.w '^ "^ » » « '•- ^^ o^ ft ■ • ^°^ V' •«. c** .* \/\ -^W- y\ '-^^- /\ '• ^°/^»k'°- y-:r^'% ^°-^^'"°-' -o^y ^v^*' ♦ *^ ^♦^ 4 o A . OUT OF THE DUST m iW ebition o! (2^ut of tfje ® USt onlp 1000 topics ftabe been printeb from tppe anti tfte tppe bfetriiiuteti mis cm is mmbtx-lim THOMAS CARLYLE ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT, CHELSEA ^.Sf 6CT 13 1920 ©CI,A597787 DEDICATORY In friendly sympathy you passed Through narrow street and sordid scene, Having a vision, through the dust. Of sweeter things that might have been. In rare serenity you saw Through superficial wordliness Those nobler moods, that, patient, wait Till love is more and self is less. The dust of crowded life was ours; You ever breathed a purer air; The while your feet trod all our ways You walked with Death, and found him fair. And they who speak of Dust to Dust, Speak not of you, but ws, who tread Foot-sore and. gray, the beaten track — Not you — oh young, immortal Dead! CONTENTS PAGE Dedicatory viii The Tenderness That Is 1 To My Children 2 The Blazing Log 4 Dust 6 The Ash-man 7 In the Attic 9 An XVIIth Century Portrait, in an East- Side Junk Shop 10 A Little Nigger 11 The Missionary 13 Miracles 15 From the Seventh Floor of the Shoreham, Washington 16 A Prayer 18 To Last Year's Leaves 20 The Road of Love 21 A Song of the Road 23 To My Daughter 25 At the Opera 27 The Mother 29 Night 31 Patiently They Waited 32 Responsibility 34 [ix] Contents PAGE The Hand of a Stranger 35 To A God-child 36 The Mistletoe 38 To AN Adopted Child 40 God's Baby 43 Thomas Carlyle 45 Piccadilly "Flower-girls" 46 In Old Bruton Churchyard 48 A Lost Talisman 50 To THE Wounded 51 In a Ripening Field 53 To My Grape-vine 55 To My Sister 57 Worship 59 The Soul of Your Mother 60 Even So 61 Out of the Dust 62 Babbling of Green Fields 64 Not While the River Flows 67 From Room 310, Providence Hospital, Wash- ington 69 My Daughter 71 To Death 72 Perspective 74 Could I Have Known 76 To One Invisible 78 Life and Death 80 Unity 82 An Invitation 84 New Fields and Fair 87 Shall I Learn to Fear? 89 [X] ^ =?*r. OUT OF THE DUST OUT OF THE DUST THE TENDERNESS THAT IS THERE was a time when all she thought or dreamed Was that the world might learn to know her name; When all that life might offer her, had seemed But trivial when compared with earthly fame. Brave eyes, calm eyes, just, gentle and serene, Looking on all the world with kindly light! She gazed into their depths and read, I ween, That they would guide her restless feet aright. Dear baby voices! small caressing hands. And sweet, mysterious, wondering baby eyes! Humbly and thankfully she understands In loving these her whole life's labor lies. Into her own full heart she dips the pen And proudly writes she down such words as these: All vain regret for aught that might have been Lies buried in the tenderness that is! ri] TO MY CHILDREN DEAR little people, do you forget How we roamed the fields when the grass was wet, Knee-deep in daisies and clover? How the pale arbutus, in the spring, Hid away like a guilty thing Under the brown leaves' cover? Can we not smell the fragrance yet, Of the mint in bloom, and the "bouncing Bet" All the old meadows over? The "butter-and-eggs" on the edge of the wood, And how bold the "Black-eyed Susan" stood, Awaiting the bee, her lover? And the purple thistle's downy seed, And the noble height of the "Joe Pye" weed, And how we would discover, After all other birds were flown. The gold-finch nest of thistle-down, When nesting time was over? [2] To My Children How we watched the wild-geese flying high Against the "water-melon sky" When summer-time was over? And the keen excitegent of a day When the air was chill and the sky was gray, And breathless, you ran to me, to say "Here's the year's first snow-flake, Muwer!" [3] THE BLAZING LOG I SING a song as I gaily die — Heigh ho! for the blazing log! A song o' branches that touch the sky, Heigh ho! for the blazing log! I sing a song o' many nests — Of an old, old tree and its timid guests — Of a cool, cool shade where the traveler rests! Heigh ho! for the blazing log. Come, little children, toast your feet Heigh ho! for the blazing log! I'll sing you a song that's true and sweet — Heigh ho! for the blazing log! I'll sing a song of a ship at sea — It's mighty ribs were taken from me. I'll sing o' the things I used to be! Heigh ho! for the blazing log. So little children, gather around: Heigh ho! for the blazing log! My crackling maketh a merry sound. Heigh ho! for the blazing log. My golden tongues are the lost sunshine, [4] The Blazing Log Stored up in those mighty arms o' mine. Their light and warmth glad I resign. Heigh ho! for the blazing log. I sing as my crumbling embers glow. Heigh ho; for the dying log! My song sweet children now is low, Heigh ho! for the dying log! I have done my part, I have filled my place, And I turn to ashes with goodly grace, And a last red glow on each lovely face. Good-bye! Good-bye! to the brave old log! rs] DUST AS motes of common dust, Seen in the sunshine, Seem dancing grains of gold, The day's dull doings, Touched with perfect patience. Rare values may unfold. Nor is the grain of gold More truly lovely Than that same merry mote. Riding upon the radiance Of a sun-beam — But watch it sail and float! r6] THE ASH-MAN THE Ash-man's face is rough and red, His hands are coarse; (Could they be otherwise?) His voice is hoarse Yet from the ashes on his rounds to-day I saw him take An artificial rose Shabby it was, for long had been the way It traveled, from a German factory Through dealers' hands, to deck Milady's charms. First, on an evening gown; Next on the hat she wore On rainy days; Then, passed on to her maid, Thence to the waste-basket. Thence to the dump. But no 1 saw the ash-man shake The ashes from it, brush it 'gainst his sleeve, A sleeve thread-bare and thin, And stiff with dirt [7] The Ash-man Then carefully Remove the battered derby from his head, And place the cast-off rose Safe in the crown. Perhaps he has a sickly child at home Who Sight find pleasure in the dingy thing. Oh, God! Who pluckest from the dust of earth Full many a faded rose Of human life! Oh! God! Is life so poor? Are real roses, Roses all red and sweet and fresh with dew So rare? The ash-man's rose has thorns unknown to him, That pierce my heart. m IN THE ATTIC THINGS useful long ago, broken and