6ARTH SONGS 
 
 MARY CHAPIN SMITH 
 
Class 
 
 Book 
 
 CopyiightN^ 
 
 COPyRIGHT DEPOSrr 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 The Library of Congress 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/earthsongsOOsmit 
 
Earth Songs 
 
 MARY CHAPIN SMITH 
 
 ^ARTI et V6RITA ri]H 1 
 
 BOSTON 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 1910 
 
Copyright 1910 by Mary Chapin Smith 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 The author wishes to thank the editors of 
 Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, the Journal of 
 Outdoor Life, the Taylor- Trotwood Magazine, and 
 Book News for permission to include in this vol- 
 ume such poems as originally appeared in their 
 pages. 
 
 The Gobham Pbess, Boston , U. S. A. 
 
 5)0! A2 5-020 
 
To My Husband, 
 
 Joyous friend and comrade, whose consideration 
 has made this little book possible for me; maker 
 of pleasant gardens, where one may dwell in the 
 fine companionship of the birds and trees and 
 under the airs of heaven, with Nature's ancient 
 manuscript open wide, and writ in divers lan- 
 guages. 
 
 To My Mother, 
 
 Whose eyes were ever turned to the stars, and 
 where she walked the flowers of goodness and 
 beauty followed her. 
 
 Highlands, North Carolina 
 March 2, 1909 
 
Sweet Mother Earth 
 
 Death paused awhile without my door; 
 
 I did not hid him enter in. 
 
 For joys of Paradise can nevermore 
 
 Seem sweeter than they seem, in sjyite of sin 
 
 And wo, the joys of this dear earth; 
 
 Sweet earth, so wise and kind, so full of gentle 
 
 mirth 
 Made soft hy all the sorrow that underlies: — 
 Dear Mother Earth, in thy deep eyes 
 Dwell things unutterable; thy secrets but to learn. 
 Thy raptures fine to know, and feel the thrill 
 Of thy soft mother arms encircling still. 
 For this my heart doth ever yearn 
 And will alway, though I may hear the fi,ow 
 Of streams eternal, and hills of Paradise may 
 
 know. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Dedication 5 
 
 Sweet Mother Earth 7 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, May, 1907) 
 
 The Changing Year 
 
 Theocritus 19 
 
 {Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, September, 1907) 
 
 Largess 21 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, September, 1908) 
 
 Gold of Dawn 22 
 
 One Spring Day 23 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, May, 1909) 
 
 Song : Spring-time 23 
 
 Aprille 24 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, April, 1907) 
 
 Madrigal: Invitation of the Morning 25 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, June, 1908) 
 
 The Lake 26 
 
 Where Running Waters Flow 27 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, March, 1907) 
 
 Serenade: The Message 30 
 
 {Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, December, 1907) 
 
 Evening Primrose 31 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, June, 1909) 
 
 The Dark 31 
 
 (Journal of Outdoor Life, August, 1907) 
 
 A Summer Night 32 
 
 The Mushroom Lady Goes 33 
 
 9 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Spiranthes 33 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, September, 1907) 
 
 In the Tent 34 
 
 Song: The Swallow 35 
 
 {Watsori's Jeffersonian Magazine, May, 1908) 
 
 A November Dandelion 36 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, November, 1908) 
 
 Friends 36 
 
 Impressions : 
 
 I. November Days 38 
 
 (Journal of Outdoor Life, October, 1908) 
 
 II. November Eves 39 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, November, 1908) 
 
 III. November Skies 40 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, November, 1907) 
 
 IV. A December Dawn 41 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, December, 1907) 
 
 At Night 41 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, June, 1907) 
 
 The Festival of the Fluttering Wings 42 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, January, 1908) 
 Two Morning Pictures: 
 
 I. Winter 43 
 
 II. Summer 44 
 
 {Journal of Outdoor Life, March, 1909) 
 
 A Sound of the Night 45 
 
 A Cobweb of Pale Fire 47 
 
 To the Blue Ridge Mountains 47 
 
 {Atlanta Constitution, August, 1906) 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Dear Mother Nature, Take Me Back 49 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, November, 1907) 
 
 Earth Songs 
 
 Memory 53 
 
 Life and Love 57 
 
 The Devil's Hunting 58 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, March, 1908) 
 
 The Singing Monk 59 
 
 The Seeker 61 
 
 Only in Dreams I See Thee 61 
 
 (Watson's Weekly Jeffersonian, October, 1908) 
 
 A Room in June 62 
 
 Tulips 63 
 
 Life 64 
 
 Song : O Wind from Western Skies 65 
 
 Comprehension 67 
 
 (Taylor- Trotwood Magazine, June, 1908) 
 
 The Coming Guest 68 
 
 The Voices 69 
 
 An Old Garden 70 
 
 (Taylor- Trotwood Magazine, February, 1908) 
 
 Cavalier and Puritan 72 
 
 Beloved Ghosts 73 
 
 My Saint: C. L. C 74 
 
 The Victors 75 
 
 Confession 77 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, February, 1908) 
 11 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Two Souls 77 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, March, 1909) 
 
 The Jerusalem Chamber of the Soul 79 
 
 (Journal of Outdoor Life, December, 1908) 
 
 Shadow Dance 80 
 
 The Constant Lovers 
 
 I. The Lament 84 
 
 II. The Search 85 
 
 Melancholy . 86 
 
 Contrasts 
 
 I. Fate 88 
 
 (Asheville Magazine, May, 1907) 
 
 11. God's Care 88 
 
 Benedicite 89 
 
 And After.? 91 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, May, 1907) 
 
 The Soul's Quest 93 
 
 Salut! (Alfred Dreyfus; July, 1906) 94 
 
 Horus Ever Weighs the Naked Heart 95 
 
 "And on the fourth are men with growing 
 wings." Tennyson: The Holy Grail.... 97 
 
 Peace on Earth : 100 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, December, 1907) 
 
 Carol : Christmas Chimes 100 
 
 (Journal of Outdoor Life, January, 1909) 
 
 The Holy Child 101 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, December, 1908) 
 Quatrains 
 
 I. Threads of Gold 103 
 
 12 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 II. Time's Arrows 103 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, March, 1907) 
 
 III. Glorias 104 
 
 {Asheville Magazine, April, 1907) 
 
 IV. Promises 104 
 
 (Asheville Magazine, April, 1907) 
 V. Tears. 104 
 
 Laurel Leaves 
 
 The Sonnet: To the Masters of Song 107 
 
 The Poet's Song 108 
 
 Shelley 109 
 
 (Book News Monthly, June, 1908) 
 
 To Sidney Lanier 110 
 
 MacDowell's Brook: To the Lady Who Plays 
 
 (Mrs. J. H. S.) Ill 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 Apology 115 
 
 Fantasies 116 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, October, 1907) 
 
 Strivings 117 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, April, 1907) 
 
 Twilight 118 
 
 (Watson's Jeffersonian Magazine, June, 1907) 
 Portrait of Mrs. Wheaton, by Alexander.. . . 119 
 (Life of Eliza Baylies Wheaton, 
 Riverside Press, Cambridge, 1907) 
 13 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Sea: 
 
 I. For many years the hills, and now the 
 
 sea! 120 
 
 II. Mother of Mysteries, thy secrets keep. . . 121 
 
 III. For thou art old and wicked, though 
 
 most fair, — 122 
 
 IV. What dim remembrances may yet enslave 1 23 
 
 V. The overpowering roar and rush of sound 124 
 
 VI. All softly clad, in cloud and light en- 
 
 shrined, 125 
 
 14 
 
THE CHANGING YEAR 
 
 And the winds that follow on so fleet ^ 
 In the sparkling trails of vanished gloom. 
 Are heavenly sioeet 
 
 With the breath of early flowers a-hloom. 
 While the world is a heaving, trembling sea 
 Of sight and sound, and of Life to be. 
 
 Now the pale primrose offers up 
 Her precious golden cup. 
 Whence pure, celestial odors flow. 
 (Golden censers from heaven swing low.) 
 
 15 
 
Gone the spiral stairway's trace 
 Where the white spiranthes climbed. 
 Gone the slender saffron's grace, 
 Following where the frost bells chimed. 
 
 The tvhite-winged snow falls down most silently 
 And softly in large flakes, like many small 
 White birds that fly to earth; the snowbirds come 
 With fluttering wings, alighting on the tree. 
 The little tree that is their resting place. 
 Their fluffy feathers white like heaps of snow 
 Upon the limbs; they come in endless flight. 
 Blown through the air and dropping down to 
 
 earth. 
 As swift and silent as the falling snow. 
 
 16 
 
THE CHANGING YEAR 
 
 17 
 
THEOCRITUS 
 
 While time dwells on the earth, the world's warm 
 
 hand 
 Shall reach far out into the dark 
 To seek thine own, Theocritus. 
 Long as the ardent air remembers to be thrilled 
 With sweetest sounds, shall ear be bent to catch 
 Those strains from earlier dawn, so wild and free: 
 Down the worn centuries has that procession filed, 
 Of shining shapes from days when time was young, 
 Touched with immortal youth, whose constant 
 
 flame 
 The gloom of ages cannot quench. 
 
 While this green earth doth hold 
 
 A lover of the hills and fields 
 
 Or soul most sick of cities' roar and ruck. 
 
 Pining for scents and sounds of sweeter air 
 
 So long shall thy fair flocks 
 
 Wind leisurely the hill of dreams, thy nightingales 
 
 Make moonlit thickets ring, 
 
 Sicilian airs float soft enchantment o'er our heads. 
 
 We still may hear from distant marsh, as Hercules 
 
 in other days. 
 The long-lost Hylas faintly calling, crying, 
 Imprisoned in his watery home amid the rushes 
 
 green : 
 Thyrsis, by wolf bereft, shall ever weep 
 For playful kid, his darling pet and pride, 
 While singing herdsmen thi'ough the years contend 
 19 
 
In melodies each sweeter than the last; 
 
 And later loves 
 
 Shall laugh at love-lorn Polypheme, 
 
 Piping to Galatea, and see shake 
 
 The rough and hairy sides of Pan, whose little 
 
 hoofs 
 Keep frolic step to sylvan dance; 
 In lonely gardens ever may they watch. 
 Through mystic laurel boughs under the night's 
 
 pale sheen. 
 The wan Simaetha, passion-fired, invoke the 
 
 Lady Moon, 
 As, sighing yet, she turns her magic wheel; 
 And for all time, while love and song work to the 
 
 heart's undoing, 
 Daphnis to nymphs and shepherds still shall sing 
 His melting lays, and play the flute 
 To ravishment of mortal ears, 
 And still forever will he die of love; 
 The tuneful Thyrsis daily mourns for him. 
 While wolf and goat and lowing kine cry out 
 
 their grief. 
 And birds and flowers and trees, confounded, go 
 
 astray. 
 
 Oft piercing through the tliick and murky air 
 Of many weary and discordant years, 
 We hear thy far-off song, Theocritus. 
 It comes in music of the rills and streams. 
 The trill of birds, borne on the flying clouds. 
 In the white sea waves' laughing rush. 
 20 
 
The violets' eyes still speak of thee; 
 
 The grassy pastures soft are but thy bed. 
 
 Haunted of dreams. 
 
 The pines thy night song, and the hills thy guard. 
 
 Nature herself, and love and passion wild. 
 
 Eternally are thine. 
 
 LARGESS 
 
 Wide, overarching roof of air, 
 Starshine and sunshine are enough. 
 Earth is too full of beauty unsolicited: 
 Her regal state and lordly ministers. 
 Her glowing pageants as they pass, 
 Are all too much for her fond lover, passion-pale. 
 And choked for utterance. Fair Eastern rose. 
 And Dawn, a shy, reluctant bride. 
 Slow lingering up the way; 
 The slender crescent boat that glides along, 
 Swift sailing over seas of light, through scud- 
 ding clouds of foam. 
 The tireless stars that seek no rest. 
 And white path leading out 
 Through whirling diamond dust, by rifts of dark, 
 To those eternal fields of space invisible; 
 That happy comrade of the shining face. 
 Heart of the Day, Life of the rolling world, 
 Whose faithful course 
 While untold ages drift and disappear 
 Is charted on the upper depths of blue: 
 These fine, celestial splendors are enough; 
 21 
 
The largess that the fair Earth grants 
 From wanton joy of giving, is overmuch to hold; 
 Darkness and light, the pomp and endless train 
 Of Night and Day, the heavens are enough. 
 
 GOLD OF DAWN 
 
 Golden windows at morn, 
 And the earth is new-born! 
 Golden windows in the west. 
 And the young earth at its best. 
 Soft the wizardry of grace 
 In the pine trees' dawning face; 
 Sweet the ripple of streams, 
 Gray skies with pearl gleams 
 Are unfurling, unfurled. 
 Green trees from a strange world 
 (The hemlocks of dreams). 
 Mossy planes cut and curled. 
 With glints of strayed gold, 
 Seem new and yet old. 
 Unearthly, most fair, 
 Wrapped in mystical air 
 In the freshness of day 
 And shadowed with gray. 
 Skies of gray and shafts of gold, 
 Floods of gold and shafts of gray, 
 Interchanging, at play. 
 In the swiftness of day, 
 In the on-rushing day. 
 Golden windows at morn. 
 And the world is new-born! 
 22 
 
ONE SPRING DAY 
 
 I think that he forgot, maybe. 
 
