The Army of Truth: Selected Poems

The Women at the Churchyard

Which is the word in every tongue out of the cavalcades of words where every wisdom-weighted thought has a name by which it’s known— which concept in the soul’s book, bound up within the white bone, among all its potentials discovered or ascribed— which idea that flies around imagination’s vast domain, carefree as a butterfly, so profound a peace could breathe, so significant and silent, so serene and calm, such peace, as that word: a “churchyard.” There is peace and no more pain, there is peace, but nothing else, either contrary or blended, while the very word “Peace,” when it is uttered in our speech, paints that other thought, of ‘strife,” inevitable and bloody, on the wan gray mind-slate of the soul. Inevitable in the idea, thrown swiftly on the soul’s bright mirror as the rough breath of the wind drums a figure in the snow, paints for itself with every thought The Women at the Churchyard the one that least deserves accusal. Name but “Blessed” and “Accursed” Straight it is written on the brow? Name but “Love”—and what more innocent word could be conceived?— At once ideas quite contrary (“Jealousy,” “Infidelity,” “Hate”), dance like witches all around it, till, profaned and bereft, the word has no more left of what was heavenly, than a butterfly that has lost its vital dust. Name each peace-filled word, and see what a doubting smile alights on the eyes and lips of all at the counterthought aroused! But no mean thought can hold sway for long against the word “Churchyard.” No concept that contradicts the tranquillity it holds has been dragged into the soul beneath the crannies of the brain. Among the words this hovers there: starbright dove on soundless wings is greeted joyously by mankind who moves on earth and lives for heaven and does reverence to those who quietly tremble at the name. There within the churchyard is Heaven’s forecourt, wherein each one— Saint and Sinner, Good and Bad— can lay down their heaviest burden, the body formed of flesh and blood, and hasten on along their way. There the deadly pale-faced foes rest in silence side by side, The Women at the Churchyard 45 until the boards crack, fall away, the coffin crumbles, soil runs and each with each blends their bones, while their crosses up above closely lean their tops together beneath the weeping poplar boughs. There the hate that goes on living loses strength, is paralyzed and can never follow further than the heavy portal’s locks: through the black bars of the railings peers the eye, the tears flow, the casket silently sinks down, the tears follow—and hate goes with them. There, if two bitter enemies should agonize in fire and flame, sputtering with furious quarrel, suddenly met there together among the graves, with flowers bordered on a narrow winding path: hardly had they hurried past, than they started, and then stopped, cast their eyes down, saw a grave, then raised their heads till eye met eye, hand at once was clasped in hand and they were reconciled until death. But see, look round you at this fair churchyard! Oh, how every grave is an isle, whose groves of roses and whose aster palms spring up out of the quiet sea of grass, like a merry zephyr moved now and then by a small billow. Here is an orchestra of songbirds, 46 The Women at the Churchyard soon as the last trace of snow melts away along the avenue, annually a favored spot for their melodious festivals that go on till winter comes. No lofty church is standing here, calling to mind the one true faith, in this multitude of stones raising up its conqueror’s throne to rule over the churchyard with, high above all who sleep beneath it, so it cannot be what it was made for, a resting place beneath the soil, but by authority of the church, allotted solely to its own members . . . Here in this, the Lord’s delightful garden, consecrated to devotions of a quiet mind, sacred peace and fondest memories, strolling down a poplar walk two women friends go arm in arm. The evening sky is passing fair; with a pleasant serenade the choir of birds accompanies them. One of them, a Roman Catholic, she who resembles eventide, as she walks the whole time gazing quietly...