Francis Joseph Sherman: Verses about Red

“Surely, O Christ, upon this day
Thou wilt have pity, even on me!
Hold thou the hands of Charnisay,
Or bid them clasp, remembering thee.

“O Christ, thou knowest what it is


To strive with mighty, evil men;
Lean down from thy high cross, and kiss
My arms till they grow strong again.

“(As on that day I drove him back
Into Port Royal with his dead!

Our cannon made the now drifts black,
But there, I deem, the waves were red.) [page 133]

“Yea, keep me, Christ, until La Tour
(Oh, the old days in old Rochelle!)
Cometh to end this coward’s war


And send his soul straightway to hell.”

…That night, one looking at the west might say
That just beyond the heights the maples flared
Like scarlet banners,—as they do in autumn,—
The sun went down with such imperial splendor.


Near by, the air hung thick with wreathèd smoke,
And not quiet yet had silence touched the hills
That had played all day with thunder of sullen cannon.
But now the veering wind had found the south
And led the following tide up no moon path,


Calling the mists—white as the circling gulls—
In from the outer rocks. Heavy with rain
The fog came in, and all her world grew dark,—
Dark as the empty west.
Though one should stand
(Praying the while that God might bless her eyes)


Upon the seaward cliff the long night through
On such a night as this (O moaning wind!),
I think that dawn—if dawn should ever break—
Would only come to show how void a thing
Is Earth, that might have been no less than Heaven.

Yea, as it was in France so long ago
Where the least path their feet might follow seemed
The path Love’s feet had trodden but yester hour….

Is it very long ago things were as they are
Now? or was it ever? or is it to be?
Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far?
Taking comfort each of each, singing cheerily?

O, the way was good to tread! Up hill and down;

Past the quiet forestlands, by the grassy plains;
Here a stony wilderness, there an ancient town,
Now the high sun over us, now the driving rains.

Strange and evil things we met—but what cared we,
Strong men and unafraid, ripe for any chance?


Battles by the countless score, red blood running free—
Soon we learned that all of these were our inheritance.

Some of us there were that fell: what was that to us?
They were weak—we were strong— health we held to yet:
Pleasant graves we digged them, we the valorous,—


Then to the road again, striving to forget.

Once again upon the road! The seasons passed us by—
Blood-root and mayflowers, grasses straight and tall,
Scarlet banners on the hills, snowdrifts white and high,—
One by one we lived them through, giving thanks for all.



O, the countries that we found in our wandering!
Wide seas without a sail, islands fringed with foam,
Undiscovered till we came, waiting for their king,—
We might tarry but a while, far a way from home.

Far away the home we sought,—soon we must be gone;


The old road, the old days, still we clung to those;
The dawn came, the moon came, the dusk came, the dawn—
Still we kept upon this path long ago we chose.



Was it up this road we came, glad the end was far,
Yesterday,—last year—a million years ago?


Surely it was morning then: now, the twilight star
Hangs above the hidden hills—white and very low.

Quietly the Earth takes on the hush of things asleep;
All the silence of the birds stills the moveless air;
—Yet we must not falter now, though the way be steep:


Just beyond the urn o’ the road,—surely Peace is there!

Last night the heavy moaning wind
Bore unto me
Warning from Him who hath designed
That change shall be.

Beneath these mighty hills I lay,


At rest at last,
And thinking on the golden day
But now gone past;

When softly came a faint, far cry
That night made clear,


“Thy reign is over, thou must die;
Winter is near!”

“Winter is near!” Yea, all night long
Re-echoed far
The burden of that weary song


Of hopeless war.

I prayed unto the fixèd King
Of changing Time
For longer life, till sun-rising
And morning’s prime,



And while to-day I watched the sun
Rise, slant, and die;
And now is night the stronger one.
Again the cry

Comes, louder now,―“Thy reign is o’er!”


Yes, Lord, I know;
And here I kneel on Earth’s cold floor
Once, ere I go,

And thank Thee for the long, long days
Thou gavest me,


And all the pleasant, laughing ways
I walked with Thee.

I have been happy since the first
Glad day I rose
And found the river here had burst


Through ice and snows

While I had slept. Blue places were
Amidst the gray,
Where water showed; and the water
Most quiet lay.



Upon the ice great flocks of crows
Were clamoring—
Lest my blue eyes again should close―
The eyes of Spring.

I stepped down to the frozen shore―


The snow was gone;
And lo, where ice had been before,
The river shone!

With loud, hoarse cries back flew the birds
To the tall pines;


These were the first of Spring’s faint words
And Summer’s signs.