rusty; Portraits, forgotten, as the years have sped. Poor faces, veiled in cobwebs, dim and dusty, And letters to the dead, writ by the dead. My children love these darkened, queer recesses, And laughter shakes the rafters when they play, As, masquerading in their grandma's dresses, They storm the attic every rainy day! [9] AN XVIIlTH CENTURY PORTRAIT, IN AN EAST SIDE JUNK SHOP LAMELY you stand there, in your velvet coat, The lace frills dangling 'round your idle hands; Your haughty eyes turned on the dirty street. Through which none passes by that understands None, your pathetic history to trace. None, to restore you to some fitting place. The leavings of the stately centuries Scattered around you lie, grown foul and strange; Children's old-fashioned garments, gray with dust, Bear silent witness love and manners change; And broken and forgotten, two quaint fans, Tossed with old boots and shoes and pots and pans. Candlesticks, censers, 'broidered chasubles. Stolen long since from consecrated halls. Armor, rare carvings, ragged tapestries That might have graced your own ancestral walls, Scornful, superior — in this odd melee, You stand — poor ghost of a departed day. rio] A LITTLE NIGGER A CHILD is injured by a trolley car, A leg is crushed; Long months he lies within a ward, Skin from his mother's body grafted Upon his own. And little friends, Other small boys who have played with him, Stand chattering on the corners of the street, Their voices dropped, Their sunny faces grave, Speaking of him And how he cannot play! They picture him the long sweet summer day In his white cot No fishing, baseball, dusty tramps, For him; No fabulous, adventurous, grimy games For him And twenty, stirred by generosity, Offer of their own skin So many inches, as a gift to him. One colored child. Big-eyed and sympathetic, hears the talk. fii] A Little Nigger Perhaps the injured boy has been kind In some small, now forgotten way, to him; Taken his part, In some old boyish brawl. Or made a place for him, in soge brave game. He offers too To give of his bronzed flesh All he dare spare — all surgeons will accept. Days pass; they call not on him; Then he goes Straight to the mother, saying simply, "See! If my brown skin cannot be used I'll give the palms of both my hands- See! They are white!" ri2] THE MISSIONARY A FRIEND of every man, Servant of each; Not gifted with great gifts Or silver speech — Not over-learned and not over-wise I picture him, But to the brim Filled up with love and patient sacrifice. A figure slightly bent, Sharp-featured, tanned ; Neatly and poorly clothed; His pastoral hand To the sick, tender; to the erring, kind; But see him meet Waifs of the street. Tramps of the road, Each with his load To rich, to poor, he shows the brother's mind. A tranquil soul it is, This soul of his. God's great designs ri3] The Missionary Include his little work, And he combines God's plan with his, and sees them then as one; Even in his dreams, Heaven's kingdom seems The nearer, for such work as he has done. The dear illusions last. The while he lives; He reasons little, grumbles none, But gives — and gives Substance, vitality, love, labor, time; Reading his eyes We realize Life's lame achievements seeg to him sublime. To our hard world, he' shows A loving face, And in his scheme, its coarse discourage- ments Can find no place; Are, by his very innocence, disarmed; His child-like faith Even to dark death. Leads him all pit-falls past, serene, un- harmed. ri4] MIRACLES SIMPLE the evidences of God's care, And righteous will And love, that still Work miracles among us everywhere. At times the very soul is sick and numb, And famished. Begging for bread And then as if from Heaven, there falls a crumb. Humbly a grateful hand is stretched, to take That crumb, heaven-sent That sacrament With which new hopes in the worn heart awake. As miracles, the tenderer moments come; Through the hard years Kisses and tears. Like scanty snow-flakes in a wild hail-storm. One soothing touch can heal a world of pain. One magic word. Though rarely heard. Refresh the soul like sudden summer rain. [15] FROM THE SEVENTH FLOOR OF THE SHORE- HAM, WASHINGTON AN old-world picturesqueness Lies over Washington, Clubs and homes and rival churches In the golden evening sun. Catholic and Covenanter, The Cathedral's rising spires. Melt in one heavenly harmony In the day's funeral fires. One mellow sky above them. One glory on them all; It touches sturdy meeting-house, And sculptured gothic wall The red dome of Saint Matthew's, And The Covenant's gray tower Blend, a silhouette colossal In this still vesper hour. ri6] At the Shoreham And shall we giss the message. As distinctions fade away This Gospel, for our comfort, That the things eternal — stay? ri7] A PRAYER LORD, give to me that lump of clay Thy Master-potters throw away; Because my own so faulty mind Sees not the flaws that they must find; The coarseness their skilled hands reveal My clumsier fingers will not feel. So I might mould, with tender care, Some vessel in thy work to share. Lord, give to me that bit of ground For which no other use is found; With sunshine, water, love and care. Something worth while might flourish there; A patch of corn — a rose or two Where only weeds and thistles grew. Of thy green world, one nook redeemed. And shown more precious than it seemed. Lord, give to me that human mind, So dull, so crude, so unrefined, So uninviting and so rough That those who deal in better stuff Have not for it, the time to spare fl8] A Prayer Lord, let it be thy servant's share! Through all its warp and woof, to prove Room for thy golden thread of love! Lord, give to me that soul forlorn. To whom thy message must be borne; One, to whose self-accusing eyes Himself seems worth no sacrifice When he is swamped in deep distress, And conscious of his nothingness When he has touched the bottom, Lord, Send me, with Love's atoning word! [19] TO LAST YEAR'S LEAVES SAY! Wee men in khaki! Oh! whither away? Rolling ffiadly my lawn o'er. This blustering March day? More than all my computing, To the southward you sweep. The north-east wind with you, Your vanguard to keep! "Grey eyes at the window! We brown ghosts are driven Over the bare earth, Under the bleak heaven. Yet know not the wherefore. Nor the wild journey's end, As our armies whirl on To Eternity — Friend!" [20] THE ROAD OF LOVE FROM the first white