 To rise in the east from a purple sea 
 
 Of rolHng clouds, in amber glory; 
 
 But the sun rose over in the west to-day 
 
 In sunrise lines of rose and gray. 
 
 And the fine footfall of May 
 
 Comes lightly down the April way; 
 
 Her feet are shod with silver shoon 
 
 Made from the horns of a crescent moon. 
 
 And the winds that follow on so fleet 
 
 In the sparkling trails of vanished gloom. 
 
 Are heavenly sweet 
 
 With the breath of early flowers a-bloom. 
 
 While the world is a heaving, trembling sea 
 
 Of sight and sound, and of Life to be. 
 
 SPRINGTIME 
 
 Song 
 
 Love's in the world! 
 His bright banner is unfurled 
 On your cheek; 
 And why will you not speak. 
 When the sun's riding high 
 In the sky, 
 
 And the little white clouds laugh together 
 In the clear weather, 
 And the bluebirds are mating, 
 23 
 
Not a note of their love song abating; 
 
 The robins are all in a twitter, 
 
 The dewdrops in a fine glitter 
 
 On the grass 
 
 As you pass, 
 
 With the apple blooms falling around you, 
 
 My heart singing because it has found you. 
 
 Sweet, will you not speak 
 
 While Love's in the world. 
 
 While his rose-red flag is unfurled 
 
 On your cheek ? 
 
 APRILLE 
 
 Fair, sweet Aprille, wayward child 
 Of summer dawns and winter wild, 
 Comes dancing, smiling up the way, — 
 So long her coming, short her stay! 
 
 Soon follows on her welcome train. 
 Swift beams of sun and tender rain, 
 Warm, languorous days and frosty nights, 
 And blissful hints of vague delights 
 That fill the hazy atmosphere 
 With soft, dim promise of the year: 
 
 Promise that every hour is heard 
 In peep of hylas, trill of bird, 
 In silvery plash of loosened streams. 
 In quickened pulse and moonlit dreams. 
 In lights that gleam through sudden showers. 
 In primrose skies and primrose flowers; 
 24 
 
In willows clad in golden gray. 
 In violets' eyes upturned to day, 
 In shadows on brown, furrowed earth. 
 In budding trees, and wondrous birth 
 Of the green grass that slips along 
 O'er all the ground to time of song. 
 
 O sweet Aprille, darling child. 
 Could we but tame thee, heart so wild, 
 We'd hold thee for a longer stay. 
 And hear thy promises alway. 
 
 INVITATION OF THE MORNING 
 
 Madrigal 
 
 O come with me, the morning calls. 
 Come out from towering city walls. 
 To dancing step and singing rhyme 
 And far-off flutes of morning time. 
 
 Come hither. Love, — with hand in hand. 
 Now enter we another land. 
 Where light falls down in golden rain 
 On glades where spotted deer have lain; 
 
 Where silver bells on little trees 
 Are ringing, singing, in the breeze. 
 And laurel crowns I'll deftly twine 
 For th)' dear head, O Love of mine! 
 
 Drink deep the wine of life to-day 
 Down where the running waters play. 
 Where happy thrushes are in tune, — 
 O come with me, my Rose of June! 
 25 
 
Age after youth, death after life, 
 Time's wheel brings sorrow, joy, and strife 
 But life is now, and life is best, 
 Drink deep the joy, forget the rest. 
 
 Pale Yesterday was sore betrayed, 
 To-day flies free and unafraid; 
 Now know we not the veiled To-morrow, 
 Her pearls of grief we may not borrow. 
 
 Now happiness lurks everywhere, 
 Soft clouds run by in fields of air, — 
 Small sheep are they that Love displays; — 
 Come, shepherdess of milk-white days. 
 
 Come tend your flock where birches green 
 Shade banks of moss and flowers between; 
 Come where the running waters play, 
 For Life and Love are one to-day. 
 
 THE LAKE 
 
 Beside the lake I'll sit and watch until the linger- 
 ing day is done 
 
 The little dancing fleets go by, of silver sparkles 
 in the sun; 
 
 One little silver fleet sails by, and then goes on- 
 ward out of sight, 
 
 And others pass on endlessly, straight through 
 the blinding, shining light. 
 26 
 
Upon the narrow, shallow shore, the fluent waves 
 
 that come and go 
 Are making golden lace reflections on the pebbly 
 
 sands below; 
 
 The water spiders jump and dive down with 
 
 their bubbles, then they float. 
 Their concave water shoes so quaint like shiny 
 
 paddles to a boat. 
 
 The scattered flocks of fleecy sheep are lying in 
 
 the tranquil sky. 
 While down below beneath the lake yet other 
 
 small white sheep do lie. 
 
 WHERE RUNNING WATERS FLOW 
 
 In shelter of an ancient mill I'll build a roof of 
 
 hemlock bark. 
 And there I'll stay through shining suns, and then 
 
 through rains and wintry dark, 
 
 And listen to the constant rush of water over dam 
 
 and rock. 
 Where thought is lost in restless whirl, just like 
 
 a floating stick or block. 
 
 Caught in the swift, wild eddying tide, borne 
 
 onward with tumultuous flow. 
 That endlessly through sun and storm pours down 
 
 the darkening gorge below; 
 
 27 
 
Where winds and waters sweeping by chant 
 
 mighty diapasons deep. 
 In solemn tones of ebb and flow that lull the 
 
 brain to dreamless sleep. 
 
 Some day I'll build a wattled hut, and dwell 
 
 beside a singing stream. 
 To hear at night the chiming waves, far sounding, 
 
 ringing in my dream; 
 
 To rest me in its quiet bed, and let soft ripples 
 
 kindly flow 
 Around me with their gentle plash, and sweet, 
 
 continual murmuring low. 
 
 O running stream, dear rippling stream, come 
 
 near and sing a song to me. 
 Thou limpid waters, swiftly flowing, flowing ever 
 
 to the sea; 
 
 Sing of the laurel-shaded springs that shine as 
 
 clear as truest eyes. 
 Bordered with dewy moss and fern, and bluets 
 
 fallen from the skies; 
 
 Sing of the winds in willow trees that blow in 
 
 waves of light along 
 The countless, bending, whitened boughs, the 
 
 winds that breathe a whispering song. 
 
 And play all day with yellow birds and little gray 
 and olive leaves, — 
 
 The winds that toss the glinting hair of brown- 
 eyed maid with broidered sleeves; 
 28 
 
Sing of the pastures rich in bloom, where butter- 
 flies whirl in the sun, 
 
 Above the flowers of St. John, transformed from 
 winter's bronzy dun 
 
 To living, quivering gold and green, of interwoven 
 masses low, — 
 
 A net to hold the wandering flash of every sun- 
 beam's brightest glow; 
 
 Where large-eyed cows like timid deer stand 
 
 knee-deep in the waving grass. 
 And turn their long, reflective gaze on all the 
 
 merry folk that pass; 
 
 Where speckled trout are darting by over the 
 
 clean wliite gravel bed 
 Of running brooks and shadowy pools; where 
 
 bees are droning overhead; 
 
 Sing of azaleas bending down along the water 
 
 lanes to drink, — 
 Fair-petaled snow-wreaths flushed with rose; — 
 
 there is no other flower, I think. 
 
 So lovely and so white and pink, so darling and 
 
 so honey-sweet, 
 Threading the tangled way of stream for many 
 
 miles with dainty feet; — 
 
 I'd dwell within their greenery as safe as any 
 dryad of old, 
 
 29 
 
Transplanted to these later days from out the 
 happy age of gold. 
 
 O running waters, whispering wind, sing ever 
 
 on so soft and low, 
 And floods outpouring loud and deep, sing always 
 
 with your endless flow. 
 
 THE MESSAGE 
 Serenade 
 
 Sail on! thou swift and silent moon. 
 
 Through changing clouds of silver light: 
 Be not too swift, but stay thy flight 
 
 The while I ask of thee a boon. 
 
 Look down, I pray, from heights above, 
 Diana of the shining bow; 
 Let thy unerring shafts fly low. 
 
 Thy arrows tipped with moonbeams 
 white. 
 To bear this message to my love: 
 
 For me the murmur of the pine 
 
 Through the still, perfect summer night; 
 For thee the waters lapped in light, 
 For thee the surge of restless sea. 
 Though time and space have fought for thee, 
 They cannot part my love from me; 
 While earth rolls on and stars still shine. 
 My soul is thine and thou art mine ! 
 30 
 
EVENING PRIMROSE 
 
 Now the pale primrose offers up 
 Her precious golden cup, 
 Whence pure and heavenly odors flow. 
 (Golden censers from heaven swing low.) 
 
 Daughter of cloudy days 
 
 And quiet, untroubled ways, 
 
 Tall priestess of the Night and the still 
 
 moonlight, — 
 Her seven vestals without blame 
 Hold the seven golden candlesticks aflame. 
 (A wind from the mist, a little young wind, is 
 
 singing, singing low. 
 Sweet airs of heaven blow. 
 Golden censers from heaven swing low.) 
 
 THE DARK 
 
 Beloved Children of the wandering Air, 
 Spirits of twilight and the mist. 
 Fan me with rush of gossamer wings, 
 And sing to me thy cradle songs of dream- 
 less sleep; — 
 Wild elemental cadences 
 That rise and fall, and come and go. 
 And pass away, beyond, afar, in finer strains 
 Than those vibrations that record their rune 
 Upon the wind-swept harp of mortal ear. 
 
 Come and possess my soul, 
 O hovering, brooding Presence of the Dark, 
 31 
 
Stealing upon the spirit unaware, 
 
 Softly enfolding with the wings of Night. 
 
 Let gentle sighs waft down from murmuring 
 
 pines, 
 And breathe their tale of winds and waves 
 And mysteries old, — more ancient than tlie 
 
 earth : 
 Wrap me within thy heart of rest, 
 O Presence of the Dark, 
 
 That broods upon the troubled waters of my soul. 
 Bringing from tumult, peace. 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 Pale flowers of evening scent the cool, wet night. 
 Dark gleams from evergreens flash back the 
 
 passing light. 
 Clouds part, revealing to the sight 
 One large, lone star, remote and calm and bright. 
 Set high to watch and guide our dreams aright. 
 Fresh odors rise from the damp earth, from filmy, 
 
 fragrant ferns, 
 The springy turf yields to the tread. 
 The slender fingers of the pine shake down upon 
 
 the head 
 Great drops of benediction. Nature yearns 
 And ever turns 
 
 With outstretched arms and heart that burns 
 In flame of tender love, to clasp her" child. 
 And soothe to rest and sleep with notes both 
 
 sweet and wild. 
 
 32 
 
THE MUSHROOM LADY GOES 
 
 Mourn, streams and lanes and forest walks. 
 
 The Mushroom Lady goes; 
 She leaves behind the changing wood, 
 The yellow ferns, the autumn wind. 
 The hills in winter's purple veil. 
 
 The falling of the snows; 
 May kind fate send her back before 
 
 The coming of the rose. 
 
 SPIRANTHES 
 
 Pale, pure Spiranthes, faintly sweet. 
 From twisted stem looks up to greet 
 The wayfarer, where grassy lanes 
 Are cushioned soft for wandering feet. 
 
 33 
 
IN THE TENT 
 
 The wild black horses of the night, 
 Those steeds of wind and rain, 
 
 Sweep on in dark, tempestuous flight 
 Across the little plain, 
 
 That lies within the mountains' arms, 
 So gently lapped in vain. 
 
 Far, far away, like moan or sigh. 
 
 They come as breakers roll; 
 With whistling shriek they rush on by 
 
 Down to the raging shoal; 
 Down the dark gorge they disappear 
 
 And quiet for a breath is here. 
 
 Still on they come and on they go, 
 These troops of wind and rain; 
 
 The lantern flares and flickers low. 
 The stay-ropes creak and strain; 
 
 The tent roof flaps with angry blare. 
 Thunder gods roar with pain. 
 
 The storm is over, fresh air sweeps 
 
 In from the outer night; 
 Peace passes by and slumber keeps 
 
 Fair guard with dreams of light; 
 The angry blast has ceased to rave. 
 
 And we are safe and warm; 
 "None but the brave, none but the brave," 
 
 The brave deserve the storm. 
 34 
 
THE SWALLOW 
 
 Song 
 
 Swallow, to the home of the South Wind, my 
 swallow. 
 
 Why dost thou linger in the cold, whirling blast ? 
 
 Gather thy flocks, fly onward, fly fast. 
 Fly to the wide river, O iris-winged swallow. 
 And the day that thou goest then I will soon follow. 
 
 Fly to my little one, O shining swallow. 
 
 My little one with the heart of fire, ray love. 
 With the spirit of dew and the eyes of a dove; 
 By this thou wilt know her, swallow, my swallow, 
 And whenever thou findest her I will soon follow. 
 
 Fly to the orange groves, bright Autumn swallow 
 
 The petals are falling on her bonny brown hair. 
 
 The light winds are kissing her flower-face there; 
 
 Flutter and tell her, dear messenger swallow. 
 
 To the land where thou fliest there I shall soon 
 
 follow. 
 
