ALL along the way
  As through the night we go,
I see the little houses
  In lighted row on row–

The flying train goes by
  And sounds its whistle clear,
And all the waiting houses
  They lift their lights and hear:

A thousand homes for miles on miles,
  I press the pane to see;
And each has lights that wait its own
  As my lights wait for me–

All the little homes
  And every one alight!
Lord, keep the people happy
  That wait in them tonight!

HE will be cold tonight–
  Always he felt it so.
(Strange not to lift the light,
  Strange not to go,
Softly– for he forgets,
  Careless as glad!–
Drawing the coverlets
  Over the lad.)

Blankly the covers lie,
  Smooth and untossed,
By me the fire burns high,
  Outside is frost . . .
Has it had rest tonight,
  Dear tumbled head?
Lord, I would know– would know
  If he were dead!

It must be cold and wet
  Where our troops lie . . .
(Lord Jesus, spare him yet!
  Let him not die!)
Still here . . . so still . . . and white
  One far clear star . . .
He will be cold tonight,
  Where the troops are.

I WENT down the old passage
Between the lighted doors
To your lighted door,
Knowing that I should find you there,
Find your swift smile and quickened words,
Comfort and welcome there,
Guardianship and greeting,
As is has always been
As it shall always be.

And suddenly
As my hand touched the door, I knew,
Knowing you quick and warm
And waiting me
That I should dream, some far-off night from this
Of coming down this passageway to you
Between the lighted doors
To your lighted door
Knowing that I should find you there,
And opening, find
An empty frightening place
And you away,
And wake
Remembering you were dead.

I SAID, "I am so tired of all the old tired faces
  In the crowded places,
I tire of all the weary steps that cross and beat
  Down the long swift street:"
I said, "I will return into my own still room,
  Thick with peace and gloom."

I said, "I will summon up the still bright streams
  Of my trooping dreams,
Whose faces are as weariless and calm and young
  As a bird-note sung,
Who drift along with sunset-colored robes outblowing,
  Of all need unknowing."

And then . . . the sun shone cloudless, and the wind blew fleet
  Down the long swift street
And through the windowed canyon's end the sky's sweet blue
  Shone unwearied through,
And I said, "But I must stay, for see, my brother's faces
  Here in God's own places!"

(For Jessie Rittenhouse)

I AM so sorry for them all
Whose ceaseless footsteps rise and fall
Along earth's highways endlessly,
The people in the world with me;
Who have had dreams, and yet must take
The gifts life has for men awake;
Who build their lives each day anew
On hopes they know cannot come true,
Who walk the world till sleep, and then
At dawn must walk the world again;
Who ask God's favors, knowing still
He does not break His changeless will
For any faulty changing cry
Of men He makes to live or die. . . .

I am so sorry for them all,
So sorry! Until I recall
How life's adventure swings afar
Beyond tomorrow like a star,
And how our dreams paint golden-bright
Gray working-day and sleeping-night,
And all the love each man who lives
May buy with merely love he gives,
And how it comforts us to pray
Whether God hears or turns away,
And how to work and sleep and wake
Is good for the mere doing's sake:
Till, whether life seem gay or sad,
I am so glad for men– so glad!

HE goes out with his Dreams
  Through the dingy city square,
Purple- and silver-winged
  They go with him everywhere.

The quarreling hags at the windows
  Have voices unkind, unsweet,
But his Dreams have silver voices
  And starrily-slippered feet;

The workmen push on the pavement
  And laugh and curse as they go,
But he is far with his Dreams
  On a road they do not know;

He walks far off with the Dreams
  That whisper and sing beside
And his face is glad and still
  And his eyes are burning-wide;

He goes out with his Dreams
  Through a golden wonder-place
With the light of God in his eyes
  And the peace of God in his face.