love Of a babe for its mother, To a love for kittens — For dolls — for play; Then the nobler love For playmate or brother, And a love of fresh fields On an April day. And then — undefined- A something sadder, A longing for solitude. Silence, shade Then a flood of feeling Prouder, gladder. In the red, red love Of a man for a maid. To a new conception Of right and duty; A fine, impersonal Charity; Then a better standard [21] The Rood of Love Of work and beauty, And a godlike love For humanity. So, through its many Phases flowing, It swells at last To a mighty flood; All grace along its course Bestowing, Till it pours its all In the sea of Good. [22] A SONG OF THE ROAD IN the mirror of my motor What a fleeting world I see, From my corner of the back seat In my dust-coat of pongee All the background transient, shifting, In the foreground always — ^me Like an endless reel unwinding Little pictures never stop; Village street and cosy homestead, Shadowy wood and golden crop; From the sweet, low, briney marshes To the cloud-capped mountain-top. Set within this changing high-way Dimmed with dust-clouds that arise, I alone can see behind us. Thus renewed, the road that lies Past already, soon forgotten. Only clear to tear-washed eyes. On the front seat sit my children; Theirs, to watch the road ahead; [23] A Song of the Road Mine, to read, in small reflections, ^^ays our whirling wheels have sped; Theirs (and youth's) to scan the future; Mine, the things accomplished. r24] TO MY DAUGHTER THE snows have melted all away, The dear sun gathers strength each day, The wee buds swell on every tree, And my sweet daughter's home to me! The blue-bird's in the old fencepost, (Which of his colors love I most? His back and wings, of Heaven's own blue, Or breast, the warm earth's russet hue? The while his tender notes pulsate Through all the air, to reach his mate, What happy thoughts he can suggest. Heaven on his wings. Earth on his breast ! ) The apple-trees — all in the flush Of virgin petals' modest blush, The dafi^odils low in the grass. Bow graciously, to see her pass. The hyacinths are still more sweet For just a touch of her light feet. And all the leaves responsive nod. And every green blade of the sod [25] To My Daughter The gnarled old oaks with pleasure stir, The wrens and robins welcome her, And echo, from full, living throats, Her old piano's wheezy notes. ******* Added to April's melodies Her sweet, true touch upon the keys All better impulses awakes The cook her stove in rhythm shakes The laundress, bending o'er her tubs, HuBas Baptist hymn-tunes as she rubs- And Gertie wields her broom in time— And mother's moved to pen a rhyme — The straining horses on the hill. Prick up their ears, and stand quite still; The plow-boys whistle cheerily. The whole world's happy as can be This willowy, sweet woman thing Adds a new meaning to the spring; The light that shines in her sweet eyes Lends lustre to unclouded skies. The world, in chorus and accord. Unites in loving Mary Lord; And Nature's gladder, as I see. Because my daughter's home to me. r26] AT THE OPERA I SEE no face to equal hers, Among the wealthy dowagers; The physiognomies of such As love their bodies over-ffiuch. In "dog-collars" of precious pearls, In purchased pompadours and curls, Their double-chins massaged away, And jewels in a grand display, With backs and arms and bosoms bare, I note the cold and bored stare. As — lorgnettes leveled at the stage They fight 'gainst weariness and age. But of another world is she; A world of charm and poetry; Oblivious of time and place, I hold her hand, I watch her face. Unblushing in my ignorance, I do not ask for one small glance; Caruso sings for her alone She thrills to every glorious tone — She holds her breath, her great eyes shine- [27] At the Opera Each note of Farrar's is divine — She has forgotten earth — ^and me- Where we sit in the balcony. I know no pleasure equals hers, Among the rich old dowagers — I know no pleasure equals mine, Who see her lovely sweet eyes shine. r28] THE MOTHER AS the men go marching by, See her forward press, and scan With a mother's anxious eye, Every one, and man by man. Khaki-clad, alert and young, Swinging in unbroken line But she pleads, with stammering tongue, "Where is — he? Oh, which is — mine?" The quick feet pass: the streets are clear: Settled the dust: the echo dies: And one by one, the stars appear. And smile into her troubled eyes. In all that army, not to find Her son, her only and her own! Then Heaven sends to her sad mind The thought — ^he is not hers alone The selfish pain is swept aside- She sees him part of one great move; [29] The Mother Her heart is filled with sudden pride, And opens to a larger love. The sense of personal loss is gone She claims as hers, that vanished line — Each man of all those men, her "son" "Not one, oh God! but all, are mine!" *»^^^ [30] NIGHT WAR pauses not at sunset; nor does hate Turn, in the twilight's quiet hour, to peace; None of its cruel purposes abate. Nor deadly enmities at evening cease. Throughout the silences, the Rulers plot, Reckless of all but their autocracy; And 'neath the moonlight, sons and lovers rot The fathers of the world that was to be. How sadly, while their little babies sleep. Women sit wide-eyed, and in patience wait; Love staggers, at the thought of trench and field; Fear grips their hearts: they cannot speak nor weep. And hope grows faint, that once was strong and great. Night bares the pain the brave day had concealed. [31] PATIENTLY THEY WAITED PATIENTLY they waited, Till, the months completed, They might see your eyes; Little azure blossoms Lifted from their bosoms. Fallen from the skies. Now their souls are yearning For your quick returning, With what patient pain! Brave and uncomplaining. To their fears maintaining. You will come again! While your young feet wander, Theirs, to pray, and ponder All the meaning strange Yesterdays — to-morrows Joys and fears and sorrows Birth and death and change! All earth's mothers, giving Sons and substance, living [32] Patiently They Waited Underneath the rod; All red woe assuaging. War with evil waging, Bind the world to God. rss] w RESPONSIBILITY (Am I my brother's keeper?) E cannot bind our influence: it will roll, A steady stream, o'er-leaping our control, And touching lives of which we never dream. It pauses not, nor dies: indeed, 't would seem