 Sweetheart, he flies to the South, the bright 
 swallow, 
 And my heart flies after him out of my breast. 
 Flies swiftly to thee like a bird to its nest ; 
 O sweetheart, O true heart, watch for the swallow, 
 To the land of the shining wings I shall soon 
 follow. 
 
 35 
 
A NOVEMBER DANDELION 
 
 Flower of stars, O heart of gold! 
 
 Clinging to earth in fading grass, 
 Careless of all the biting cold. 
 
 Unheeding wintry winds that pass. 
 
 Gone the spiral stairway's trace 
 
 Where the white spiranthes climbed. 
 
 Gone the strange, pure saffron's grace. 
 
 Following where the frost bells chimed. 
 
 Indian summer's in the air; 
 
 A belated butterfly. 
 Little knowing time or care. 
 
 In the sunshine flutters by. 
 
 Swiftly Cometh frozen night: 
 
 Flower of stars, to dreams return, — 
 Goldfinches in beams of light. 
 
 Skies that smile and suns that burn. 
 
 FRIENDS 
 
 The wild hare leaps before my door. 
 In the sweet grass I find her form. 
 Her nest with babies brown and warm; 
 The squirrel keeps his nutty store 
 In the tall tree above my seat, 
 The tracks of little bounding feet 
 Mark all the snowy front-door path; 
 The startling zizz-z of mimic wrath 
 36 
 
Is heard from Carolina wren, 
 That dashes into homes of men, 
 Unknowing the way out again. 
 Pet cats, well trained in righteousness. 
 Curl in the sun, where snowbirds bless 
 The air with whir of cooling wings. 
 While Signer Catbird tilts and sings. 
 The phoebe, curious and demure. 
 Sits looking in my window, sure 
 Of safety and of comradeship; 
 The thrasher eats the softened bread. 
 The catbird stands upon his head 
 With many a nervous dip and flip 
 To steal my pokeberries; unknown 
 It is to him that flower was blown 
 And sturdy stalk and branch were left 
 For just this gentle, winsome theft. 
 
 The Golden Calf, whose beauty wins 
 Free title to her many sins. 
 Tosses the heaps of fresh-raked leaves 
 With mischief in her eyes; nor grieves 
 The mistress of this pampered beast 
 At wanton wreck of labor spent, 
 For from the greatest to the least 
 The beasties all pay willing rent 
 In love and service, well content. 
 With friendly word of tenderness 
 My face I hold in fond caress 
 Close to the bay mare's velvet cheek 
 (She only lacks the power to speak), 
 37 
 
And reckless of a future schism 
 Propound the newer catechism; 
 Ask, Why was man placed here below? 
 To love the creatures, that I know, 
 And make them happy as they go! 
 
 IMPRESSIONS 
 
 . J. November Days 
 
 Swift morning rays reveal a world transformed, — 
 The jeweled glitter of fine frost upon the tree. 
 The bush, the brier, the bending weed. 
 In bluish silver of the glistening grass, — 
 One moment here, then gone like lightning flash. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Far distant fires create a wreath of haze, 
 A pale blue smoke over the wreath of hills. 
 Weaving a thin, transparent veil on everything 
 
 that is; 
 A world invoked by Merlin's wand, intangible, 
 
 unreal, 
 That may at any moment disappear. 
 
 * * * 
 
 The dead-leaf brown and soft pale yellow of 
 perfect fallen leaves, 
 
 Piled thick in rustling carpets on the ground. 
 
 Absorb and quietly reflect the mellow light of 
 afternoons 
 
 From slanting sunshine through the sleepy wood- 
 lands bare. 
 
 * * * 
 
 38 
 
Pine needles in dull gold cover the trodden earth 
 
 And kindly cushion all the seats, 
 
 Inviting lazy folk to loaf: 
 
 And here and there a faint, elusive scent, like 
 
 heliotrope, 
 From sweet decaying wood and fragrant drying 
 
 grass, 
 Comes borne in sudden, unexpected waves on 
 
 the cool air. 
 
 II. November Eves 
 
 The orchid skies of still November eves 
 
 Play harmonies of color up above. 
 
 While down below small, dear familiar birds 
 
 Come homing back to sleep in shelter of the friend- 
 ly roof: 
 
 These flowers of heaven fade; swift silence and a 
 sudden dark 
 
 Drop like a garment on the resting earth; then 
 in a little space 
 
 The golden moon, a huge, colossal moon, a proper 
 courting moon. 
 
 Climbs up the branches of the trees and later 
 says Good night, peeping between 
 
 Enormous soft white feathery plumes that reach 
 across the sky. 
 
 39 
 
III. November Skies 
 
 The orchid skies that flush the quivering east 
 FHng out their last farewell to the dying west 
 In long celestial petals of light rose, 
 Rose-purples, tender gray, and mauve (all tints 
 
 and tones divine. 
 Repeated on the earth in rarest flower and shell), 
 Faint yellow, golden brown, and softest fawn, 
 And down below in level lines 
 A hint and flicker of a beryl green. 
 
 A few brown withered leaves, alone, and bare 
 
 stripped boughs. 
 Stand still as to be etched 
 In outlines dark upon the trembling eastern 
 
 heavens. 
 In the cool gray north the thick blue smoke is 
 
 curling up 
 Against the rich green wall of towering pines. 
 While in the fleckless southern sky, long hours 
 
 arisen, 
 The solitary, small, round moon is riding high. 
 Quite pale with love for the departing sun. 
 
 40 
 
IV. A December Dawn 
 
 The finger of soft silence on the sleeping world 
 Enwrapped in veils of mist; 
 Long lines of dimmest gray and dreams of rose; 
 A little thin-lipped, curving moon, a tenuous 
 
 thread of floss. 
 Companioned by the glorious morning star, and 
 
 following on, 
 A baby star just faintly breathing light 
 In yonder regions of the outer space: 
 All stillness waiting for the lingering morn. 
 
 AT NIGHT 
 
 No star-beam trembles down the skies. 
 The moon withholds her light; 
 The velvet hand of Night 
 Is laid upon the weary eyes. 
 While the vexed soul is folded calm 
 Beneath the brooding wings of Dark; 
 And Silence, in her passing fleet, 
 Leaves on the trail of silvery feet 
 Soft winds of odorous balm. 
 And distant, sweet Eolian strains. 
 Those evanescent, lost refrains 
 Forever wandering on the air. 
 To find some heart in waiting there. 
 
 41 
 
THE FESTIVAL OF THE FLUTTERING 
 WINGS 
 
 In that fair land upon the other side, 
 All in the soft springtime the people go 
 To their beloved cherry blossom fetes, 
 Where small pink petals shower down to earth 
 Like storms of butterflies, while on the boughs 
 Are pendant scrolls writ o'er with springlike 
 
 thoughts. 
 For flower-decked maids in rainbow robes to read. 
 No cherry blossom festival have we; 
 Our feast in cold and stern midwinter comes, 
 And scrolls are writ full large in hieroglyphs 
 Of seed and meal on many a window ledge. 
 For little people of the air to scan. 
 * * * 
 
 The feast is spread upon the window ledge: 
 The white-winged snow falls down most silently 
 And softly in large flakes, like many small 
 White birds that fly to earth; the snowbirds come 
 With fluttering wings, alighting on the tree. 
 The little tree that is their resting place. 
 Their fluffy feathers white like heaps of snow 
 Upon the limbs; they come in endless flight, 
 Blown through the air and dropping down to 
 
 earth, 
 As swift and silent as the falling snow: 
 Then to their feast upon the window ledge, 
 With pleasant chirp and long, uplifted look 
 To peer in through the glass; with hairlike trills 
 42 
 
And runs, and little jostles and short flights, 
 And flutter of small fans that open and shut. 
 As they keep coming, going, changing place, 
 A soft, bewildering whirl of drifting birds 
 And falling flakes, a storm of downy breasts. 
 Swift flights of feathered snowflakes through the air ; 
 The happy festival of fluttering wings. 
 
 TWO MORNING PICTURES 
 
 I. Winter 
 
 Snow on the ground, snow on the trees, the pines 
 And hemlocks huddled close for warmth and 
 
 company; 
 The near-by laurels tall and old, their few leaves 
 
 dark and glistening. 
 Their twisted limbs turned gray with ancient 
 
 lichen, white with snow. 
 Big with their fluffed-out feathers and sitting 
 
 all in rows, 
 For once in voiceless hush, eight calm, contem- 
 plative blue jays, 
 Their soft gray breasts turned facing to the east 
 
 to greet 
 The level rays of morning sun and feel their 
 
 warmth. 
 O harmony of white and blue and gray! 
 Soft gray and white on breasts, in little clouds above, 
 In shadows on the snow, in lichens on the laurel 
 
 limbs ; 
 Whitefeathers of the bird, white feathers of thesnow, 
 43 
 
Both lightly piled on evergreens ; a little turn of head 
 Or movement of the wings, a sunbeam's flash, — 
 And blue and purple filched from sky and sea, 
 From sapphires in the earth; the background still 
 Of mossy hemlock, slender tassels of the pine, 
 The dark and shining laurel leaves. 
 
 II. Summer 
 
 The morning hour, the upper room, 
 
 A call to look out of the window, and a window 
 
 framed 
 With tangled vines. Beyond, the grass ; above, the 
 
 boughs of oaks 
 That reach to the blue sky; just underneath, a 
 
 little garden spot, 
 All wreathed about outside with shrubs and tall 
 
 perennials 
 Like fond, protecting arms, 
 And safe within, some beds of flowers bordered 
 
 round 
 With a low and mossy sedum in rich green; 
 Everything freshly washed in sweet night dews, 
 
 bright with the morning sun. 
 Pansies were there, all radiant, rich velvet pur- 
 ples and dark blues. 
 And clear, light china blues, with sprinkling of 
 
 bright gold, maroons and deepest wines. 
 I looked below: within the charmed circle of the 
 
 pansy bed. 
 That fairy ring of mossy green, were five blue jays, 
 44 
 
Blessed with a virtuous desire to add to this rich 
 
 wealth 
 Of glowing color, all their fair fortune of infinitely 
 
 varying blues, 
 From darkest shade to lightest tint, their dashes 
 
 of black and white 
 And cloudings of tender gray; while pressing close 
 
 about, 
 Dreamy and wondering, were velvet pansy faces 
 
 looking up 
 In mild astonishment; — a choice mosaic, jewel-set, 
 Right in the very heart of all the summer's greenery. 
 
 A SOUND OF THE NIGHT 
 
 I leaned far out into the night, to seek 
 
 A wandering sound, a small ghost of the air. 
 
 The dimmest starlight shone, — more like a glim- 
 mering dark, — 
 
 The fresh, damp wind swept by, 
 
 The rush of falling waters smote the ear and died 
 away. 
 
 It was the earliest morn in that late month 
 
 When winter dreams of spring, 
 
 Preceding by the hour the lusty crowing of the cock 
 
 And by the many weeks the swelling chorus of 
 the dawn. 
 
 The winged minstrels of the night seek other 
 climes. 
 
 They dwell not here; 
 
 And yet there came a note blown hither by the wind, 
 45 
 
At first the faint, sweet shadow of a sound, 
 Brought forth at intervals from tall treetops 
 That climbed the hill beyond; a long and low 
 
 melodious note, 
 A softly sliding, wavy curve of sound, 
 In tremulous uncertainty 
 From songster half asleep, 
 And faintly thrilling with the pulse of coming 
 
 spring. 
 It melted away in night, a slight, elusive breath. 
 Quite fit for that fine ear which heard the growing 
 
 of the grass. 
 
 It came again and many times again. 
 
 And at far distant intervals; 
 
 And now with tiny, tentative roulades and timid 
 breaks, 
 
 In haunting sweetness like heavenly higher notes 
 
 Of violin, so tender and unutterable; 
 
 The very soul of gentlest love and longing: 
 
 Then thrilling sweeter still and clearer yet, 
 
 And sweeping through a fuller curve of song, always 
 most soft and low. 
 
 That flowed on for a moment and each time 
 was lost 
 
 In rushing winds and waters, their long pulsa- 
 tions intermingled 
 
 In throbbing and receding waves; 
 
 Mighty recurrent waves of sound, half-silences, 
 and lingering sleep. 
 
 46 
 
A COBWEB OF PALE FIRE 
 
 The round, low-lying moon of early morn 
 
 Had reached its fullest splendor, and then shot 
 
 its beams 
 All through and through the branches of a tall 
 
 young pine, 
 And lo! a miracle; as if they were transformed 
 
 into the web 
 Of some gigantic spider, who for once 
 Had laid aside all laws of weaving webs. 
 And in confusion thrown the threads across; 
 Then with a flaming torch had touched 
 The last frail, lacy, lovely mesh with glittering 
 
 sparks and lines 
 Of palest golden fire. 
 
 TO THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS 
 
 Farewell! but not for long; I come again to thee! 
 
 Blue, heavenly blue, are thy far distant hills. 
 And distant far the heart that turns to thee; 
 No siren songs borne drifting on light wind 
 Nor beckoning arms that gleam through sunlit spray 
 Were ever soft-alluring as thy waving lines, 
 Tender, ineffable, mysteriously fair. 
 
