towards the sky will not see the new-views light wandering children lonely lost drift away on the human sea while the prize of their lives in a glass is tossed and drunk in a revelry ah no we not in their feasting halls where the loud laugh echoes again that break and stone in the motored walls are bones of murdered men slowly murdered by day and day the beauty and strength are left till the man is sapped and sucked away and the human renders left a human rend with all-pin hair an all-pin voice to pray for arms in the bitter winter air a knife at his heart always and pure and hot are impure and flesh for the cost of a little food low when the gleaner of time shall thresh let these be accounted good for these are they who in bitter blame eat the bread whose salt is sin whose bosoms are burned over college shame till their heart are sealed with them the covetly jest of a hundred years will be thrown where they pass tonight to callous for hate and to dry for tears the saddest of human blight do we forget them these broken ones that are watched tonight a set may we smile in the face of the ear that comes because we do not forget we do not forget the tramp on the track crushed out in the wind-swept ways the curses of man upon his back and the curse of God in the space the stare in the eyes of the buried man face down in the fallen mine the despair of the child whose bare feet ran to thread out the rich man's mind the solemn light in the dying gaze of the babe utter empty breast the wax accusation the somber glaze of its frozen and rigid rest they are all in the smile that we turn to the east to welcome the centuries dawn they are all in a greeting tonight's high priest as we bid the old year be gone be gone and have done and go down and be dead deep drowned in your sea of tears we smile as you die for we weigh the red mourn gleam of a hundred years that shall see the end of the age old wrong the reapers that have not sown the reapers of men with the sickle strong who gather but have not strung for the earth shall be his and the fruits thereof and to him the corn and wine who labours the hills with an even laugh and knows not thine in mind and the silk shall be to the hand that weaves the pearl to him who dives the home to the builder and all life sheaves to the builder of human lives and none go blind that another see or die that another live and none insult with a charity that is not theirs to give for each of his plenty shall freely share and take at another's hand equals breathing the common air and toiling the common land a dream, a vision, eye what you will let it be to you as it seems of this nightmare real we have our fill tonight is for pleasant dreams dreams that shall awaken the hope that sleeps and knock at each torped heart till it be drum tapped and blood that creeps with the lion spring of stars for who are we to be bound and drowned in this river of human blood who are we to lie in a swound half sunk in the river's mud are we not they who delve and blast and hammer and build and burn without us not a nail made fast not a wheel in the world should turn must we the giant await the grace that is dealt by puny hand of him who sits in the feasting place while we his blind just stand between the pillars may not so, I such things were true better Vagaza again to show what the giant's rage may do bet yet not this it were wiser far to enter the feasting hall and say to the masters these things are not for you alone but all and this shall be in the century that hopes on our eyes tonight so here's to the struggle if it must be and to him who fights the fight and here's to the dauntless jubilant throat that loud to its comrade sing till over the earth shrill the mustering note and the world strike signal rings end of Eve it will section 32 of selected works poems by Walterine declare this is a LibriWalks recording all LibriWalks recording are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriWalks.org Recording by Mina March Bloom from selected works poems by Walterine declare to Gitano Brescott Rickquem, Rickquem, Rickquem blood red blossom of poison stem broken for man swam sung bleepage in dungeon bloom seeded bearer of royal doom what now is the path what to thee is the island grave with desert wind and desolate wave will thee silence there can thee we thee now with the heaviest stone can thee lay out on thee with thee alone that has conquered breath low it's finished a man for a king Mark you well who have done this thing the plover has ruled bitter and rank grow the things of the sea shall know what sap ran thick in the tree when ye pluck its roots Rickquem, Rickquem, Rickquem sleep on, sleep on accursed of them who work our pain a wild marsh blossom shall blow again from the buried root and the slime of men on the day of the great red rain end of marsh bloom Section 33 of Selected Works poems by Walterine DeClaire This is a Library Works recording. All Library Works recording are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit librarywolves.org Recording by Mina Written in red from Selected Works poems by Walterine DeClaire To a living dead in Mexico's trouble written in red their brother stands for the gods of the world to see on the dooming wall their borderless hands have glazoned or parasol and the plating brands illumine the message seize the land open the prison and make men free flame out the living woods of the dead written in red Gods of the world their mouths are dumb your guns have spoken and they are dust but the shrouded living whose hearts were numb have felt the beat of a wakening drum within them sounding the dead men's tongue calling smite off the ancient rust have beheld Brexit, the word of