The one side infinite, of this poor life: Though we may pass beyond the stress and strife, Far out of reach, ourselves, forgotten — gone The work we did, or great or small, lives on. It must. The influence of other men. We pass unconsciously along, and then. By some strange process, imperceptibly, Or in a swift and terrible degree. Are all men harmed or healed, unclean or pure. Each, is his brother's keeper. This is sure. Unto this moving flood, not one may say. As spoke the Danish King, one by-gone day. To the wild ocean, seething at his feet To the white surf, that rolled his voice to greet — "Ho ! Thou in-coming Tide ! Here be thou stayed ! Here, at my will, be thy proud waves delayed!" r34] THE HAND OF A STRANGER HE could not see her face, only her hair Above the green back of her Pullman chair, And yet he felt profoundly, the strange charm Of one thin hand upon the cushioned arm. Oh, tell-tale hands! In every line, we trace Character often hidden in the face; Or generous or selfish, cold or kind; Outlines and texture that index the mind. [35] TO A GOD-CHILD AS some young mother, terror-stricken, sees The child that she in agony has borne, Too sudden weaned, too harshly from her torn. Yet finds a hungry changeling at her knees, And in its greater need, forgets her grief. And gives herself to it, and feels it drain At once away the fever and the pain Its clinging hands, its cool mouth's sweet relief. So holds it close, so rocks it in her arms. So watches it and learns again to smile, So counts in love its ever growing charms. And treasures all its graces infantile Even I to you, who in my hour of need Brought me your own young thirsty soul to feed. ******* We met, and you were but the merest slip Of immaturity, a little shy. Appealing thoughtfulness in brow and eye, And over-sensitive, the chin and lip. My mother-mind a lonely spirit felt. And loneliness and vouth companion ill: [36] To a God-Child Though steeled the self-command and strong the will, The will must sometimes bend, the courage melt, A kinship riveted, till then unknown; A comfort doubly precious, for unsought; A friendship between bud and rose o'erblown; A benediction undeserved, unthought. Dear child of choice! Show me your heart again- My own to-night is over-charged with pain. At times I find your words are over- wise: Often your judgments far out-strip your years: Those brown eyes see too clearly through the tears- Strange tears, that in your hot young heart arise. Why must the load of life your soul oppress? Burdens for older shoulders should not weigh On you: these years, your heritage of play, Will ripen all too soon in earnestness. But I accept the message you have sent Yours is the insight, though my head is gray. In all humility and good intent I will, please God, give youth "the right of way' Much that is unexpressed, you understand: On your dark head, God lays his holy hand. r37] THE MISTLETOE A PARASITE am I— the Mistletoe. Idly I cling and grow To this great tree; He struggles upward to the light Sorely encumbered day and night: Broken and beaten, fights the fight; His many scars Record his wars 'Gainst Time, Storm, Circumstance and Me. The dear sun sees his ripened beauty be Mere sustenance for me, For me, alone; His life, his strength, his all, I claim; His choicest branch, I lop and maim; I crucify this mighty frame Him hold I tight (The parasite!) For heart and mind and soul of him I own. I am the Mistletoe, and this my prey. He withers day by day, [38] The Mistletoe A grewsome thing No leaves of his with mine combine That crown of living green is — ^mine! Above the wreck I wrought, I shine! His lordly head Already dead His branches barren, dry and perishing. See how my clustering, pearly berries smile, And fleshy leaves, the while. Fatten on him. His life, to satisfy my greed; Remorselessly on him I feed. Nor all his giant wrestlings heed Slowly he dies A sacrifice To me— my passion and my whim. [39] TO AN ADOPTED CHILD OU say you came not as my others came — Not lineal to my blood, bearing my naffle- Though this be true, Let it not trouble vou. Son, I have marked and treasured, day by day, That mine, a mother-hand, has brushed away (A happy thought) All pain had wrought. And disappointments harsh, in your young soul. Now grown obedient to self-control, Now strong and clean, As I have seen. Therefore, dear child of mine by mutual choice, From open door and purse, from hand and voice. From heart and brain. Through me you drain Something to face the world with, something still That feeds the heart and nerves anew the will. That courage brings. That works and sings. [40] To an Adopted Child While in the flesh my others nearer stand, A kindred spirit from no stranger land They recognize A soul that tries In you, eyes that see clear — courage that dares — A brother born, and into all that's theirs, Unquestioning and true. They welcome you. The passing years, as slowly they unroll, Will bear you faithful witness that your soul Is born of me. This is maternity. Many fnay mother bodies. To impress Evolving souls is greater blessedness. We mothers may Work first in clay, But in that spirit stuff", if we are wise, A finer medium must we recognize. As artists know When colors glow On what was but cold canvas, just drawn in- What physical maternity, we win [41] To an Adopted Child That right, to work in mind. So nuns may find In this so orphaned world, young things to love, Hungry for home, their mother-mind to move! Without my name. You here I claim, A child of choice, who recognized his home The door stood open wide, and you have come— And I have won, Thank God — another son! [42] GOD'S BABY HIS head tipped back against the cushioned chair, A tired man, hurrying somewhere On the Congressional Express. The electric lights reflect in two small moons Upon his spectacles. He is asleep. A gentleman, no doubt a scholar too. Well-groomed, clean-shaven. With a pretty mouth now open wide In sleep. Across his brow a shadow falls. Some memory of pain, some scene recalled To spoil a dream. That passes, and the ghost of childhood steals. To take its place — dear gentle ghost! Smoothing the wrinkles out. Touching a furrow back Into the dimple that it was long years ago The man looks like a baby! God's baby, [43] God's Baby God's big, bald baby! The swinging train his cradle. The rumbling wheels his lullaby! "Last call