 One who has long-time breathed the rarer breath 
 Of thy sweet air, fresh from the winds of heaven, 
 That thrills the blood like draught of amber wine, 
 Or dwelt beside thy forest broidery 
 
 47 
 
Of myriad blooms flushed with the rose of dawn, 
 
 Loved thy primeval hemlocks and thy pines, 
 
 And thy great laurels in the shadowy ways. 
 
 Glistening with silver light beneath the moon; 
 
 Heard the wild, merry plash of mountain streams. 
 
 And wakened to the fluting u-o-lee 
 
 Of brown wood thrushes answering to the morn: 
 
 One who has climbed thy lofty mountain tops. 
 
 Sat with creative powers a little space 
 
 And seen the home whence wandering clouds go 
 
 forth; 
 Watched the sharp lightnings flash from peaktopeak. 
 The chasing shadows and the shifting lights 
 Play on thy granite walls and verdant slopes. 
 Until the eye most gently led along 
 Rests yonder on the wide, unnumbered waves 
 Of distant hills, like far-off summer seas: 
 
 O such a happy one. 
 
 Who for these many years has lived with thee 
 And loved thee thus, may say to thee farewell 
 But for a time: the soul that leaves thee now on 
 
 wings of haste 
 Will be drawn back to thee again, as wandering bird 
 Returns to chosen haunts while life doth last. 
 
 Thou fadest from my sight; 
 Home, love, and distant hills all melt aAvay 
 In softest lines of heavenly blue. 
 Farewell, O dearest hills, but not for long; 
 My heart turns still to thee; farewell, I come again ! 
 48 
 
DEAR MOTHER NATURE, 
 TAKE ME BACK 
 
 Great mother of us all, whose boundless state 
 Of rare delights and treasured golden lore 
 Thou ever dost reveal to those beloved, 
 Sweet mother, hear my cry, take me once more 
 On thy dear, cradling breast that in the days of 
 
 yore. 
 Those long-remembered days, has pillowed soft 
 
 thy child: 
 O mother, mother dear, 
 Who once was always near, 
 Why hast thou cast me off and why forgot ? 
 The flowers have ceased to bloom for me, the 
 
 birds sing not. 
 The trees no longer whisper, and the stones 
 And little streams, they vdll not speak to me: 
 Thy child is sick at heart and wearied and dis- 
 traught. 
 All things have failed me now, all come to naught. 
 
 49 
 
Dear mother Nature, take me back and hold 
 
 me fast; 
 Let wild, soft eyes 
 Keep kindly watch in mild surprise, 
 Let fine, sweet winds of heaven sing faint airs 
 Around my head; let fragrant pines that cast 
 Long, cooling shadows breathe their resinous 
 
 breath 
 Of healing near; 
 
 50 
 
Blue sky and starry night, 
 
 The moon's pale, strange, transfiguring Hght, 
 
 Let them shine out and drive away all darksome 
 
 fear: 
 Thus cradle me and hold me fast. 
 And so I shall be thine at last. 
 With listening ear close to thy heart until that 
 
 day 
 When, earth to earth in still embrace, I shall be 
 
 thine alway. 
 
 51 
 
EARTH SONGS 
 
 Fear, sorrow, fain, — they shall hut pass; 
 Joy comes, but withers like the grass; 
 What then remains? — remains the soul. 
 Still striving toward the final goal. 
 
 Memory 
 
 Within the unknown boundaries 
 Of an enchanted land, oh! far away, — 
 And looking out on sunny shores 
 Where white-foamed waters play, 
 Dim caves are faintly sounding 
 Sweet echoes from a bygone day. 
 
 53 
 
EARTH SONGS 
 
 55 
 
LIFE AND LOVE 
 
 The springs of Life and Love lie deep, 
 
 They have one source; together shall those waters 
 
 ever rise, 
 Together flow; for Love is Life and Life is Love. 
 The love of woman or of man. 
 The love of God or love of child or love of race; 
 The love of good or even love of ill, 
 Which often is the love of good but gone astray; 
 The love of birds and beasts, of the fresh earth 
 So old from everlasting, yet so young 
 With swift heart-beatings of eternal youth; 
 Or love of home and place, of sky and sea; 
 Or love of toil, the toil of body or of brain, — 
 Or love of children of that toil. 
 The dear results of labor, pain-begotten, 
 Or shadow-children of the brain and heart; 
 Or love of visions always flitting on 
 Beyond our grasp, and after which we ever run 
 
 and pant 
 With aching arms outreached to clasp them close. 
 That ever us elude: 
 
 These our heart's Loves are but our Life; 
 Life without Love is Life-in-Death, 
 Love without Life, — that cannot be, for Love 
 
 is part of Life, 
 Love intermixed and unresolvent, thrilling, puls- 
 ing with the blood. 
 Love breathing with the breath, unconquerable. 
 Love all-enfolding, interpenetrating, informing 
 the living spirit of all things, 
 57 
 
Here, heretofore, and ever after 
 Through eons yet to come. 
 
 THE DEVIL'S HUNTING 
 
 The devil rides out a-hunting to-day 
 With his hounds and servitors; 
 Their fangs are lusting for the feel of flesh. 
 They are hot with desire to snare and enmesh 
 My feet in their nets, their thirst to slake 
 In my heart's red blood; to rend and break, 
 To crush and slay as the devil may. 
 The devil and all his servitors. 
 
 I will hie me forth to a tender wood 
 Where the shade is kindly and the light is good. 
 The light that falls in small gold coins 
 On beds of moss and banks of myrtle. 
 Fit for Maid Marian in her green kirtle. 
 
 I'll seat me within a fairy ring 
 
 Mid a circle of scented fern. 
 And the devil may ride and twist and turn. 
 
 But never will he learn 
 The slightest trace' 
 Of my velvet -green, deep hiding place; 
 For the little birds that are on the wing. 
 The little birds that light and sing. 
 They weave a circle in and out. 
 
 Bird magic, there's no doubt; 
 58 
 
A curtain of fine flutterings, 
 
 And soft, cool whir of silver wings, 
 
 A murmur of heavenly things, 
 
 With flashes of golden eyes 
 And gentle looks of kind surmise. 
 Songs and trills and shivers of bliss, 
 So sweet that the angels would not dare miss. 
 
 This curtain of sight and motion and sound 
 
 Falls around 
 From blue sky above to mossy ground, 
 And the devil cannot ride within. 
 The bluejay drops his feather before 
 
 The vine-embowered door; 
 When His Honor sees that, he may not pass, — 
 
 Sure sign for him, alas! 
 That he may turn back the way that he came. 
 With his hounds and his servitors and his evil name. 
 To do his hunting and rend and slay 
 On another day 
 
 And another way than this. 
 
 THE SINGING MONK 
 
 It was a legend old that like green moss 
 Clung round the cloistered walks and gardens fair. 
 Where long, long years ago the singing monk, 
 Whose heart was love and voice was winged joy. 
 Sang on until he passed from mortal sight. 
 
 His soul was filled with beauty of all time 
 And all things of all lands were his; for him 
 59 
 
Old Pan played low the pipe while nymphs did dance, 
 Arcadian shepherds fluted to their sheep, 
 And festal feet pressed out the willing juice 
 From purple grapes ; for him were blossoming buds 
 And nesting birds, and all the sweet delights 
 Of ever changing year; earth, air, and sea 
 Poured wealth of hidden treasure at his feet. 
 Until his happy soul, too full of bliss. 
 Cast bonds of silence off and bourgeoned forth 
 In long-restrained song, like century plant. 
 That after many years of patient growth 
 At last is crowned with bloom. 
 
 So while he trod 
 The quiet closure of the garden ways 
 Or labored tenderly with distant vines. 
 And laboring, ever sang unto the earth 
 And sky in soaring notes, exultant, sweet. 
 Like nightingale when singing to the rose, 
 The other monks would cease from barren toil 
 To hear the strains that stole away their hearts, 
 And filled them with a new, mysterious thrill 
 Not often found in monkish orisons. 
 
 And so he sang, and singing, disappeared. 
 The far sounds floating back from sunlit trails 
 Of mist as he went on. Since then, whene'er 
 A nightingale in his excess of joy 
 Fills all the fragrant, palpitating space 
 Of the still night with liquid melody. 
 The listener near ofttimes will cross himself. 
 And whisper low, "It is the singing monk." 
 60 
 
THE SEEKER 
 
 All the days, 
 
 Far wandering she went, with wide, sweet look, — 
 
 Heart-set upon the weary, immemorial search 
 
 For that which is not here. 
 
 That claims the Earth-born, spirit-led; — 
 
 While ever winds blew cold. 
 
 And blinding mist drove on her eyes. 
 
 But now, even this hour. 
 
 She fell upon the open way that streamed awhile, 
 
 A narrow lane of light from Pleiades, 
 
 For that we loved her well and longed to keep 
 
 her face. 
 We drank to her in cup of rue 
 And sped her on with tears, 
 The deep, slow chiming of the bells, and, 
 
 thickly strewn, 
 The fragrant flowers of grief. . 
 How she fared, 
 
 Whether the golden apples of the Hesperides 
 Or ruby blaze of Sarigreal rewards her quest 
 (For she was bred of Earth and Flame), 
 We have not heard. 
 
 ONLY IN DREAMS I SEE THEE 
 
 In dreams I may possess thee, 
 In dreams my heart is thine; 
 
 In dreams thy soul comes near me 
 
 And answers back to mine. 
 
 61 
 
Only in dreams I see thee, 
 Thou art not of the earth; 
 
 These arms shall never clasp thee, 
 No land has given thee birth. 
 
 Thou art a shape of hopes and loves, 
 
 A vision of the air, 
 A frame of high imaginings. 
 
 Of tenderness and care. 
 
 No form compact of mortal flesh, 
 No locks with golden gleams, 
 
 Can ever hold my heart away 
 
 From this dear maid of dreams. 
 
 A ROOM IN JUNE 
 
 A place of sifting sunshine, gold-green lights 
 That play with shadows; of moon-haunted nights; — 
 The heart of peace and rest; 
 A cool, green, leafy nest 
 Of vines uplifting in the wind that blows 
 And carries with it sweetness from the rose. 
 The spicy, silvery-carmine rose of June; 
 Sweetness that ever is in tune 
 With flute-like melody of song 
 At dawn-time, even-time, and all day long 
 From brown wood thrushes in the thickets near; 
 Dear, gentle birds that have not learned to fear, 
 Dear song from heart of joy close to a tear. 
 62 
 
TULIPS 
 
 In brave array they stand serene; 
 
 Nor heat nor cold, nor &e of frost 
 Disturbs their free and radiant mien; 
 
 Through all spring's cruel holocaust 
 No spot has marred their silken sheen. 
 
 Their shape is like a Grecian vase, 
 A curve of beauty, fine and bold, 
 
 Suggesting by its subtle grace 
 
 Long-buried urns now worn and old. 
 
 Rare keepsakes from that elder race. 
 
 Their leaves are wavy like the sea. 
 Their color as the heart of flame; 
 
 Through weary days they speak to me 
 
 Of that fair garden whence they came. 
 
 Of days that nevermore may be: 
 
 Of vines upon a sheltering wall, 
 
 A long, straight path, the scent of box; 
 
 Of gracious women, stately, tall. 
 
 And gossamer girls with flying locks, — 
 
 Young butterflies; — ah! past recall. 
 
 And still they sway on slender stalk. 
 And with a subtle air retrace 
 
 The beauties of that garden walk, 
 
 Restore that lady's winsome face. 
 
 Her starry eyes, her sparkling talk. 
 
 The maidens in bewildering grace, 
 
 The glamour of that garden walk. 
 63 
 
LIFE 
 
 The skies are blue, the boughs still green. 
 
 The vines with crimson drest. 
 The birds are singing in the trees, 
 
 My heart sings in my breast; 
 But the winds that stir among the leaves 
 
 Fill my soul with a faint unrest: 
 For now the winds tear down the leaves, 
 They sweep and swirl and scatter them. 
 
 They work their own behest; 
 And the thoughts that flit across my brain 
 
 Fill my soul with a deep unrest. 
 
 The year is fair, the year is ripe, 
 
 But the year will soon be dour; 
 November rains will soon fall fast. 
 
 Her skies no longer lure: 
 And youth is gone; — with hidden face, 
 As one who yields no further grace. 
 The wraith of age inexorable 
 
 Slips by with flying feet. 
 Swift as the blast that whirls the leaves. 
 
 Chill as November sleet. 
 
 As this gray specter flees from sight 
 
 Dark sadness falls like rain, 
 And sudden questions pierce my heart; — 
 Will age be cold and drear as night, 
 A gloom which sets the soul apart, 
 
 Dead joys, lost hopes, and bitter pain. 
 Or a thrice blessed presence bright, 
 64 
 
A spirit fair, whose inner light 
 Time strives to dim in vain ? 
 
 A crimson leaf still hangs atwirl; 
 
 The winter boughs have birds 
 That flit and preen, and chirp and sing 
 
 Songs sweet as any words; 
 So the harsh winds may rave and rack, 
 
 My soul sings with the birds. 
 December skies are often blue, 
 
 December clouds are fair; 
 And farther still the eye can reach 
 
 Through winter's purpling air. 
 
 O life is good, and life is sweet, 
 
 Her willing hands are full of dower; 
 Her gifts, she cannot take them back; 
 
 More years mean greater power. 
 So hail to her and all she brings. 
 