death written in red We are at a loft a roaring flame skyward a loft we're all messy slaves of the world are cost as the same one is the immemorial shame one is the struggle and in one name manhood we battle to set men free uncoast us the land burn the woods of the dead written in red end of written in red a voice was there a voice that spoke or did I fancy I must have dreamed and have only now awoke again what is it I cannot see is there anyone in the room those words a minister come to pray my soul through the gates of gloom that's kind of you but what do you say do I shrink from death ah no I long for his terrible arms and the frost of his icy breath there is rest for me on his stony breast there is peace in his cold cold heart ah no I fear not my bosoms bear for the sting of his shadowy dart do you know what death means sir to such as I the wanton the wretch of the street the trodden thing that you godly ones crush down as a worm neath your feet it means the end of a ceaseless pain that none pity save those who bear dear death draw near lay your hands on mine draw nearer my pillow share you say that I wander that I forget the stains on my guilty soul I must turn to Christ with a trusting faith and he will wash out the hole why didn't your Christ save my soul before from pollution's dark living grave when I was honest and pure and good was the time for your Christ to save I wasn't always an outcast sir to disgrace my sex and name and it isn't from choice that these last five years I've been leading a life of shame why didn't your godly ones come to me ere my virtue was putrid dead if your Christ knew how hard I struggled why did he make so dear honest bread if I could only tell you how hard I tried if I only had time to speak but what does it matter it's over now and I'm growing so weak so weak what is it I didn't ask Christ you say nay sir on my bended knees in the streets I've prayed to him to send me work that I may not starve and freeze on my knees I prayed in the other days that his merciful hand might save the man I loved and whose name I bore from the stain of a drunkard's grave and I asked your Christ when I saw him die only six poor feet to yield of his great wide earth for a burial place and he gave me the potter's field I followed John's corpse to a pauper's grave in the aisles of eternal night and the love of my life went down with the clods that buried him from my sight I didn't think as I stood there then in the driving wind and sleet of my helpless self with my babe in arms turned homeless in the street I didn't think of the weary years nor the pain that was yet to come I could only think of those clothes shut lids and the dear lips sealed and dumb I didn't remember the life he'd led nor his last blood-curdling curse I only thought I'd once taken him for better or for worse that heart that I so often had pressed to mine lay pulseless and cold and still and a weary voidness was left to me that nothing might ever fill yes, he died of the tremors you'll comfort me by saying his soul is lost but where is the fiend who sold him rum the price that his rune cost he's sitting today in a cushioned pew a good Christian without flaw along with the praetors of Justice High and the deacons who make the law when he dies you will say the great white gates flew open to let him in while my John is lying in mortal pain from his great unforgivable sin ah, John, dear John I am faithful yet all the love I had to give is yours in death as in life, dear John and if somewhere again we live you will know and forgive me twas for our child you will pity, you will not blame that to save our child I sold myself and drank the dregs of shame I tried so hard to be honest, John but where was the use to try so many were willing to sell their toil and oh, so few to buy so few, so few have felt, have seen God's love in the blue skies though the ranks of the starving poor are filled with mournful, beseeching eyes they are filled with eyes that implore and haunt and follow you through the years strange, suffering eyes that are always dry and heavy with unshed tears what is it? could I get no work at all? sometimes but good sir, I pray would you care to preach for seventeen hours at thirty-five cents a day? it wasn't often I'd make that much for sewing without a fire in dead of winter is fearful work and your stiffened fingers tire and your head swims round and your shivering limbs grow numb with the cold well, it doesn't seem half so awful then this selling yourself for gold to me it didn't seem so bad as to you in the generous heat when I was forced in my mouth to hold my little one's freezing feet the nobler self, like a delicate plant dies fast in a pitiless hour and the numbing cold of starvation's tooth has a terrible blasting power I, and many a winter night while you, in your well-warmed home were teaching the love of Christ and God I was forced in the streets to roam forced in the streets to roam all night with the babe on my shivering breast and a minister's wife has refused me food or even a spot to rest how long do you think your own mother, sir would have led a virtuous life if she had been left in the world like this how long would your trusted wife have remained like the snow ere it falls to earth to mix in the muddy street with the filth and the mire and the grime and the ooze ground in by the trampling feet I tell you, sir, it's a terrible thing to judge of a woman's sin when a tenement's rent is a higher price than her honest toil can win no, don't talk of Christ any more to me when my little one's dying head was laid on my bosom I asked him then for the last time to send me bread I prayed to him oh, so earnestly and how did his