Poems (Cromwell)/Christmas, Madison Square
CHRISTMAS, MADISON SQUARE
In dismal darkness stands the Christmas pine
The Orthodox have put up for a sign
Among the sombre trees that mark the Square.
Oh, there are moral people everywhere
Indulge the doctrine still of "doing good;"
They brought the tree uprooted from the wood.
Like oranges or apples of warm gold
Are bulbs of gleaming light the branches hold,
And yet that golden fruit no languor drenches!
Below, the motley company
Is like a shadow, neither spiced nor gay,
That hovers wearily to huddled benches.
The Orthodox have put up for a sign
Among the sombre trees that mark the Square.
Oh, there are moral people everywhere
Indulge the doctrine still of "doing good;"
They brought the tree uprooted from the wood.
Like oranges or apples of warm gold
Are bulbs of gleaming light the branches hold,
And yet that golden fruit no languor drenches!
Below, the motley company
Is like a shadow, neither spiced nor gay,
That hovers wearily to huddled benches.
On one of these a woman sits alone;
More poor than thirsting youth for being older.
She's leaning on her arm. Her slanted shoulder
Says more clear than any word she's lonely.
She yields the icy wind her neck and hair;
Her lids are closed.
A foil of softer air
Brings vision of the forest her first lover
Wove into his Poetry.
To-night her shivering fancy can recover
The scene of a June world remote and free;
The tones of mist and of blue mirrored hills.
A long-unheeded beauty pain distils.
Like the earth under pines is the way where her memories pass:
She sees old orchards stifled in fresh grass,
The shapes of little apple trees
Scared of the wind's gathering, on their knees;
The spires of larch rising in quiet skies;
The elm with parted stem and foliage drooping;
The mothering willow stooping
To kiss the stream;
And the companionable pine.
More poor than thirsting youth for being older.
She's leaning on her arm. Her slanted shoulder
Says more clear than any word she's lonely.
She yields the icy wind her neck and hair;
Her lids are closed.
A foil of softer air
Brings vision of the forest her first lover
Wove into his Poetry.
To-night her shivering fancy can recover
The scene of a June world remote and free;
The tones of mist and of blue mirrored hills.
A long-unheeded beauty pain distils.
Like the earth under pines is the way where her memories pass:
She sees old orchards stifled in fresh grass,
The shapes of little apple trees
Scared of the wind's gathering, on their knees;
The spires of larch rising in quiet skies;
The elm with parted stem and foliage drooping;
The mothering willow stooping
To kiss the stream;
And the companionable pine.
Within the magic of the Christmas light,
She hears hushed words of love, as in the night
One hears on stones the flowing of a brook.
She hears hushed words of love, as in the night
One hears on stones the flowing of a brook.
But in the Square about the tree there's singing;
And now the winter wind her cheek is stinging;
Her aching soul can feel the heavy frost.
And now the winter wind her cheek is stinging;
Her aching soul can feel the heavy frost.
She could not live on what her craft was earning;
To satisfy the dream her youth kept burning,
And she was ignorant of what love cost.
To the blind strength of love her body shook,
And to the joy of love her longing darted;
Now she's lonely and she's broken-hearted.
To satisfy the dream her youth kept burning,
And she was ignorant of what love cost.
To the blind strength of love her body shook,
And to the joy of love her longing darted;
Now she's lonely and she's broken-hearted.
The Fate that still prevents her choice to-day
Is Poverty, a Fate that mars
The slow unfolding spirit;
Born of a longing to inherit,
Like the sweet thirst of tree tops for the stars.
Her sin's identity is need;
Her thirst a thirst for God, reversed
Until her slaved mortality is freed.
Is Poverty, a Fate that mars
The slow unfolding spirit;
Born of a longing to inherit,
Like the sweet thirst of tree tops for the stars.
Her sin's identity is need;
Her thirst a thirst for God, reversed
Until her slaved mortality is freed.
Within the magic of the Christmas light,
Her soul—like snow, blossoms, foam—is white;
And her desire is fine,
Unswerving as the pine.
Her soul—like snow, blossoms, foam—is white;
And her desire is fine,
Unswerving as the pine.
After vision of those freer places,
She fumbles to her feet.
We lose her in a throng of faces.
She drift, into the crevice of a street.
She fumbles to her feet.
We lose her in a throng of faces.
She drift, into the crevice of a street.
The pine tree boughs divide
In search of spaces wide;
Life unsatisfied
Ascends.
In search of spaces wide;
Life unsatisfied
Ascends.