for dinner!" Briskly he rises, moves to the dining-car- I see the empty sleeve God's soldier too. [44] THOMAS CARLYLE The Thames Embankment, Chelsea, London. IT seems that for a moment you have wandered From that familiar study in Cheyne Row, Where o'er so many problems you have pondered A quiet room, that all your readers know; Its double walls and ancient calf-bound volumes. The photograph of Goethe, on the wall Barren and still it is, and cold and lonely, A work-shop, in which Thought is all in all. In shabby dressing-gown and worn slippers. Towards the Thames Embankment you have strayed; And there you sit again, in contemplation. As when, in life, around you children played. Beneath your shaggy brows and tumbled gray hair. Your keen eyes pierce through non-essential things; And to the very core of life, your vision Swoops, like an eagle on unerring wings. Beyond this world's illusions, hopes and failures. Beholding Truth, in loveliness austere; Oh! what is left, but sad and patient tolerance Of this poor world, to eyes that see so clear? [45] PICCADILLY "FLOWER-GIRLS" THE shabbiest of old black sailor hats, The dingiest of shawls, This is their uniform. Red faces, knotted hands, And leering, cunning eyes This is the sisterhood of — ^flower-girls The Piccadilly flower-girls. Not graceful, young, alluring, As pictured in Romance, But lifting bloated faces to the crowds Who hurry past Halting the kindly ones with the refrain, "Buy-buy — my pretty Lydy For the love of God, sweet gentleman Buy, buy, buy, buy, buy." Age, rheumatism, poverty and vice Stamp them — who once were innocent and young. Above their fragrant wares they leer and grin. Their roses and carnations blush for them. The fumes of gin Defile their violets. [46] Piccadilly ''Flower-Girls' The world is gray, buildings and streets, are gray The atmosphere, heavy with smoke and fog, Is very gray. Enshrouded in gray shawls, With faces fiery red, These coarse old women importune the world To take, from their hard hands, Earth's gift, most fair, most fragrant, And most delicate, Most perishable, perfect and most sweet. [47] IN OLD BRUTON CHURCHYARD WHERE the patient dead are sleeping, Wander lovers fond and true; O'er these graves no eyes are weeping, All who wept are sleeping too. Mossy stones, time-stained and broken, Mark the green and level beds; And love's precious vows are spoken Over these forgotten heads. Older, wiser eyes escaping, Here Youth talks of work and joy, Murmurs plans the future shaping. Maid to fiian and girl to boy. A most charming spot for lovers! Through the trees bird-lovers flit, And a girlish bride discovers Some old maxim, sagely writ. Mingling with the choir's singing. Hear her sweet and wholesome laugh. Old brick walls the echo ringing. As she reads this epitaph: f48] In Old Bruton Churchyard "Like as the Bud Nipt from the Tree, So Death hath Parted You and Me: Therefore, Dear Spouse, I You Beseech Be Satisfied, for I am Rich." Simply thought and crudely graven, This antique philosophy Spans the space 'twixt earth and Heaven, Unites what was, is, and shall be. \m A LOST TALISMAN IT was but a little nugget of gold, Found somewhere in a barren field — Dearer to her than treasure untold, Richer than all that the gold mines yield. Out of her bosom it slipped, and fell. Lost — in the depth of a summer wave! Out of her life slipped — who can tell?- A dearer dream to a deeper grave. [50] TO THE WOUNDED |0 you, Blind Boy Whom I met to-day Let me pass on the thought Without delay, Which God gave to me, As I scanned your face: Those eyes, that closed so suddenly in pain, Scorched out upon some hellish battle-plain, Perhaps have opened in a sweeter place Than any known to us: To-day you see With those lost eyes. Blind to ffiy world and me, Far-reaching purposes and will of God. With head erect and valiant heart. You share The spiritual visions, passing fair, Of all victorious ones, who kissed the rod. And You, Whose hand can never more caress [51] To the Wounded Mother or child, the angels pause, to bless You, As they use the hand you thought had died. And You, The strong-limbed, laughter-loving, fleet If messenger of God, on your crushed feet Hurries some heavenly mission to fulfill. Your verv crutches Have been glorified! [52] IN A RIPENING FIELD BY what strange alchemy, dear little Roots, Draw you your sustenance From Earth's brown breast? By what sure impulse Do you seek, And find? Sucking the moisture like a hungry child. Stealing the sun, with fingers magical, And all th' invisible sweetness of the air, And rare strong gifts My poor thought may not name? Oh, by what synthesis. Here in your laboratory of green stalks, Combine so many elements for good, And turn the hidden treasures Of the soil Into the daily bread of all mankind? How work this miracle Before my eyes? Phosphate and lime. Hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, become [53] In a Ripening Field Physical force and everlasting mind. Eternal life Blooms, from such roots as yours. You stir my heart With many harmonies! And as the wind sways all your golden heads A blade of grass Could strike me to my knees. In every stalk of you I meet my God. [54] TO MY GRAPE-VINE MEN wound you, with their pruning, ere the Spring Starts your young blood anew; Unmerciful and harsh it seems, the thing Their keen blades do to you. May comes, and all your climbing sap runs sweet The rough bark under; Sending young shoots, like eager hands and feet Intent on plunder. June comes, and in your foliaged cool recesses The pale abundant bloom Promises all the purple fruit, that blesses The harvest days to come. Through summer suns it ever grows more precious, And scented leaves protect And screen the burden, daily more delicious, Your clusters, sun-beflecked. [55] To My Gr ape-Vine October finds your hard-won treasure ravished. Naked and sear and torn You stand. Where is the love that you have lavished? The fruit, that you have borne? [56] TO MY SISTER WHEN we were children, You and I, And the days danced Innocently by, How all unthought Were Pain and Sin! Night came: our Mother "Tucked us in," And the friendly stars Winked from the skies, And all our songs Were lullabies. When we were girls. Gray-eyed and slim. Life's song was a lyric. Or a hymn The tragic notes Were still unknown. And the foreboding Undertone. We worshipped and dreamed, In gardens