The Way
THERE is a magic pathway through the wood,
There is a current in the troubled stream,
A happy course to steer, if one but could,
A meaning to the dream.
And some in love and some in dogma find
The hint eternal as they kiss or pray;
Some through the crystal circle of the mind
Discern the way.
And some no hint, no pattern of the whole,
Nor star, nor path, nor channel can perceive -
Attempt no answer to the questing soul,
And yet believe
There is a magic pathway through the wood,
There is a current in the troubled stream,
A happy course to steer, if one but could,
A meaning to the dream.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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To Remorse
MAGIC for fitful souls whose aim is still
Pleasures that forfeit not the mansions blest,
Who deem themselves absolved to approve the best .
While they, protesting hate, pursue the ill;
Who lack strength to attain or else lack will
To keep what was their will's supreme behest;
Daring in dreams but fearful of the test
When Time and Fate their dearest wish fulfil.
I will not taste of thy pale anodyne;
I will not alter, listening to a voice
That tells me joys immortal may be mine
Were I but traitor to my clearest choice.
Courage I count above all gifts of thine
Courage or to refrain or to rejoice.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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An American to France
O FRANCE, with what a shamed and sorry smile
We now recall that in a bygone day
We sought of you art, wit, perfection, style;
You were to us a playground and a play.
Paris was ours - its sudden green edged spaces
And sweeping vistas to the coming night,
Brocades and jewels, porcelains and laces
All these we took for leisure and delight.
And all the time we should have drunk our fill
Of wisdom known to you and you alone,
Clear-eyed self-knowledge, silent courage, will;
And now too late, we see these things are one:
That art is sacrifice and self-control,
And who loves beauty must be stern of soul.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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In a School Chapel
THE clear young voices rise and soar: 'Oh, pray
Pray for the peace of Jerusalem: they
Shall prosper that love thee.' Yet each boy's heart
Harbors the hope that he may have a part
In war- the roar of guns, the roll of drums
Before this anthemed peace he prays for comes.
But in the quiet gallery above
Where eyes grown dim look down on those they love
The prayer for peace rings true; although in truth
Worse things than death can come to eager youth.
But nothing worse can come to age than knowing
That it is safe, and boys are going, going,
Are going forth to war till all wars cease:
The old, so safe and lonely, pray for peace.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Batalha
IN this still cloister where the roses grow
Waist-high between the arches and the well,
You would have walked a thousand years ago,
So faithful, who are now so infidel;
You would have fancied your wild heart's emotion
Over the beauty of a scene like this,
A mystic piety, a pure devotion
And so, perhaps, it is.
Under the shade of column and of tracing,
Here in the dusk, where swallows dart and fly,
Barefoot and cowled, I think I see you pacing,
Brooding o'er thoughts of subtle mystery;
Fasting and prayer, and music and desire
Weaving a mood that men no longer know -
Oh, yes, my dear, you would have been a friar,
A thousand years ago.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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House Pets
THE white cat is sleeping by the fire,
With her paws tucked under her chin,
Very tame and gentle she is sleeping
Whom I saw but now come in,
Come in from the dark night and the wild wood,
A hunter with her prey she came,
And her chin and her little paws were bloody,
And she was not kind and tame,
But wild and strong and cruel with her victim,
For she let it go, and caught it as it ran,
And she tossed it in the air and danced about it,
And once she stood erect like a man.
And I thought, 'What wild things are they that we harbor,
Who bend to the routine of daily life; '
And I looked across the room and by the fire
I saw my sleeping wife.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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The Stars
ONLY the stars remain to travelers' eyes
Unalterable; the waters change their hue
Beneath the flattery of alien skies
From jade to silver and from bronze to blue.
Sunrise and sunset spread their lovely light
As slow as solemn music in the North;
But southward, like a dart descends the night,
And like a meteor the day breaks forth.
And faiths and manners vary - friends, they say, -
And even lovers of a constant mind; .
Not the light loves we meet upon our way
But those enchained by vows we left behind.
Only unchanged the patterned stars endure,
As when they first assured or threatened man;
Still Vega glitters, crystalline and pure,
Still like an angry eye Aldebaran.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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An Exhortation to Gentleness
You who are strong, and do not know the need
That weaker spirits feel, but do not plead -
The need to lean on someone who is strong -
Oh! see you give their silent want good heed.
Be not so busy with your own career,
However noble, that you cannot hear
The sighs of those who look to you for help,
For this is purchasing success too dear.
Many strong men and good, I see, so bent
Upon their own souls' high development
That they have only scorn or tolerance
To give to those who are not thus intent.
Yet, who can answer that it is not true
That those weak souls who spare, where blame is due,
And smile, because too gentle to be stern,
Are not more needed in the world than you?
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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The History of a Minute
I saw a lady on the stair,
And she was, oh, so strangely fair,
With a knot of butter-colored hair,
And a waiting, listening, wondering air.
She was tall as a lady ought to be,
And down she looked and smiled at me.
Her eyes were queerly brightly blue
As the bit of sky that last shines through
The gathering clouds, oppressive, gray,
On a chilly windy Autumn day.
There she paused on the stairs and smiled
Like a child who sees another child
With whom it would dearly like to play
If it only could get its nurse away.
And I know not what divine surmise.
Leapt up like fire in my eyes,
But I know her smiling suddenly stopped,
And a curtain between us blankly dropped,
And she passed me by as if I were
A man invisible to her.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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The Penintent
'NEVER,' he said, 'nevermore,
In the murmuring stillness of night
Shall I wait for her hand on my door,
Confident, light;
Still is the night as before,
And the stars unforgettably bright.
'Once from the deep woodland calms
At midnight a wild wind broke,
Shaking the cedars and palms
And the silver-gray oak;
And she, who had slept in my arms,
Suddenly woke.
'Pity me then, for it blew
Last night again from the woodlands so deep,
Where mosses and moisture and dew
Verdure eternal keep;
From the brooks and the glades that we knew,
It woke me from sleep.
[...] Read more
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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