AT "SUL MONTE"
(Dedicated to Amelita Galli-Curci and Homer Samuels.)
They say He's far remote, unseen,
Too austere and beyond our vision keen.
Ah, yet when I passed thru the tunnel of leaves
An saw the hill-top green grassy orchid-vase
(Adorned with a doll temple
Little, artistic, grand and simple)
Hanging from the big skiey roof
High amidst the clouds, aloof
From din and uproars loud
Of aimless rushing crowds,
I asked myself this and that—
Who made this, Who made that?
And I found my answer
From His servitors, O everywhere,
The painted screens of varying light and shade
Did drop, go up or fade.
And the changing charming scenic players
Did speak of Him, entertain and disappear.
Rows of motley costumed leaves did stand
And dance in tune with the playing breeze
Or fitful thunder-band.
The turbaned soldier trees.
Serious, mystic, grim,
Merging from colossal castle of mounts
Stood in the distant dim to declare
"Hark! He's very near; Wake, He's very near."
And soon with the nightly curtain fall
They'd vanish all.
By the flower-fringed lawn strolling
A song came wafting—
"Is it a nightingale or a fairy voice?"
Nay, coloratura of celestial choice!
I listened and listened and listened
And when I thought the song was best
And the voice reached the supreme test,
Came whistling a deeper, deepest mystic note
Straight from her soul, from the Spirit remote.
Around the tiny temple
Oft the listening breeze long drank
The sweet music of Homer,
And her soul-solacing song.
And in wild joy would call
The wren, the whippoorwill and all
To this peace-bathed pure God-altar,
Where man's beauty-touches rare
Did soften Nature's scenic painting bare.
Of all the august guests
A few forget-me-nots
From unknown somewhere
Came peeping thru the little temple door
To remind us, said she,
"Love not My things, more than Me.
Thru little forget-me-nots thy Father
Will speak to thee ever, ever.
No never forget Me, O never, never,
Amelita de Sul Monte and Homer.
Remember Me ever, ever."
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