 Love, sorrow, joy, and wider vision; 
 Drink health to life in life's clear wine, 
 
 And toss the dregs out in derision! 
 
 O WIND FROM WESTERN SKIES 
 
 Song 
 
 O wind from western skies. 
 Blow over the grass-scented meadows low; 
 In faint, rosy clouds the day now dies, 
 With ripples of sound the small brooks flow; 
 My lady comes, 
 My love so sweet. 
 Blow strains of fine music around her feet, 
 65 
 
Let every elfin breeze 
 Float petals down from blossoming trees 
 Where the white clovers dwell with the golden 
 
 bees; 
 Blow a morrow of sunshine through the quiver- 
 ing air, 
 Bring hither kind joy, nor remember dull care. 
 
 Wild winter winds, blow fast 
 Through raging storm, through snow and 
 
 rain ; 
 Sweep all before your mighty blast. 
 Leave wreck and terror in your train: 
 My lady dear, 
 Thou art so near. 
 All folded safe and warm within my arms and 
 heart, 
 
 'Tis sunshine of the summer where thou art: 
 Blow on, wild winds, ye cannot reach our nest. 
 Your threatening terrors do not pierce my 
 breast. 
 
 Blow, winds, and do not rest. 
 And weep, sad winds, that Death has found 
 
 our nest; 
 The bough was broken and the bird has flown : 
 Draw nigh and wail and sigh about the hearth 
 so lone. 
 
 All ye that hither come, 
 Bow low the head, 
 My lady's dead, 
 66 
 
Like pale, closed violets are her soft eyes; 
 Down deep in the cold earth she lies. 
 Under the heavy earth, 
 
 Who once was warm 
 And sheltered from the storm: 
 The birds that sang erewhile have now forgot to 
 sing. 
 
 The flowers no longer bloom and joy has fled; 
 Grieve, mournful winds, that time has given 
 
 you birth. 
 And pray, ye sobbing pines, — my lady's dead. 
 
 COMPREHENSION 
 
 Smile of lip and gleam of eye. 
 Love an instant passing by, 
 Comprehension drawing nigh. 
 Now or never, who can seize it, who can find it. 
 With what subtle chains of feeling hope to bind it. 
 Hold this sparkling, thrilling moment as it flies ; — 
 Words that quiver, thoughts that burn, 
 Heart revealing, man to man. 
 Will that moment ne'er return ? 
 Bind it, keep it, ye who can. 
 Gone forever like the flash of summer seas 
 Or the silver edge of morning on the trees: 
 Ray of light and gleam of eye. 
 Rare, swift moment passing by. 
 No, they never will return; — 
 Nature is a hopeless cheat. 
 Hearts and eyes may not repeat. 
 67 
 
THE COMING GUEST 
 
 One dolorous year and a day 
 
 Since Happiness went away, 
 
 When the skies dropped down in leaden gray; — 
 
 What sorrow none may say. 
 
 But now, since yesterday 
 
 (Sad Heart, O look for rest), 
 
 In panic, dark-browed Grief, 
 
 The ever ravening guest. 
 
 Makes ready to flee away; 
 
 For this pale, ashen jade, the unconsidered thief 
 
 Of iridescent hours, of malefactors head and 
 
 chief, 
 This tattered, sullen tramp of Hell, 
 This dour, unbidden guest knows well. 
 In all her shame and late distress. 
 That such as she with Happiness 
 May never hope to dwell. 
 
 For now, since yesterday, 
 I know (the wonder, who may say ?) 
 That Happiness comes again this way: 
 For I hear the sound of her feet. 
 She is coming with step more fleet 
 Than the coming of April rain. 
 Awaking the buds that have lain 
 Under the wintry sleet; 
 And I hear the rush of her wings 
 As the murmur of waters afar, 
 68 
 
As the carol of a bird that sings 
 In the dawn to the morning star; 
 And I see the blessed light that springs 
 From the rose and pearl of her heavenly wings. 
 That softly gleam like a silver bar 
 As she comes to me from a land afar. 
 
 She is coming, so fleet, so sweet. 
 
 And I may enfold her again 
 
 And kiss her elusive feet. 
 
 That fly from the sons of men; 
 
 I may hold her an hour and a day, — 
 
 If longer, who may say? 
 
 For her faith is but vain 
 
 As the flash of the April rain, 
 
 And her wanderings follow afar 
 
 The trail of that errant star 
 
 That comes and goes 
 
 With the year and the snows; 
 
 Though I coax her she may not stay, 
 
 Not even an hour and a day! 
 
 THE VOICES 
 
 One is singing all the night long, 
 One is calling in the wind song, 
 One is waiting all the day long. 
 Crying, "Come away!" 
 
 O the longing and the grieving, 
 Heart of me, 'tis soon I'm leaving, 
 69 
 
O the weary night deceiving, 
 O the weary day! 
 
 For the restless heart of sorrow 
 Finds no solace in the morrow, 
 Finds no joy the night can borrow 
 From the sullen day. 
 
 Voices rustling in the green leaves. 
 Voices murmuring when the night grieves, 
 Voices sobbing where the sea heaves 
 Its white, quivering breast. 
 
 They are whispering in the pine trees. 
 They are wandering on the green leas, 
 They are moaning from the far seas. 
 Crying sore distrest. 
 
 One is calling all the night long, 
 And I'm leaving with the wind song, 
 All the way the fireflies dim throng, 
 Leading to the rest 
 On the earth's cold breast. 
 
 AN OLD GARDEN 
 
 Thou old-time garden spot, from what fair land 
 Of memories dim dost thou come back to haunt 
 My soul with visions of thy peaceful ghosts 
 And all thy dear enchantments long since past ? 
 Before me rise in faint, recurring shapes 
 The mysteries of thy labyrinthine paths, 
 70 
 
Thy beds of round and crescent moons, box-edged. 
 And sweet with scent of other days and years; 
 With masses of cool hyacinths within, 
 Blue violets that play at hide-and-seek, 
 And lily-of -the- valley's hanging bells; 
 Forget-me-nots that dream of love and truth 
 Near jeweled musk that breathes of Araby the 
 
 blest. 
 And crimson-spotted lilies brought from far Japan. 
 
 Snapdragon old and crown imperial 
 
 Were there, with monkshood grave and aster gay, 
 
 Soft foxglove and the wholesome marigold. 
 
 And polyanthus meek though velvet-gowned; 
 
 While close beneath the thickset, sheltering hedge 
 
 Of arbor- vitae green, crept myrtle banks 
 
 And southernwood, lad's love of men and maids. 
 
 Fair borders stretched their fragrant lengths along 
 Where mignonette and pale moss rose did grow. 
 With columbine, the honey-spurred, and balm 
 Beloved of wandering bees, and hollyhock 
 In silken dress; these were the old-time blooms 
 Whose ever swiftly changing colors made 
 The long and bright procession of the year: 
 And often midst these flowers, like butterflies. 
 Were many children of the village, free 
 To breathe fresh odors to their hearts' delisrht. 
 And hold their little hands out to be filled 
 All full and running over with these sweets. 
 Beyond were orchards, heavy with their fruit, 
 71 
 
And grassy meadows sloping to the streams 
 That ran, twin threads of silver, through the green, 
 And every morning offered up their praise 
 In mists that rose to heaven; 
 
 While in the heart 
 Of this new budding growth, this throbbing life. 
 The owner of these purest summer joys. 
 That white haired man of will inflexible 
 And sad religion of most austere mold. 
 Blossomed with love of flowers and tender youth 
 As you have seen some dark gray granite cliff 
 All fringed with drooping ferns and starry sprays 
 of white. 
 
 CAVALIER AND PURITAN 
 
 The Cavalier was debonair. 
 And not for him was jealous care, — 
 The passing moment was too fair; 
 His hopes and loves, his joys and woes, 
 Were like a full-blown damask rose; 
 The tides of life ran swiftly there, 
 Rose-red they blushed on cheek and flower. 
 The Puritan, sternest of men. 
 Though solemnly the passing hour 
 Tolled Life and Death from tall church tower. 
 Though winter moons might come and go, 
 For him the springtime breathed again 
 And flowers of love bloomed rarely then. 
 The while he watched the mayflowers blow 
 All rosy -sweet by a bank of snow. 
 72 
 
BELOVED GHOSTS 
 
 Dear, silent ghosts of sounds that come no more. 
 The dying footfalls on the echoing floor, 
 Dear, shadowy people ever gliding through 
 Deserted haUs and fading from our view; 
 They wander in and out, finger on lip. 
 Dim forms inscrutable, that cannot slip 
 One little word, only a longing gaze, 
 For all remembrance of earth's tender ways 
 They dwelt among, those other happy years; 
 A tremulous sigh, thin gleam of pearly tears. 
 Light sorrow mid their joy that past all reach 
 Are human love, soft tones of human speech: 
 Then on through distance gray, through waver- 
 ing wall, 
 They fade, like olden song with dying fall. 
 
 Fair, spacious chambers stand in loneliness. 
 Where sweet bells faintly tolled lure from duresse 
 Those evanescent shades of filmy air 
 That crowd in weaving, shimmering throngs, 
 
 most rare 
 Presentment of the forms held safe apart 
 Within the close-shut petals of the heart, 
 — Like honey-bee in center of a rose. 
 Well guarded from each wanton wind that blows, — 
 Where we may keep the holiest and the best. 
 Those who have ceased from toil and found 
 
 their rest: 
 Yet still they strive with tender, wistful arms, 
 73 
 
And longing look and quivering alarms. 
 To reach us, fold us in beloved embrace. 
 As we fold them and find but hollow space. 
 
 Far sounds of ancient harp, and, long-time mute. 
 The voice of spinet and of silver flute, 
 The song of maiden slumbering by the stream 
 Whose gentlest flow may not disturb her dream. 
 The sacred lullaby from mother-heart 
 Of heaven-born child in manger laid apart. 
 Fragments of prayer first said at mother's knee. 
 The little dreams, falling from dreamland-tree. 
 These, lightly floating, trembling through the air. 
 Without, within, beyond and everywhere. 
 Are lost in night with fading forms so dear; — 
 Only frail cobwebs, empty doorways here, 
 Cold, watery shafts of moonlight through the 
 
 panes. 
 Dear footfalls vanishing like springtime rains. 
 
 MY SAINT: C. L. C. 
 
 The still, soft splendor of thy face, 
 Like diamonds set in platinum, 
 
 With mildest sparkle, winning grace, 
 
 Gleams out in pale moonbeams that come 
 
 To play within thy silver hair 
 
 And flow in glittering halo round, 
 
 While with caress the charmed air 
 
 Moves gently by without a sound. 
 74 
 
Thy perfect head, — O blessed sight. 
 
 Like some sweet saint with loving eyes, — 
 
 In beauty shines upon the night, 
 
 Where light against the shadow lies. 
 
 The small, straight nose is comely yet, 
 The tender mouth breaks in a smile. 
 
 The crowding years may still forget 
 The peace upon that brow awhile. 
 
 In slender shape thy spirit fine 
 
 Burns clear through every glowing curve. 
 Like silver lamp in holy shrine 
 
 Of alabaster, set to serve 
 
 Gray pilgrims praying in the night. 
 
 Dust-worn and laden with their grief: 
 
 * * * 
 
 O lovely pilgrim, heaven's light 
 
 Has given thy sorrow glad relief: 
 
 O fair and sacred one, Christ love 
 
 Thee ever as thou hast loved me, 
 
 And may he always kindly watch 
 
 The days that lie 'twixt me and thee. 
 
 THE VICTORS 
 
 The wind is singing, for the night is o'er. 
 The night of battle and the tempest's roar; 
 The bells are ringing, for the night is done; 
 75 
 
Now praise to Jesu, and his name adore! 
 With the salt foam dripping and wounded sore. 
 Death's pale sea-riders forevermore 
 Are driven afar, and the fight is won. 
 
 The bells are ringing, and the snow-white shore 
 Is just beyond, and the opal door 
 Is open wide in the dawning sun. 
 
 The night is fleeing, the day begun, 
 
 The hordes of Evil swiftly run. 
 
 And the victors kneel on the golden floor. 
 
 On the golden rim of the snow-white shore; 
 And they ofl^er up their praise before 
 The face of him who forevermore 
 Is Light in darkness. Moon, and Sun. 
 
 The wind is singing on the curving shore, 
 For the hills of morning are just before, 
 And the breakers dash on the sunlit floor; 
 O wild sea horses of wreck and gore! 
 You may leap and strain, but nevermore 
 Will you reach the knights, whose battle is done. 
 
 The castle walls crown the hills that are won, 
 The walls are shining in the ruddy sun. 
 The palms are waving by the crystal run. 
 And the victors march through the opal door. 
 
 The wind is singing, for the night is o'er. 
 The bells are ringing from the curving shore, 
 76 
 
The palms are waving by the opal door, 
 And the knights are crowned, for the fight 
 is won. 
 
 CONFESSION 
 
 Dear Lord, we daily cry to thee 
 
 x\s beggars asking alms. 
 Always imploring thee to fill 
 
 Our empty, uplifted palms; 
 
 Continually we turn to thee 
 
 From each hour's wrong and blight, 
 
 As children to kind parents flee 
 For refuge from affright. 
 