dim, [57] To My Sister Of a love that should fill life To the brim. When strong emotions Ebbed and flowed, And Anguish All her gifts bestowed, In birth, death, change, The spirit saw Of Pain The over-ruling law; Forces that beat us To our knees. Epics were wrung From years like these. Now one by one Each song has died, Leaving the soul Unsatisfied, Yet ever striving To express Some still un-voiced Inwardness. Blessed, sanctified. Through each of them. It grandly chants Its Requiem. [58] WORSHIP HAVE you builded an altar, Brother mine, To a God Unknown? Adorned it fair with fancies rare And precious stone? Wrought out its pattern with fervent skill And young delight? brought from far lands with tender hands Its gold and white? Have you lifted the soul of you, Brother mine, To a thing afar? Have you felt it smile on your pain the while Like a friendly star? Then know that each gem you set in love. Each step you trod, Each reverent care, each faltered prayer. Led you to God. [59] THE SOUL OF YOUR MOTHER NO stormy beating of a tide Wrecking itself with futile roar. But calmest flood, unruffled, wide, A generous River, flowing o'er. No fragile flower, to droop and die, Transplanted to a harsher clime; But searching root, crest lifted high. To face its fate or bide its time. No transient beauty of a flame, But far, clear splendor of a star; Nor needing praise, nor fearing blame; The perfect Thing no change can mar. reo] EVEN SO AS star-light on the desert's waste, As rare thought spoken to a fool, As jewel thrown in stagnant pool, Even so is love, Love, when mis-placed. As beacon light o'er treacherous sea; To new-sown seed, as summer rain; As sunshine is to ripening grain, Such is your love and more, to me. [61] OUT OF THE DUST A Woman of the street is passing by; Powder and paint have toughened her fair skin; Her sacred bosom bare to every eye, (Fountain of wholesome life that should have been!) With flagging step she plies her dreary trade; Her once fine draperies are soiled and thin; Excess and Want, grim rivals! These have made Guide-posts for her into the paths of sin. A younger sister at her side keeps pace; So pretty! And so strong of limb, and vain! Sorrow and sin have left as yet no trace On cheek or lip, or seared her silly brain. Waste not your pity — she enjoys the game! She may be loving daughter, loyal friend; Her tragedy lies not in open shame. But in bright beauty burning to its end. No scruples worry her; her candle still Burns merrily both ends, though flickering low; Excitement, dissipation, folly, will Soon dig her little grave, and she will go r62] Out of the Dust Blov*^n as before the gale, the fallen leaf- Gone — as the odor of a once fresh flower; Death soon will bind her in his harvest sheaf, Honestly sinning through her youth's short hour. The crucifix that hangs above their beds Looks calmly down on their debauchery; Keeps faithful watch o'er their dishonored heads. Purging their souls with mystic charity. These children of our Father, though they stray Far from the narrow path their feet should keep, These daughters of a king, know how to pray And o'er their failures Heaven's angels weep. [63] BABBLING OF GREEN FIELDS BROADWAY or Leicester Square — it matters not, An old man lies on an untidy couch. His face, expressive once and finely cut, Become the countenance of the chronic Grouch, Gray, faded, fallen: the little veins, A purple net-work like a railroad map On nose and cheek, have turned a deeper gray. He does his final "turn" to-night, poor chap A worn-out old comedian, you would say. Night falls. He neither hears nor heeds the noise Of children in the darkening street below. Pale little girls and rascally small boys Fighting or playing in the week-old snow. He hears a twittering Of birds that flit And flutter {are green branches O'er him bent?) Chirping and carolling In woods sun-lit: [64] Babbling of Green Fields A far-away suggestion Of content He hears the distant gurgle Of a brook He knows the sweet sound well, Knows well the spot Where, fretting 'gainst a pebbly shoal Or rock, Crossing his father's old green Pasture lot. The stream grows petulant Along its way. But in an instant, Its small anger spent. It bubbles on, To-day as yesterday. Singing around all obstacles. Content. The Janitor comes in, to bring the bill. He stands quite thoughtful, staring at the bed. "B' God! Ye looks fer this, in vaudeville," He gays, as dubiously he shakes his head. "And here's the steam, a-whizzling — I think Escapin', with a waste to thry a saint [65] Babbling of Green Fields He's left the watter rinnin' in the sink- ril make a light. The Meter's out. There aint A penny in his pocket for the slot. An' hear 'im talk — o' rinnin' brooks — and burrds- And blossoms over -head — and God knows wot — I call that too nonsinsical for worrds " Yet with a tender hand he smoothes the sheet, And spreads a blanket o'er the icy feet. [66] NOT WHILE THE RIVER FLOWS CLAIM her, Oh, River! wonderful Lover! Drag to thy deepest, encompass her, cover All of her weakness, her burden of pain; Fold her, enwrap her, rock her to sleep. Hide her and cover her deep, deep, deep, With all of her heartaches, her striving and strain. Silent and cool is the bed of the River: Past all the passion, the fret and the fever. Done with life's drudgery, there would she lie. Deaf to the surging of waters above her, Lost to the voices that chide her or love her. Spared all the effort, a world passing by. Hot throbbing pulses arrested and chilled. Brick-bruised feet to be smoother out and stilled: Oh, merciful River! gently receive her! Bury each sorrow, each memory stirred. Each clinging regret, each longing deferred. With thee, out of sight, may each haunting fear leave her! [67] Not While the River Flows Take the brave blood, where the fire of her dances- The quick, burning brain, with its teeming sweet fancies, (Though the flesh of her falters, the heart of her fights) Now once for all, to escape the confusions, Peaceful to lie, with her own dear illusions. To find, in thy arms, all her depths and her heights! [68] FROM ROOM 310 PROVIDENCE HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON UPON her snowy cot, propped up on pillows My darling lies, Her great soft eyes Following the sky-line over rippling billows Of Autumn foliage, russet gold and green. Standing for right and human brotherhood, The world's