answer come? the landlord knocked for his rent and I, like your Christ was dumb I was dumb with despair a dull blank despair as I went out into the night and I didn't know nor I didn't care if I did wrong or right I sold myself for a glittering price twas too late little Charlie died and I'm only waiting for death to come that we may sleep side by side life hasn't mattered to me since then all that I loved was gone but your god of vengeance perhaps decreed that I, in my grief, live on it is over now I am almost gone it is darker I'm nearly blind yes, I thank you for your intentions, sir I'm sure it was very kind no, your prayers would be useless I asked for bread and your Christ gave me a stone I can leave this world as I've lived in it in shame and in pain alone it isn't the dying who need God's help it's the living who cry for aid don't expect to have virtuous death, my friend when virtues so underpaid while virtues so underpaid in life an honor is sold so high don't talk about Jesus' tender love don't endeavor to help vice die I am weak, so weak and my voice it fails faintness steals over me oh, John, dear John and my little one I am coming light I see end of Nameless Recording by Rhonda Federman Section 35 of Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Santa Aguida from Selected Works, Poems by Valterine DeClaire Santa Aguida where the torturer Kanovas breathed his last Santa Aguida thou that wasst accursed with presence of a demon dressed in man Blessed art thou for on thy stones there ran the vampire blood from bitter torture nursed along thy streets there flash the lightning burst delivered, flaming on from eye to eye the lips said killed and all thy gateways hurst in lying black made mourning mockery Blessed art thou from thee when forth the cry vengeance yet loves renunciation hates and justice smites the torturer shall die across his path the steel-nerve slayer waits and both shall burn together one in light of unconsuming hell and reddened night and one with feet on hell and brow dawn raid pure white End of Santa Aguida Recording by Rhonda Fetterman Section 36 of Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org End Thou too From Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire The moonlight rolls down like a river the silence streams out like a sea and far where the eastern winds quiver my farewell goes floating to thee like night when the sunset is fading and starbeams troop up in the skies through a cold, dark and lonely forever gleams the light of the poet's eyes and sometimes when I'm weary when the path is thorny and wild I'll look back to the eyes in the twilight back to the eyes that smiled and pray that a wreath like a rainbow may slip from the beautiful past and crown me again with the sweet, strong love and keep me and hold me fast for the way is not strewn with petal soft it is covered with hearts that weep and the wounds I tread touch a deeper source than you think it mine to keep down the years I shall move without you yet ever must feel the blow that caused me a deeper pain to give than you will ever know for the tears that dropped on my hands that night beneath the mystical shining moon were a sacred dew consecrated there on the rose altered heart of June and the heart that beat against mine like a bird that is fluttering wounded sore with its nest all broken, deserted, torn will beat there forever more but the world moves on and the piteous earth still groans in the monster pain and the star that leads me points onward yet though the red drops fall like rain ah, not to a blaze of light I go nor shouts of a triumph train I go down to kiss the dregs of woe and drink up the cup of pain and whether a scaffold or crucifix waits beneath the light of my silver star I know and I care not I only know I shall pause not though it be far though a crucified life or an agonized death though long or quick and sharp I am firmly wrought in the endless thread of destiny's wolf and warp and I do not shrink though a wave of pain sobs over me now and then as I think of those saddest of all sad words the pitiful might have been it might have been it is not to be and the tones of your swans fare well ring sadly, solemnly, deep to me like the voice of a sobbing bell I gather your petals and take them back to the dead heart under the dew and crown it again with the red love bloom for the dead are always true but go not back to the sediment in the slime of the moaning sea for a better world belongs to you and a better friend to me end of, end thou too Recording by Rhonda Federman My love is old, my arms are strong I would woo thee now with the wave kiss cold on they pallid brow Thou art mine, thou art mine, my very own Thine ears shall hear my eternal moan Always near thou would feel my lips and the bathing tear where my sorrow drips Thou my king forever, behold thy throne Thine in thy majesty all alone None, none wept for thee nearing the verge of eternity I, thy solemn dirge, will chant for I Why does the wave merge into sky? I love thee, thou art my chosen own Thy heart like mine was cold as stone Thine eyes could shine like my blue waves fare Thy lips like wine curved to kiss's rare Hard as my waves were the eyes that shone and the wine as deadly come love alone Float, float on the swelling wave long as the hearse wide the grave Thy pall is a curse from the fading shore a broken verse from a heart-rung sore Life's streams rec strone, ah, like my own The words are low as a dying groan The voice thrills so it might rouse thy breast with pity's glow where thou like the rest But thou, my hero, were never known To feel as a human thou stutzt alone Down, down, behold the wrecks I strew the deep with these