 We chant our litanies of wo. 
 
 Forgetting in our pain 
 That streams of countless blessings flow, 
 
 Free as the gentle rain. 
 
 Thy pardon, Lord, we now beseech, 
 
 And may we ever raise 
 Altars within our willing hearts 
 
 On which to offer praise. 
 
 TWO SOULS 
 
 Two mortals lived upon the earth; 
 Their bodies dwelt within one house. 
 Their souls were far apart; faults little worth 
 The heeding, and ever, from Love's birth, 
 
 77 
 
Dull, stammering speech, thoughts held in 
 
 thrall 
 Of long accustomed silence, buiit a wall 
 High as the heavens between. 
 
 Two souls met in the upper air 
 
 And stood transparent; to their gaze 
 
 Each to the other then laid bare 
 
 All feelings oft concealed; thoughts jQashed 
 
 swift rays 
 Like lines of fire at set of sun. 
 Said one: 
 
 "Thou art that soul for whom, those days 
 
 On earth, I long did seek and wait, 
 
 With yearnings lone, unutterable; my chosen 
 
 mate 
 Decreed from time's beginning; now, though 
 
 late. 
 My heart has found its bliss." 
 
 The other answered, "Down below. 
 
 Through all the saddened years. 
 
 So full of hopes and fears and tears, 
 
 Under the rooftree of one house 
 
 We two have dwelt together, nor did know 
 
 That joy stood unrevealed between, 
 
 Waiting to grant the bliss 
 
 Which our lone, sundered hearts did miss.'* 
 
 78 
 
THE JERUSALEM CHAMBER 
 OF THE SOUL 
 
 The days that pass, pass on again, o'erfull of 
 
 moil and strife, 
 That struggle old with things of earth that men 
 
 at times call life; 
 Like hapless ants disquieted that hurry to and fro 
 And clasp their burdens tight, nor think to let 
 
 them go, 
 So clasp we close our daily cares, nor ever let 
 Them grant surcease of one swift moment's fret. 
 Lest we might happy be. 
 And with our souls go free. 
 
 As some frail, tender bird, borne down at last. 
 Is beaten low to earth by angry blast, 
 Or torn by ravening dogs till plumy wing 
 Can never rise again nor sweet throat sing; 
 So like this piteous bird in cruel case. 
 Outstripped and broken in life's heartless race, 
 The lone white spirit that dwells apart within 
 Is torn and rent by the black hounds of sin 
 And care and trouble, greed and lust for gold, 
 Strife and deceit and misery untold. 
 
 O waiting angel of most gentle peace, 
 Come fluttering swiftly down with kind release; 
 Brood like a mother dove with sheltering wings 
 Until the wounded spirit soars and sings. 
 
 79 
 
In some Jerusalem Chamber of the soul. 
 Long years forgotten, most remote and fair, 
 Take thine abode. Wide open to the golden air 
 Its eastward windows quickly throw; let in 
 Sweet murmuring thoughts like bees in fragrant 
 
 linn. 
 The heaven's light, the long, low, slumbrous roll 
 From wash of far white waves in the eternal sea, 
 The Sea of all things hoped for Yet-to-Be. 
 
 SHADOW DANCE 
 
 Fear, sorrow, pain^ — they shall but pass; 
 Joy comes, but withers like the grass; 
 What then remains? — rem,ains the soul. 
 Still striving toward the final goal. 
 
 The light swings by, the torchlights fall 
 In golden flare upon the wall; 
 With wavering dance the shadows all 
 Fling lacy weavings on the wall. 
 
 They follow, follow, — forms untold, — 
 
 In arabesque on walls of gold. 
 
 In slender trellised arbors old. 
 
 In strange grotesque of human mold. 
 
 Soft, wistful shapes of grace aspire. 
 
 In beauty as a flame of fire. 
 
 Dim shadows of all earth's desire. 
 
 80 
 
The shadows fall like quivering rain. 
 
 They pass and come and pass again; — 
 
 Seize them! put forth your strength amain! 
 
 For pleasure, lust of eyes, detain 
 
 This beautiful, fleet shadow-rain: 
 
 — As well to hold the wandering strain 
 
 Of song that musically drips 
 In mellow sound from those red lips. 
 As light that from the finger slips. 
 Or shadows ever in eclipse: 
 
 Light that, eluding, swiftly goes. 
 Shadows that melt like wreath of snows. 
 Vanishing as the wind that blows 
 The pale, strewn petals of the rose. 
 
 Hold fast the shadows of the night, 
 Or clasp that shimmering stream of light, — 
 Then hope by wish or will of might, 
 Love's divination, blessed rite. 
 
 To hold the spirit of thy friend, 
 That lone and fearsome thing to bend. 
 Or dream with it thine own to blend; — 
 A flitting shadow to the end. 
 
 It comes to meet thee as the light. 
 It vanishes into the night; 
 Elusive, glides within the sight, 
 Then steals away in mad affright. 
 * * * 
 
 81 
 
Slow winding with the rhythmic grace 
 Of sacred dance on antique vase, 
 Mysteriously the shadows trace 
 Their silent way and changing place; — 
 Now faster, wilder in the chase, 
 With love-lit or averted face. 
 
 Quick! see their endless, whirling dance; 
 Blithe Song and Laughter, faery Chance, 
 Sorrow and Pain and Circumstance, 
 Dark, venomed Hate with dripping lance. 
 And leprous 111 in grim advance. 
 
 Again they come, again they pass; 
 Dear Love and Faith and Hope, — alas! 
 No more than moonlight on the grass 
 Hold we these shadows as they pass. 
 
 Young Joy comes piping at thy call. 
 With straight-limbed maidens, fair and tall; — 
 But trooping shadows, phantoms all. 
 Just passing shadows on the wall. 
 
 Black Lies, the toad, with monstrous sprawl. 
 Iron-handed Death, to hold in thrall 
 That which thou worshipest, thine all, — 
 Nothing but shadows on the wall. 
 
 * * * 
 What ill-bred fantasy is here ? 
 What fateful Dance of Death is near? 
 But whirhng phantoms, — never fear. 
 For Life is what you make it, dear, 
 82 
 
And Death is what you make it, too: 
 Sweet Life, with Hope forever new. 
 The Christ to follow, love the true. 
 Stern Hate defying, with the blue 
 
 That shines above, it will suflSce, 
 And thus we find our Paradise. 
 Through generations, at a price 
 
 We make our Heaven and Hell. O maid, 
 With look of dreams, yet unafraid. 
 Let not your courage be betrayed. 
 That ancient, transitory shade. 
 Older than Eve! the lights that fade 
 In dusky glooms on yon green glade 
 
 Are not more keen to pass. Be bold. 
 Though cruel, fleeting shades more old 
 Than earth, than driven mists more cold. 
 Steal dancing by the walls of gold 
 And disappear, still we hold 
 
 Our Heaven in hand; guard well: the drear 
 And dun, sad skies grow bright, we hear 
 Songs of the future drawing near. 
 The bonds are broken; Self and Fear, 
 
 Like trooping shadows, flee before 
 The Light that broadens more and more. 
 While Death is but an Open Door 
 Through which with winged bird we soar. 
 S3 
 
THE CONSTANT LOVERS 
 
 /. The Lament 
 
 Come back to me, sweetheart, in the wild gray 
 
 dawning, 
 
 When the wind shrills by in the pale yellow light, 
 
 Or come with the mist cloud that walks in the 
 night ; 
 For long have we wandered, in morning, in 
 
 gloaming, 
 Far down the green forest ways hand-in-hand 
 
 roaming. 
 
 But now thou art gone in thy beauty and might. 
 
 And the wind harps are mournful that wail 
 on the night. 
 
 Down through the still valleys long were we 
 straying, 
 Over wind-swept hill places when skies were 
 
 star-bright. 
 By rivers that sang and through meadows of 
 light; 
 Through the snow-wreaths of winter, in the 
 
 spring's happy Maying, 
 Ever onward together where the west winds were 
 playing. 
 Hearing faintly Earth voices, fine runes of the 
 
 night, 
 Singing softly Earth heart songs, low sounds 
 of delight. 
 
 84 
 
O where art thou, sweetheart, and where may I 
 
 find thee ? 
 
 In the wild, raging storm or under the pine, 
 
 Beneath the warm earth or by lonely wood 
 shrine ? 
 Art thou lost in the darkness, does the noonday 
 
 glare blind thee, 
 Art thou under the waters, have the cold waves 
 
 confined thee 
 
 In their prison so deep, below ripples that shine ? 
 
 Art thou held in the night by wan spirits malign ? 
 
 Thou wilt come again, sweetheart, in the wild 
 dawning; 
 
 Why art thou still silent, why givest no sign ? 
 Though yonder pale star be the last home of 
 thine. 
 Yet soon I shall find thee, in morning, in gloaming. 
 Soon through the deep forest again we'll be 
 roaming; 
 By the wandering stream, by the sea's tossing 
 
 brine. 
 Wherever thou art, thou art mine, thou art 
 mine! 
 
 11. The Search 
 
 Through forests immemorial. 
 By reedy fen, in meadows pied, 
 Under the silence of the stars. 
 Across the lonely desert wide, 
 85 
 
I long have sought, I cannot find; 
 
 Only the soughing of the wind 
 
 Breathes answer from the waste unkind. 
 
 Beneath the wings of Night I go 
 To that far, frozen, glittering field 
 Where icy caves blue shadows throw, 
 Where streams of gold forever flow; 
 Or where the lone Himalayas yield 
 Strange vision from their crests of snow: 
 Then will I search through unknown seas. 
 In deep abysms of the earth; 
 Or do fair cities, heavenly leas. 
 In all the dim, unreckoned girth 
 Of Space Beyond, where stars have birth. 
 Hold thee a happy, wilHng guest ? 
 Onward I go in sorrowing quest. 
 Like wind-blown leaf fast driven by. 
 With Pain and Terror often nigh; 
 Still ever on until the end. 
 Though Joy may be an unknown friend, 
 Though grief of years my brow has lined; 
 But when and where shall wandering feet 
 Bring me where Joy and Sorrow meet. 
 Where rest my bleeding heart may bind, 
 Heart of my Life, when shall I find ? 
 
 MELANCHOLY 
 
 Sad, darkened pathways, faintly traced, 
 After the sun of joy has set, 
 86 
 
Thread troubled vistas, interlaced 
 
 With tortuous limbs that never let 
 
 The light of hope shine through. 
 
 Despoiled of foliage that once graced 
 
 Their ravined, dying boughs; the rue 
 
 Of bitterness all that is ever seen, 
 
 In this most doleful spot, of earth's rich crown 
 
 of green. 
 Gray shapes of sorrows and of fears. 
 Of memories and of burning tears. 
 Haunt shadowy forests dank with dew; 
 Dim, silent forms uncertainly flit through 
 Between the saddened cypresses and yew 
 Planted o'er graves of visions long since dead; 
 The croak of the night-raven overhead. 
 And crimson drops of blood below 
 Expressed from the heart's juices, tell the wo 
 Of those who ever this lone way may go. 
 
 Beyond are foul miasms, slimy, creeping things, 
 
 Harsh flapping of great wings 
 
 From strange and songless creatures of the air, 
 
 Rank, noxious weeds of hatred and despair; 
 
 The deadly efflorescences of crime. 
 
 The poisonous, pallid fungi of all time; 
 
 Deluding marsh lights wane; the hollow boom 
 
 is heard 
 From some lone bird; while evermore 
 A sudden deep and angry roar. 
 Or fixed, unwinking glare of cruel eyes 
 With following look from out the gloom, 
 87 
 
And moans and sighs and echoing cries. 
 Impel the wanderer distraught on to his waiting 
 doom, 
 
 Down, down they go, sad souls without relief. 
 Each moving on alone in voiceless grief. 
 Alone in shadow of their wo, too crushed to 
 
 weep, 
 Down to the black and bottomless pools of the 
 
 still deep, 
 Its sullen surface undisturbed by any breath, 
 Peopled by formless, moveless life-in-death. 
 Where poignant sorrow, minished happiness. 
 Swift, fleeting joy, and all calamities terrene, in 
 
 the last stress 
 Of life and time, obliterate themselves in one 
 
 quick leap 
 Beneath the silent waters of oblivion merciless. 
 
 CONTRASTS 
 
 I. Fate 
 
 A waste of lonely waters without a shore. 
 
 Wide, burning desert sands; 
 
 Grim giants that you meet 
 
 With helpless, shaclded hands; 
 
 Deep pitfalls for blind feet; 
 The sphinx who sits in silence, and before. 
 Straight in your path, the awful cyclone's roar. 
 
 88 
 
//. God's Care 
 
 The eternal listening of an infinite ear, 
 
 The sweet telepathies of winged minds; 
 Soft hovering of airy forms so near. 
 
 The careful weaving of blind destinies; 
 Safe sleep at night within a Father's arm, 
 
 A Father's care wherever we may roam, 
 With loving hand outstretched to save from harm, 
 
 And silken leading-strings to guide us home. 
 
 BENEDICITE 
 
 For all the ages past 
 When life was but asleep. 
 When monsters swam the deep 
 And held the earth. 
 When generations had their birth; 
 When forests grave, mysterious, in awful spaces 
 vast. 
 