great temple of Democracy, Far-reaching in its purposes of good. Staunch in its broad and generous policy. The Nation's Capitol: its gray dome shining, (While the world reads) For Freedom pleads, Fair play and Liberty boldly defining Fit emblem of the PRESENT it is seen. ♦ *«♦**» The Library, its golden crown up-lifting, For Culture stands: All ages, lands Pour in their riches, which its wise are sifting. That to our children's children, may be brought [69] From Room 310 Knowledge: their treasure-house of what is PAST; Housing the legacies of all man's thought; The wisdom, weighed and tested, that shall last When much has perished which we dearly bought. *»***♦♦ And third, its cross borne high, an old church tower, Piercing the blue Between these two. Bears witness to the spiritual Power Eternal, and a FUTURE sure, serene. Law, Learning and Religion; lofty three, Facing my child across the tree-tops green; Oh God! Those dying eyes have faith to see. And soul to know what these fair symbols mean — • Thank God, her innocent, far-reaching mind, Can daily inspiration give, and find! [70] MY DAUGHTER AGAINST the open window In silhouette sits she, And her slender fingers wander From ivory key to key. Her little piquant profile Outlined 'gainst April green Beneath her filmy boudoir-cap Her soft dark hair is seen. 'Tis thus, this sweet spring ffiorning, In her flower'd soft kimono Singing her old-time melodies To you, dear friend, I've shown her! ^Tis thus my spirit sees her. In girlish, graceful guise, Her capable sweet fingers Her wistful, star-like eyes In song the dear lips parted- Young hope in every breath- Intangible, but living That life we mis-call death, [71] TO DEATH \\rELL met, oh Death! Old Friend! Well In this night's storm and blustering weather! The whole wide world with tears is wet Since we a vigil kept together. The avenging angel passing by Marks many first-born sons to die. I find you changed — You bow your head; Your back is bent — Your strong hands tremble. Death should rejoice in such brave Dead As the good host that you assemble. These chosen souls, in your command! This army, for the spirit-land! On toll of Age, and slow disease You need not wait for your recruiting. Genius invents new ways than these The burning, poisoning, drowning, shooting Thus shall your gray battalions grow. Thus, shall your serried ranks o'er-flow. Oh, Over-burdened and most Wise! Man's kindest friend, most tender lover! [72] To Death With depths of percy in your eyes, Spreading o'er sin a sacred cover; Opening the way to worthy toil, Sealing the Past in silence deep. Filling with what immortal oil The lamp God gave each soul to keep! Wiping out sorrow with a breath Well met, oh dear and weary Death! "Eloquent, just and mighty Death!" [73] PERSPECTIVE. DIM distances of purple hills, Seen through a veil of summer air, Disturbing details lost in mist, And what is clear, most wondrous fair So are the years, kind, lovely years, Of which the poet seldom sings, The years that bring the bird's-eye view. Dispassionate, of earthly things. Sweet years, in which we cease to war 'Gainst primal instincts, selfish sin- Great years, that in perspective place Trifles that were, or might have been. Still in the world, still of the world. Still full of joy in youth and spring. With keener faculties of mind. And love become a sexless thing Sexless and selfless — so, a tool For little miracles each day — [74] Perspective Time, when the soul, with clearer sense. Its long-loved idols, each may weigh Are glimpses of the great Beyond Now opened to us — tenderly? And can it be, sometimes we hear Far ripples of th' eternal sea? [75] COULD I HAVE KNOWN COULD I have known how brief your years, my Treasure, I had relaxed in many a little way; Asked less of tender immaturity, Given more gifts and longer hours of play. Could I have known how short would be your stay. Those little disciplines and self-denials Oppress my heart as blasphemies to-day; I pictured you mother of many children, And sought to strengthen you along the way Of this crude world, in which you did not stay. Perhaps in zeal for all the years approaching. Maternal pride (for which God hears me groan) Blind consecration to a far-off future, I pictured you as a fair corner-stone, And dreamed the building's plan was all my own! The Master-builder planned. The great Designer Whose purposes my poor faith could not read. Reached a strong hand and claimed what he had loaned me, [76] Could I Have Known Bidding it answer to a nobler need, Beyond my vision, futile dreams or creed. Mine was the earthly thought, mine was the error; All things obscure are clear to-day to you. You love me. God forgives my human blunders Perhaps his tests prove my foundation true Perhaps I builded better than I knew. [77] TO ONE INVISIBLE YOU have escaped the years of disillusion, Faded, tear-furrowed cheek and whitened hair, The dreams and hopes that end but in confusion. And heart-aches, harvest of right faithful care (Oh, little One with God, remember me.) You did not wait to see the buds of April Bloom, fade and fall and settle to decay; Nor rosy skies of early summer day, spill Each radiant hour, and turn to ashen gray. (Oh, sweet, immortal Youth, remember me.) You will not stand by open graves of daughters You longed to see with babies at the breast; Nor stem a tide of ever-deepening waters. Nor passionately plead with God for rest (Oh, Life grown perfect there, remember me.) So day by day, my Darling, God grows dearer For every glimpse through you vouchsafed to me, [78] To One Invisible You live in Him, and I, even I, am sharer In all rare services I may not see. (Oh, free and valiant Soul, remember — me.) i'-C?, [79] LIFE AND DEATH IN the midst of life we are in death." I have stood knee-deep in death To-day, As there fell to my feet The roses sweet That I trimmed from their stalks, In brown decay. The million buds Which a week ago Unfolded blushing one by one, Fragrant and fair, Each heart laid bare To rain and wind and dew and sun. In the midst of "Death" we are in life! High over-head in the sky of blue, Though veiled in cloud. There thrills aloud A lark's note, piercing my dull heart through! And the locusts, Seventeen years asleep, rso] Life and Death How they beat, with an air-ship's mighty hum, As they serenade their Pharaoh dead, In mad delight That their day has come! This