human specks No faith I keep with their moral trust See how I heap their crumbling dust I sneered in their faces my own, my own as they knelt to pray when the ships went down I flung my spray in their dying eyes and laughed at the way it drowned their cries On the shore they heard the exultant tone and said the sea laughs, ah, I laughed alone Now, now, we twain shall go Love-locked, laughing so The fools ye mocked with your tender eyes The trusts ye rocked with your cradling lies Even like these wretches my own, my own shall rot in clay or crumbled bone Thou shalt hold thy way, day-kissed and fair Where the wild waves play in the sun-thick air My arms, my kiss, my tears, my moan You shall know for I where we wander alone Love, love, thou wert like to me Thy luring gaze rolled relentlessly The marsh light blazed to some human soul Down the darkening maze to ruin's goal Ah, how ye crushed them, my beautiful own Like whistled leaves around these stone Whirled the dead beliefs of each long-mourned life Here no one grieves, neither tears nor strife Appeal to the sea where its wrecks are thrown Thou shalt stand in their midst and smile alone Laugh, laugh, o form of light Death hides thy faithless sight The flowing tides of thy heart are still Yet are wrecks thy brides, for it is my will That that which on earth made thy heaven my own May strew around thy eternal throne The gurgling sound of the dying cry The gushing wound of heart agony Where thy joy in life Now the sea makes known thy realm in death Thy heaven alone Years, years ye shall mix with me Ye shall grow apart of the laughing sea Of the moaning heart of the glittered wave Of the sun gleams dart in the ocean grave Fair, cold, and faithless were thou my own For that I love thy heart of stone From the heights above to the depths below Where dread things move there is not Can show a life so trustless Proud be thy crown, ruthless like none Save the sea alone I am from Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org I am from Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire I am the ages on the ages roll And what I am I was Shall be by slow growth Filling higher destiny And widening ever to the widening goal I am the stone that slept Down deep in me that old, old sleep Has left its centering trace I am the plant that dreamed And lo, still see that dream life Dwelling on the human face I slept, I dreamed, I wakened I am man The hut grows palaces, the depths breath light Still on, forms pass But form yields kingly or might The singer dying where his song began In me yet lives And yet again shall he unseal The lips of greater songs to be Form mine the thousand tongues of immortality End of I Am Recording by Rhonda Federman Section 39 of Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer Please visit LibriVox.org Loves Ghost From Selected Works Poems by Valterine DeClaire Among the leaves and the rolls of moonlight The moon which weaves lace on the road white Among the winds and among the flowers Our blithe feet wander, life is ours Life is ours and life is loving All our powers are locked in loving Hearts and eyes and lips are moving With the ecstasy of loving Ah, the roses there blooming And the June air throbbing, tuning Sings of love's eternal summer Chance of joy, life's only comer And we clasp our hands together Singing in the warm, sweet weather Kissing, thrilling with caressing All the sweet from love's rose pressing Ah, so easy, earth is heaven Darkness shadows do not live Like the rose our hearts are given Like the rose whose bloom is given To the sun gold and the heaven Not because it wills or wishes But because it is life to give Dreary, dreary snow-filled darkness Heavy, weary, voiceless darkness We have drifted, drifted, drifted You and I, far apart As snows and roses, sea and sky We have drifted, drifted, drifted Far asunder Any my lonely voice uplifted In sad wonder, heavy with its own Sad calls All your love was of the summer Born to die among the roses Wither, scatter like the roses Leaving me the gray-browed comer With the ashes on his forehead And the winter in his hair With the footsteps slow and solemn Going down the endless stair Joy is gone, and you, my lover Gone in other ways to hover Gone among the summer places Gone to seek for summer faces Bright-faced joy was not for me Born among the snows and pines Gray-faced sorrow was to be Imaged in my mournful lines Love not born for cold and sorrow Only for the sweet sunshine I shall keep your face forever Hidden in this heart of mine In its light one spot will brighten Keeping fair the sacred tomb Like old moonlight it will Whiten the inviolable room Like the moonlight it will whiten Softly all the darkened room And the broken stalk may put forth Memory's ghost of love's old bloom End of Love's Ghost. A soul half through the gate Said unto life What does thou offer me? And life replied Sorrow unceasing struggle Disappointment After these darkness and silence The soul said unto death What does thou offer me? And death replied In the beginning What life gives at last Turning to life And if I live and struggle Others shall live and struggle after thee Counting it easier where thou hast passed And by their struggles Easier place shall be for others Still to rise to keener pain Of conquering agony And what have I to do with all these others? Who are they? Yourself And all who went before? Yourself The darkness and the silence too Have end? They end in light and sound Peace ends in pain Death ends in me And thou must glide from self to self As light to shade and shade to light again Choose The soul sighing answered I will live End of Life or Death Recording by Rhonda Federman End of Selected Works