 Reared sculptured pillars through the watery 
 
 air 
 Above the floor of rush and fern; 
 For thy great palimpsests laid bare 
 In rocks reluctant, old and stern, — 
 Grim records of heroic mold and slender line; 
 For all thy works so manifold, most rich, most 
 
 fine. 
 Fires on the altars of our praise shall ever burn, 
 O Lord above; praise for this wondrous world 
 of thine. 
 
 89 
 
For all thy stars so fair 
 That shine through summer night, 
 For thy swift messengers of light. 
 The air, the winds that blow, 
 The waves that murmur low. 
 For odors sweet and sounds that chime through 
 
 ringing space, 
 For butterflies and flowers and birds that sing 
 
 their grace, 
 For stately greenwood tree and moss in gTassy 
 
 sward. 
 For these thy daily gifts of earth and air, we praise 
 thee. Lord. 
 
 With tapestries the world's wide walls are hung. 
 Where magic figures faint and bright are woven o'er 
 The Web of Days, and shot with threads of 
 gold; 
 Shapes that depict the fabled mysteries of old. 
 And strange, beguiling histories with ardor told 
 In musty manuscript and tome; 
 The fireside tale of tribes that roam. 
 The chants that wandering bards have sung. 
 The garnered wealth and store of Time's most 
 precious lore 
 
 Since man possessed the earth. 
 Warriors and nomads, minstrels and sages, 
 
 Down through long ages 
 From tradition's earliest birth, 
 Send us the word. For messages of peace and 
 sword 
 
 That come to us, we praise thee. Lord. 
 90 
 
For wholesome Toil we render praise, and for 
 
 the zest 
 And ardor of accomplishment, and after, welcome 
 rest: 
 
 We praise thee for the common joys so sweet 
 That gently, like gray doves, oft flutter round 
 
 our feet: 
 We praise thee, Lord of Good and 111, for Grief 
 
 and Pain; 
 Sad sisters they, but sunshine follows after win- 
 try rain. 
 
 As a fond mother chides, then folds her child 
 
 In happy arms of love : 
 We praise thee too that out of Sin and Crime 
 There spring some flowers of Virtue; that 
 above 
 
 The dragon of the slime 
 Some bright and strong Saint Michael hovers 
 ready for the thrust 
 
 Which makes for the world's betterment; 
 and so, 
 That all these ministers of Life, most sad and stern. 
 Do oft against their lust, 
 Which is to rend and burn. 
 Serve purposes of thine, and speak thy word 
 To heart of man, we humbly praise thee. Lord. 
 
 AND AFTER? 
 
 In that lone house where all things are forgot, 
 Where love is turned to dust, 
 91 
 
Where hate is naught but rust, 
 
 Joy unremembered, power and grief forsworn 
 
 That silent house where friends come not, 
 
 Where living from the dead are torn; — 
 
 Look, there he lies. 
 
 Who once beneath her sunny skies 
 
 In joy and beauty walked the earth, 
 
 And ever from his birth 
 
 Of wealth and honor knew no dearth; 
 
 Now in the narrow house, down deep 
 
 Below the strife, below the happiness, the sleep, 
 
 Deaf to Love's piercing cry 
 
 Which cannot wake the dead, 
 
 Unheedful of the echoing tread 
 
 Of friend or foeman passing by. 
 
 Of life no spark, no faintest germ. 
 
 Food for the tree and brother to the worm, 
 * * * 
 
 The spirit, once so gay and debonair. 
 
 Through what uncharted seas, what strange, 
 
 dim ether rare, 
 Has it explored the way ? Or does it sit 
 With sorrow bowed. 
 Where fires of remorse are lit 
 By torches of old revels ? Or on a loud 
 And wailing wind does it pass by 
 Dear, well -remembered places with a sigh. 
 Still longing for the swift return of morn, 
 A hollow ghost, affrighted and forlorn ? 
 Perhaps it dwells 
 With tender, holy loves of old 
 92 
 
Beside sweet waters flowing to the sea, 
 
 In some enchanted land whose mystic spells 
 
 Of utmost beauty ever hold 
 
 The song of bird, the flower, the tree: 
 
 Or does it delve down far and deep 
 
 For records that the centuries keep. 
 
 Searching through all the heritage of time 
 
 For legend, science, rune and rhyme. 
 
 For knowledge, wisdom, truths untold. 
 
 Even as the miner seeks for gold ? 
 
 What work falls to its lot. 
 
 What days remembered or what time forgot? 
 
 What dawn of love that fadeth not. 
 
 What rose of joy or sad gray rue of grief. 
 
 What calm for restlessness, of pain what quickrelief ? 
 
 The meed of bliss or doom of wo, who knows ? 
 
 That mortal question since the sun first rose 
 
 On man: I wot not; only this, God knows. 
 
 THE SOUL'S QUEST 
 
 This night my soul fares forth alone 
 
 To enter realms of the Unknown: 
 
 My body, which I now deride. 
 
 Once my strong manhood's tower and pride. 
 
 Too long, like a usurping slave, 
 
 Has held my mind beneath the wave. 
 
 Now brought full low, to turn to dust 
 
 It stays on earth, as bodies must. 
 
 My soul, released this unquiet night. 
 Flies past the pale and watery light 
 93 
 
Of a thin, aged, waning moon: 
 
 On, on it hastens, late or soon 
 
 To seek through cosmic fields of space 
 
 Beyond the star mists her whose grace 
 
 Of spirit lightly held the rein 
 
 Through the long years, — and not in vain. 
 
 I seek and I shall find her; then, — 
 
 But to break forth in song again. 
 
 Together ever to aspire 
 
 With ever growing hot desire 
 
 To conquer space and time, to read 
 
 The tale of ages, and to speed 
 
 With tireless wing toward regions far, 
 
 Beyond the dim, remotest star. 
 
 SALUT! 
 
 {Alfred Dreyfus; July, 1906) 
 
 Alone before the world he stands, white-haired. 
 Pathetic, grand; the patient victim for long years 
 Of bitter racial hate, of madness that like a 
 
 tidal wave 
 Swept over a great nation: 
 The scapegoat on whose inoffensive head 
 Was laid the burden of their secret sins. 
 By those ill souls of doom now fallen low 
 Into the final glooms of deep disgrace; 
 At whom the wagging finger of all time 
 Shall ever point in deadly scorn. 
 94 
 
And he, who with colossal strength of will 
 
 Kept heart and brain in steady grasp 
 
 Through all the fires of hell. 
 
 And then, pain-scarred and marred, 
 
 Came to the sweet, fresh upper air again. 
 
 Back to the glowing fields of France; 
 
 He, once dishonored, smote upon, but late restored 
 
 To honors manifold, with upright soul rejects 
 
 The passionate satisfaction of revenge. 
 
 His fingers do not itch for any balm of gold. 
 
 His only thought for justice and for France, — 
 
 Still there he stands, heroic, undefiled. 
 
 Fit to receive the waiting honors of the world. 
 
 The world salutes thee, Dreyfus ! thee, too, France ! 
 
 Full many a weary year has her great heart 
 
 Longed for this hour ; her veins throb fast with joy 
 
 At this large reparation, noble though late. 
 
 Sweet joy that France has come unto her own 
 
 again, 
 Her kingdom of the Truth, all robed once more 
 In goodly garments of unspotted white. 
 
 HORUS EVER WEIGHS THE 
 NAKED HEART 
 
 Lo! for these many years I have said 
 That naught but bitter fruit could ever come 
 From wilding trees and barren soil. 
 It is not so. 
 
 Think not that black heredity and sad environ- 
 ment 
 
 95 
 
Shall always drown the soul in mire. 
 
 As one may see a tender flower, most pure and 
 
 fair and white, 
 With silken petals frail that tremble to the kiss 
 
 of wandering wind, 
 And this flower springing up to heaven's light 
 
 midst trash and filth. 
 And closely intertwined with ugly weeds: 
 
 So have I seen a soul 
 
 Rise from the nethermost slime of sin that from 
 
 its birth 
 Encompassed it about, till later years 
 Brought it to higher ground; — ^for many grades 
 
 there be 
 Of misery and dirt and wickedness; — 
 And this soul opened out its petals fair 
 To every wave of influence from humankind 
 And the great heart of nature, so that it grew 
 Into a larger purpose, a wider generosity each day, 
 An eagerness and thirst for knowledge, a finer 
 
 use of brain 
 Applied to daily tasks; a passionate love 
 For all the outdoor world, with eye most quick 
 
 to see: 
 All this the fruit of barren soil, the flower of 
 
 mire and filth; 
 And if some darkening spots defaced its purity, 
 
 what then ? 
 If but a single virtue come, hke blossom white. 
 From this black ooze, thank God. 
 96 
 
Soul, dare not judge. 
 
 Why look for wide-eyed truth and utter honesty, 
 
 And all sweet charity of speech and every other 
 virtue. 
 
 From those who never breathe the upper air? 
 
 One tiny bloom from thence shall far outweigh 
 
 A milhon fruits from richer garden soil. 
 
 Then where art thou, my soul ? 
 
 Why boast thy petty righteousness, but borrowed 
 from 
 
 Some line of just forbears, some happy circum- 
 stance ? 
 
 Naught will avail to vn-ap thyself in richest robes. 
 
 For Horus ever weighs the naked heart. 
 
 "And On the Fourth Are Men With Groioing 
 Wings. " Tennyson: The Holy Grail. 
 
 When once the gods made man 
 
 They put within him eyes that he might see. 
 
 They gave him little hidden wings to grow, 
 
 That he might soar into the sky; 
 
 They placed within his soul a little song, a bird 
 
 within a cage, 
 For him to set it loose and float it free 
 Upon the willing air of heaven. 
 
 In after days the gods looked down 
 
 Upon the earth to see what they might find : they 
 
 saw 
 A swarm of little naked men, all stooped and bent, 
 97 
 
Their eyes fixed on the sand, from which they 
 
 picked 
 Small shining particles to hoard with greed, 
 And over which, these worthless sands, they ever 
 
 fought and snarled 
 With hoarse, discordant sound to gain possession : 
 Above them in the air were creatures with great 
 
 wings, 
 Wings grown for wrong and ill, for hate and wo; 
 Huge forms that made black shadows on the earth; 
 Foul shapes they were of dragon-men, 
 Forever casting down on men below 
 Strange fires that burned and ran 
 With fierce and twisting torture like consuming 
 
 fiends. 
 And bomb-like balls, that, bursting, spread afar 
 The stifling fumes of death. 
 Swift mowing down the helpless folk 
 As tender grass blades fall before the scythe. 
 
 But now and then among the little men 
 
 Were those who looked not down forever on the 
 
 sand. 
 But gazed on the green earth and flowers and trees, 
 And with full breath exultant cried 
 Unto their fellows, "Lo! the skies are blue;" 
 But these were deaf, they would not heed, and 
 
 still they looked 
 Upon the sand, nor ever even knew 
 How that the great, bright sun shone in the heavens : 
 While others then set loose the little songs within 
 98 
 
their hearts. 
 Filling in some sweet places the air all full of 
 
 melody 
 As if from singing birds : 
 A few had grown their wings all shining like the 
 
 light, 
 And in the air were fighting with the dragon-men ; 
 When these white souls prevailed sweet flowers 
 
 sprang everywhere, 
 While some with soaring wings drew down the 
 
 stars ; 
 They were but few. 
 The gods looked on it all, they could afford to 
 
 wait. 
 
 So time went on; 
 
 And as the gods looked down from age to age 
 
 They ever saw more men that stood upright and 
 
 looked into the sky, 
 More men that gazed upon the grass, the trees, 
 
 the stars. 
 And fewer fought upon the sands, and fewer 
 
 dragon-men blotted the face 
 Of the bright sky with their foul wings ; and little 
 
 bird songs flew about. 
 And ever sang themselves in places everywhere; 
 
 and men with flying wings 
 Shining as white as drifting clouds went floating 
 
 through the air, 
 And there were many such. The gods looked 
 
 on and smiled. 
 
 99 
 
"Some day," they said, "there will be more. 
 We can but wait." 
 
 PEACE ON EARTH 
 
 The kingly splendor of the rising morn 
 Ushers the day on which the Christ was born; 
 The star is dimmed and set that shone erewhile, 
 But soft-eyed Peace with wistful, heavenly smile 
 And brooding wings yet hovers o'er the earth 
 As in that far-off day of wondrous birth. 
 With longing sweet, perpetual, in her embrace 
 
 to fold the world, 
 And see in all the teeming lands her silken ban- 
 ners fair unfurled. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CHIMES 
 
 Carol 
 
 Sweet as music of the spheres. 
 Chiming softly down the years. 
 Rang the song in mortal ears, 
 Christ is born on earth to-day. 
 
 Ring those happy chimes again, 
 Sing those peans now as then, 
 Christ has come to mortal men. 
 Let celestial trumpets play. 
 
 Crush the hate, the scorn, the strife, 
 Love and joy shall spring to life; 
 100 
 
Now shall happiness be rife. 
 Peace on earth, good-will to men. 
 
 Christ the Lord comes down to-day; 
 In your hearts now let him stay, 
 Sing that happy song alway, 
 Christ is born to earth again. 
 
 Christ is born on earth to-day. 
 Let celestial trumpets playl 
 Peace on earth, good-will to men, 
 Christ is born to earth again. 
 