is a song from a garden green, Where hand in hand (As doubt and faith, as peace and strife) Walk life and death Yea, side by side, As Love and Bride, Walk Death and Life. This is a song of a summer day. Sung by the wind to the answering reeds, Truer than all of the cruel creeds. That Life is Death and Death is Life, And that God is all that the spirit needs. [81] UNITY MAN plants his gardens far and thick, Builds up his homes of dull red brick, Of marble white, of granite gray; His clubs and universities, His temples where he tries to pray. Poor faulty clod! He tries to pray! God Pours his sunshine down on these, God spreads his glowing skies above, God sows, broad-cast, the seeds of love, God gives the wealth of all the trees. As evening falls, distinctions fade; Brick, granite, marble, take one shade; The jarring thoughts of many men, Their warring animosities, Are gathered all in tone again The details lost. In tone again God Speaks at eve, to all of these; God's still, small voice, in twilight hour, [82] Unity Commands us with paternal power, To note the leaves on all his trees. Each has its own identity. Yet all exist in harmony; Whatever discords storms may breed, In spite of all complexities, Race draws to race and creed to creed; Race draws to race. And creed to creed; God Binds in one our theories; Humanity, in every land. One — in the shadow of God's hand One — as the leaves on all his trees. [83] AN INVITATION WILL you come with me to my open spaces, And share my stretch of sky, my rolling hills? There are some quiet places In my kingdom Peace sits upon my everlasting hills; And the Beyond is ever beckoning to us : Between the trees, the distances invite The soul to ever wider journeyings. My Trees, Aristocrats, Conquerors of Pain, My trees will speak to you As long ago they spoke To One sore-pressed, in sad Gethsemane; Will show you the eternal laws that rule them. And teach you how, despite all circumstance, Storm and Disease and Parasite and Hunger, They bear themselves erect, Steadfast to seek their highest. '&* My Weeds, My dear plebeian weeds, [84] An Invitation Will smile at you from unexpected corners. Proving the beauty of the common thing; Will give their all, Nor know how poor their all is. Ask no return, Not one caress in passing. Even from your careless feet. They are "the roses of the wilderness," True to Isaiah's ancient prophecy: They are the ephemeral "grasses of a day," Immortalized in David's minstrelsy: They are "the lilies of the field," which met The calm, observant, kindly eyes of Jesus. My Birds, My harmless ones, Destined to swift and certain tragedy, My birds will be your friends! My pair of blue-birds. With breasts brown as the up-turned soil And wings Blue as the unclouded skies, will tell you How heaven and earth may meet In one small life! My crested cardinal Will sing his love-song Such madrigal as you have never heard! [85] An Invitation My stars, My sweet eternal stars, Will shine for you as long ago they shone O'er Bethlehem Will lead you to the thing you too Are seeking Shine for you Shine for you Till all the stars of all the heavens are yours! Will you come with me, To my open spaces. And share my stretch of sky, my rolling hills? [86] NEW FIELDS AND FAIR OH, tell me not, dear Friends, That Death is Rest: It is not rest I crave: Rather I ask to do and be, my best Beyond the grave. Tell me my passing out from things of earth Is death to sense and sin, But a new birth to Righteousness: Tell me my life may be Sacred and fervent there, in nobler energy: Tell me That all untrammeled, I may move Wherever led by loyalty and, love! Tell me This soul, from mortal bondage free. May find new fields and fair; New Opportunity. Rid of the freight of blood and sense and nerve, Unweariedly to labor and to serve. I need no rest: I only ask to be above defeat: Rich — in vitality. [87] New Fields and Fair Oh, tell me not, dear Friends, That Death is Sleep: For sleep could only mean Lost Power: So, for me, no slumber deep Beneath fresh boughs of green! My garments you may tenderly lay by- My body too. But, oh, that is not I! I shall escape, as wild bird from the mesh, When I have laid aside this cloak of flesh! I shall be up and doing! I shall find New, golden chances for my busy mind! New souls to love Old friends, to serve and bless When I am bom anew, to Righteousness! When I am strong and clean, and fit to be God's servant to my kind. Eternally. [88] SHALL I LEARN FEAR? AND shall I weaken? I, who am part of all that is, I, in whose veins run strong adevnturous gifts From knight and pioneer and old Crusader? Shall I learn Fear First, when my head is white? (Yet they who dread no sudden agony, Who laugh in treachery's face, Meet smilingly Death, battle-field, child-birth or swift disaster, Shrink from the thought of gallant blood grown chill, Of days inactive and of slow decay). Then must I weaken? Safe-guarded by the goodness of my God, And fortified by beautiful example, I, whose vast heritage Is all the world and all of man's achievement. All generous deeds, free speech and honest thought? I, unto whom are given The kisses of young children, and the faith Of men and women nobler than myself? [89] Shall I Learn Fear? The fields of green and gold, The autuffin's somber glory, Still waters, silent woods and open seas, And all the stretches of the starry skies? I, whose poor blundering steps Dear angels watch, lest I, even such as I, Should harm the human brother I would serve. Or bruise my heedless feet against the stone! To weaken? When the race is nearly run? When swallowed up in distances behind me Lie all the jungles where my youth was torn By flowering thorny impulses like tropic vines Entangled, the poisonous with the pure And stony hill-sides of experience, So hard to climb! Splendid, when from the summits The soul looks back along the way it journeyed, To valleys wrapped in mist. Dear God, I shall not weaken. Obediently I come, bringing my best. The gold of all the good Thou gavest me! With this small house of clay, which housed my soul, (And I have loved it — it has been my friend) [90] Shall I Learn Fear? I leave the self less worthy, and to Thee Bring but that better part. Lord, Let it be a tool Within Thy hand. [91] Wi3 0* o-..,-^o^ 4* .^^^si&h'. -f^. 9^ ...» ,/ "o^*^-f-*^0' •J- •A'^ ' I: ^^^ • *Ad< .^^^^^ <^^ ^ ^^-^^^ 0^ ♦• <*. »o.** .Cl^