I lost my voice talking and singing but have returned otherwise in the highest of spirits and health. The poet of that below is, of course, our beloved Voltairine de Cleyre.
I will post an overview of ‘how the bookfair was’ and a summary of the workshops I attended once I have *ticked off* my thesis work quota for the week. Wish me luck!
And Thou Too
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 eyes.
And sometimes when I am 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 strown 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
‘Neath 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 it’s nest all broken, deserted, torn,
Will beat there forevermore.
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
‘Neath 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 woof 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 “swan’s farewell”
Ring sadly, solemnly deep to me
Like the voice of a sobbing bell.
Ay, 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.
— St. Johns, Michigan, 1888