Strange Gods
THE great religions, like men great of mind,
Draw to them even those of hostile view.
Many a barbarian in Athens knew
The temple porches who was grossly blind
To any god save one long left behind -
Some hideous idol on a mountain blue,
For whom his heart ached, timorous and true,
And, lonely in the Parthenon, repined.
But home returning over difficult seas
To his own people, had he no regret?
No envy for those Greeks who bent their knees
Only where beauty and religion met?
Could he forget the temple and the trees?
Could he the grey-eyed Pallas so forget?
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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The Price to Peace
LONG since I taught my spirit to obey
The Sage's great commandment - to forget
And so to lose life's bitterness and fret
And taste its sweetness; and I went my way
Eluding joy and sorrow, grave and gay,
And lived exempt, my being always set
Upon the striking hour, without regret,
Secure, refreshed, remote from yesterday.
But oh my friend, my love, my very dear,
My practised wisdom is a curse to me;
I do forget, and when you are not near
It is, by Heaven, as if you ceased to be;
And I would buy with agony and fear
One hour, one little hour of memory.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Newport
ON these brown rocks the waves dissolve in spray
As when our fathers saw them first alee.
If such a one could come again and see
This ancient haven in its latter day,
These haughty palaces and gardens gay,
These dense, soft lawns, bedecked by many a tree
Borne like a gem from Ind or Araby;
If he could see the race he bred, at play -
Bright like a flock of tropic birds allured
To pause a moment on their southward wing
By these warm sands and by these summer seas -
Would he not cry, 'Alas, have I endured
Exile and famine, hate and suffering,
To win religious liberty for these?'
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Sonnet
DEAR, if you love me, hold me most your friend,
Chosen from out the many who would bear
Your gladness gladly - heavily your care;
Who best can sympathize, best comprehend,
Where others fail; who, breathless to the end,
Follows your tale of joy or of despair:
Hold me your counsellor, because I dare
To lift my hand to guide you, that I lend
My love to help you. And I would you knew
That I am fair enough to win men's hearts,
If so I willed; yet honor me above
All other women, since I am too true
To trap you with my sex's smaller arts.
Deem me all these, but love me as your love.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Before Spring
FARE you well, who love the highways,
Love the cities, tall and bright,
For the forest ways are my ways,
And the birds' songs my delight,
And the stars in river byways
Are my only lamps by night.
I shall see the Spring awaking
While you think it winter still,
Watch the brittle ice forsaking
Edge of marsh and pool and rill,
And the little willows making
Yellow mists against the hill.
Go you to the things you care for,
Violins with trembling string,
Jewels that men do and dare for,
Every lovely, man-wrought thing;
They have caught your spirit, therefore
You have left me ere the Spring.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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Brandon
THE house is empty, and the garden alley,
A shadowed aisle of linden and of yew,
A marble vase, a glimpse of river-valley
Translucent white against transparent blue -
A mystery of boxwood and of byway,
Beneath barred windows and unopened door,
And far below the river like a highway
Sweeps on, but brings no travelers any more.
Beauty alone is constant; where she chooses
A dwelling-place, there would she ever stay;
Fortune and friends and fashion though it loses,
Beauty more faithful does not pass away,
But most deserted, most herself she seems
Left to her deep and solitary dreams.
poem by Alice Duer Miller
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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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