And now I hear Thee―“Thou must die!”
Ah, might I stay,
That I might hear one robin’s cry


Bringing the day;

That I might see the new grass come
Where cattle range;
The maples bud, wild roses bloom,
Old willows change;



That I might know one night in June
Two found most fair,
And see again the great half-moon
Shine through her hair;

Or under rough, gnarled boughs might lie,


Where orchards are,
And hear some glad child’s laughing cry
Ring loud and far; [page 55]

Or even, Lord, though near my end
It surely be,


Couldst Thou not hold Time back, and send
One day to me,

One day—October’s brown and red
Cover the hills,
And all the brakes and ferns are dead,


And quiet fills

One place where many birds once sang?
Then should I go
Where heavy fir-trees overhang
Their branches so,



And slim white birches, quivering,
Loose yellow leaves,
And aspens grow, and everything
For Summer grieves.

Ah, there once more, ere day be done,


To face the west,
And see the sure and scarlet sun
Sink to its rest

Beyond the ploughed field sloping sheer
Up to the sky;


To feel the last light disappear
And silent die;

To see faint stars….Yea, Lord, I come;
I hear Thy call;
Reach me Thy hand and guide me home,


Lest I should fall….

Back, Winter! Back! . . . Yea, Lord, I, dead,
Now come to Thee;
I know Thy voice, and Thou hast said
“Let Winter be!”

I MARKED the slow withdrawal of the year.
Out on the hills the scarlet maples shone—
The glad, first herald of triumphant dawn.
A robin’s song fell through the silence—clear
As long ago it rang when June was here.


Then, suddenly, a few grey clouds were drawn
Across the sky; and all the song was gone,
And all the gold was quick to disappear.
That day the sun seemed loth to come again;
And all day long the low wind spoke of rain,


Far off, beyond the hills; and moaned, like one
Wounded, among the pines: as though the Earth,
Knowing some giant grief had come to birth,
Had wearied of the Summer and the Sun.


I WATCHED the slow oncoming of the Fall.
Slowly the leaves fell from the elms, and lay
Along the roadside; and the wind’s strange way
Was their way, when they heard the wind’s far call.
The crimson vines that clung along the wall

Grew thin as snow that lives on into May;
Grey dawn, grey noon,—all things and hours were grey,
When quietly the darkness covered all.
And while no sunset flamed across the west,
And no great moon rose where the hills were low,


The day passed out as if it had not been:
And so it seemed the year sank to its rest,
Remembering naught, desiring naught,—as though
Early in Spring its young leaves were not green.
A LITTLE while before the Fall was done
A day came when the frail year paused and said:
“Behold! a little while and I am dead;
Wilt thou not choose, of all the old dreams, one?”
Then dwelt I in a garden, where the sun


Shone always, and the roses all were red;
Far off, the great sea slept, and overhead,
Among the robins, matins had begun.
And I knew not at all it was a dream
Only, and that the year was near its close;


Garden and sunshine, robin-song and rose,
The half-heard murmur and the distant gleam
Of all the unvext sea, a little space
Were as a mist above the Autumn’s face.


AND in this garden sloping to the sea
I dwelt (it seemed) to watch a pageant pass,—
Great Kings, their armour strong with iron and brass,
Young Queens, with yellow hair bound wonderfully.
For love’s sake, and because of love’s decree,


Most went, I knew; and so the flowers and grass
Knew my steps also: yet I wept Alas,
Deeming the garden surely lost to me.
But as the days went over, and still our feet
Trod the warm, even places, I knew well


(For I, as they, followed the close-heard beat
Of Love’s wide wings who was her sentinel)
That here had Beauty built her citadel
And only we should reach her mercy-seat.

AND Ye, are ye not with me now alway?—
Thy raiment, Glauce, shall be my attire!
East of the Sun I, too, seek my desire!
My kisses, also, quicken the well-wrought clay!
And thou, Alcestis, lest my little day

Be done, art glad to die! Upon my pyre,
O Brynhild, let thine ashes feed the fire!
And, O thou Wood Sun, pray for me, I pray!
Yea, ye are mine! Yet there remaineth one
Who maketh Summer-time of all the year,


Whose glory darkeneth the very sun.
For thee my sword was sharpened and my spear,
For thee my least poor deed was dreamed and done,
O Love, O Queen, O Golden Guenevere! [page 9]


THEN, suddenly, I was awake. Dead things
Were all about me and the year was dead.
Save where the birches grew, all leaves were shed
And nowhere fell the sound of song or wings.
The fields I deemed were graves of worshipped Kings

Had lost their bloom: no honey-bee now fed
Therein, and no white daisy bowed its head
To harken to the wind’s love-murmurings.
Yet, by my dream, I know henceforth for me
This time of year shall hold some unknown grace


When the leaves fall, and shall be sanctified:
As April only comes for memory
Of him who kissed the veil from Beauty’s face
That we might see, and passed at Easter-tide