 THE HOLY CHILD 
 
 The night was still and white 
 
 When holy Love came down. 
 
 And in the sacred manger laid 
 
 His little shining head. 
 
 To sleep his first soft baby sleep 
 
 In that sweet, lowly bed. 
 
 The Babe, the Wonderful, 
 
 The Lord of Life and Light, 
 
 Forgot his scepter and his crown. 
 
 Forgot the heavenly meadows bright, 
 
 And cooed and smiled and played. 
 
 And gazed in Mother Mary's face, 
 
 With all the lovely baby grace 
 
 And dimpled mirth 
 
 Of any happy child of earth. 
 
 101 
 
And now the radiant mother holds 
 The glory of this wondrous child 
 Close to her breast, so warm and bare; 
 With gentle arms of love enfolds, 
 And veils him with her glittering hair. . 
 What shadow of the future lies 
 Upon this holy pair? 
 And can it be the mother's eyes. 
 Eyes of gazelle, so softly mild. 
 Grow large with somber, frightened stare, 
 And rest upon a vision wild 
 Imprinted on the shivering air ? 
 
 Watch kingdoms of the world forsworn. 
 The feeding of the multitude. 
 The water flushing into wine. 
 The stilling of an angry sea; 
 The sacred grove, the withered tree, 
 The little home in Bethany; 
 The Pharisee, who sits in scorn, 
 The woman, beauteous and forlorn, 
 By love's repentance torn; 
 The midnight watch, the thief, the cross, 
 Terror and flight and tears like rain. 
 The quaking ground, the skies that lower, 
 The blackness of the fatal Hour, 
 The rending of the Veil in twain. 
 Love living, dying, for the world, 
 Love's agony for thee and me. 
 For mine and thine, — O Love Divine! — 
 Love reaching down through endless years, 
 102 
 
Love giving joy, Love quelling fears, 
 
 Love going with us all our days. 
 
 Love leading through the darkened ways. 
 
 O child of heaven. Holy One, 
 Desire of Nations come to earth, 
 Light of the World and Life of men, 
 We hail the glory of thy birth; 
 With shepherd and with Eastern mage. 
 On bended knees we fall. 
 Adore thee, O thou Wonderful, 
 Thou everlasting King of Kings, 
 And love thee ever best of all. 
 
 QUATRAINS 
 
 I. Threads of Gold 
 
 Is thy Soul's Room most dark with inward strife 
 And draped in gloom with tattered grays and old. 
 
 Then turn to glowing day the Web of Life, 
 And find it shot with rose and threads of gold. 
 
 II. Time's Arrows 
 
 Time's arrows piercing through the armored hide 
 
 of years 
 
 May often find some vulnerable spot; 
 
 And after careless ease thick fall the tears 
 That death on time's fair page should leave one 
 
 bitter blot. 
 
 103 
 
///. Glorias 
 
 The tender Glorias of the day 
 
 Are morning mist, soft evening air; 
 
 For praise the bluebird's matin lay, 
 While bending grasses bow in prayer. 
 
 IV. Promises 
 
 Of fruits whose juices rare rich wines distil 
 The swelling buds with ardent prophecies 
 are rife; 
 
 And virile prime mature doth oft fulfil 
 
 Fair promises of youth in vernal tides of life. 
 
 V. Tears 
 
 Tears are never far away 
 From the light of happiest day; 
 Tears that fain would lurk and hide 
 Where ethereal joys abide. 
 
 104 
 
LAUREL LEAVES 
 
 105 
 
THE SONNET 
 
 To the Masters of Song 
 
 Pray, what may a sonnet be? Frail gossamer 
 Of dream-stuff spun by lovers in a night 
 To hang forever sparkling on Time's bough; 
 Divinely lucent nectar, amber-hued. 
 And glowing in a precious jeweled cup, 
 Once poured on high Olympus by the gods. 
 Who passed it down that men of earth might 
 drink. 
 
 A sonnet is an idyl of delight, 
 A priceless miniature set round with pearls, 
 A laurel wreath, a garden ivy-walled, 
 A fadeless blossom in a crystal glass: 
 
 The blooming earth of graves where one may lay, 
 With pomp funereal and many sighs. 
 Love that is dead and tattered plumes of Hope 
 That once were flying wings; a violin. 
 The Stradivarius of the world, whose strings 
 Are ever the torn heart-strings of a soul 
 Whereon are played the rhapsodies of Pain: 
 The deathless plaint of Love in thrall, denied, 
 The peal of Love Triumphant, the cloud-rent 
 Through which there gleams the vision uttermost 
 Of Life and Death, of Earth and Hell and Heaven. 
 
 * 
 107 
 
Over the light and stillness swept along 
 
 The thrilling strain, the one supernal note. 
 That issued from the silver-fluted throat 
 
 Of some rare singer of enchanting song; 
 
 In breathless quiet sat the listening throng 
 To hear those undulations rise and float, 
 Celestial sounds as memory ever wrote 
 
 To dwell in lingering echo, sweet and strong: 
 
 So these great lords supreme of Song and Rhyme 
 Soared far above their daily happy flight, 
 And sang the Sonnet, born of joy and tears, 
 Sang it with rapture in the ear of Time 
 In all that rhythmic upper air and light, 
 
 To ring forever down the changing years. 
 
 THE POET'S SONG 
 
 The poet crowned with deathless bay. 
 
 Beloved of Aoede, sings 
 
 In tones of many voices like the sea. 
 
 That breathe as full and free 
 
 As the birds' glad greeting to the opening day. 
 
 The morning choral from a thousand throats; 
 
 But while he floats 
 
 With silvery wings 
 
 On the responsive waves of air 
 
 His lambent notes. 
 
 He ever sings one song to me, another song 
 
 to thee: 
 And when he strikes the sacred lyre 
 108 
 
As only he may dare, 
 
 His soul aflame with madness of desire 
 
 To reach the universal heart 
 
 Through his inspired art, 
 
 The listening ear of one most thrills 
 
 To the deep, mellow undertones, another 
 
 bends in rapture fine 
 To catch the sweet and faintest trills: 
 Thus always with these words of thine, 
 O poet, though the line 
 
 May chant of love or hate, or work or fate, 
 Though thou shalt sing thy song to her 
 Who is thy polar star 
 And worshiped from afar, — 
 Each vibrant heart must be its own interpreter. 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 O rare, embodied song, 
 O dulcet, joyous notes that climb 
 Through ardent skies in day's young prime; 
 Shakespeare foreshadowed thee that time 
 He made the lark to sing at heaven's gate. 
 For thee the ancient gods have held high state; 
 They found thee by Castalian streams 
 And filled thy days with golden dreams, 
 To thee they granted bright Apollo's lyre. 
 Thy tongue they touched with sacred fire; 
 Thee, whom they loved, they slew, 
 For that they grudged their gift of thee to men, 
 And so, through sea and rainbow flame. 
 They drcAV thee upward to themselves again. 
 109 
 
TO SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Thy golden words flow in, flow out, 
 
 Enrapturing all the air about. 
 
 As sweet and riotously free 
 
 As the mocking bird's wild, happy lay; 
 
 As heavenly high and far away 
 
 As- the voice of wandering winds that play 
 
 Remote from earth in the lone pine tree; 
 
 Near as the kiss of wooing breeze 
 
 From fragrant fern beds where we dream at ease; 
 
 Pellucid as some lake with pools in shadow lying. 
 
 With lingering waves in silver ripples dying. 
 
 Swift, glancing colors, dancing lights, 
 
 Or sparks that softly shine in dark of starry 
 
 nights : 
 While all thy song 
 The whole day long 
 Is rich and full and running over 
 With rarest joys for sound's dear lover, 
 And flashing with those thoughts that in the 
 
 early morn 
 Of moonlit hours in silent peace are born, 
 And after in men's hearts lie buried still and deep 
 As the wealth of hoarded treasures that the rob- 
 ber sea doth keep. 
 
 110 
 
MACDOWELL'S BROOK 
 
 To the Lady Who Plays (Mrs. J. H. S.) 
 
 Streams celestial lightly run 
 With low sound of tears and laughter, 
 Crooning bird songs following after. 
 While the dancing, smiling sun 
 Flashes on the running water. 
 
 Presage of the coming years 
 Brushes past the fount of tears. 
 
 Singing winds, first lingering. 
 Softly rush on silver wing 
 Through lacy boughs hung over all; 
 And rocks where little riffles run 
 Toss upon the sparkling sun 
 Crystal drops that leap and fall. 
 
 Crystal chords of memory 
 Smite the air, and faint and die. 
 
 Ill 
 
SONNETS 
 
 113 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 "And so," you say, "the sonnet is a little master- 
 piece, 
 
 A glowing bit of choice perfection, wrought 
 
 In loving frenzy by the artist's hand; 
 
 Then why do tyros meddle with the Master's 
 brush, 
 
 And daub the ivory ? Why tempt the sacred gods 
 
 With air of fine presumption ? " 
 
 First you shall tell to me 
 
 Why wanton children always pluck apart 
 
 The petals of the rose, why boys must fool with 
 fire. 
 
 Slim youths and bright-eyed maids play battledore 
 
 And shuttlecock with hearts; wherein doth lie 
 
 The nameless fascination of forbidden fruit; 
 
 Then will I tell to you 
 
 In secret place and under cover of the awful dark, 
 
 With many adjurations and strange words, 
 
 Why tyros play with sonnets. 
 
 115 
 
FANTASIES 
 
 The burdened air thrills with a vague unrest, 
 The little winds know not which way to turn, 
 And whimper low; dim fires of desire burn 
 With wavering flare and flicker as possessed 
 Of elfish longings grievous and oppressed. 
 That clutch at the soft heart in wild concern 
 For boons to earth unknown, joys yet to learn 
 Beyond all joy that life has yet confessed. 
 Frail, haunting memories flit through the brain. 
 Strange, flying throughts sweeter than summer 
 
 rain, — 
 Thin, airy ghosts of days that have not been 
 And happy shades of days we may not see; — 
 Soul throes and strivings to pierce through the 
 
 din 
 And stress of ages past and time to be. 
 
 116 
 
STRIVINGS 
 
 In dear illusion from the meadows green 
 Upsprings the rainbow's arch; the pot of gold 
 Is ever on beyond, and hope grows old 
 In long pursuit of joy unknown, unseen, 
 Of whose bright glory one may only glean 
 Soft sparkles and a glimmer; days untold 
 The footsteps follow after visions cold 
 Of full achievenjent nigh, that mock the keen 
 And swift desire; they follow visions fair 
 That once within the grasp but fade in air; 
 So ever on up wintry steeps the chase. 
 And still that radiant jfigure veils her face; 
 Still that divine unrest burns in the soul 
 That tells of whence we come, whither the goal. 
 
 117 
 
TWILIGHT 
 
 For thee no more the heat and blinding glare 
 Of life's full noon, the sad, fantastic whirl, 
 The throngs that press in maddening dance and 
 
 swirl 
 Of unrelenting struggle, cruel care; 
 Receding far away the trumpet's blare, 
 The trampling tread, the din and strife; unfurl 
 The flag of thy surrender, and impearl 
 Those tears within thy heart : Time will not spare. 
 Seek some calm twilight under sheltering eaves, 
 Where in soft glooms of Autumn's mellowed leaves 
 Dark silence, like a river of delight, 
 Flows gently round the unillumined eyes, 
 And joys elusive, on the edge of night. 
 Come fluttering, flying home as daylight dies. 
 
 118 
 
PORTRAIT OF MRS. WHEATON, 
 BY ALEXANDER 
 
 Thou sittest as thy wont in quiet state, 
 Thine eyes down-dropping in reflective gaze; 
 Perchance thou dost return through winding maze 
 Of hfe's dim path to seek thy long-lost mate, 
 Thy friends so well-beloved, who have of late 
 With willing steps tried shining, unknown ways, 
 And still thou lingerest on the trail of days 
 Full of fair joys vouchsafed by kindly fate. 
 Where'er thy thoughts may stray, from some 
 
 calm bowers 
 Of thy soul's peace there comes a holy light, 
 Perhaps from memory's far lands, whose hours 
 Are always golden, always sweet and bright; 
 Or does the future lend its heavenly grace 
 To the soft radiance of thy tender face ? 
 
 119 
 
THE SEA 
 I 
 
 For many years the hills, and now the sea! 
 Heart of the elder world, whose rhythmic beat 
 Close to the kind Earth Mother's breast, through 
 
 heat. 
 Through cold, through solitude and night, flows 
 
 free. 
 Flows ever to the swift heart beats of me 
 And these thy lovers; in thee the ages meet. 
 And Time, the laggard, sits at thy white feet, 
 Forgetting all the days in thrall to thee. 
 Eternity stooped down to touch thy brow, 
 Sang in thine ear her wordless monotone. 
 Which thou, in deep, sonorous repetend. 
 Soundest unceasingly until the end 
 In the waiting ear o' the world, always thine own 
 When first the waters found their depths and now. 
 
 120 
 
n 
 
 Mother of Mysteries, thy secrets keep 
 Darkly in hidden places, where the spell 
 Of silence hovers round, save what may tell 
 Those mutterings and murmurs in thy sleep 
 Concerning old adventures of the deep. 
 And crimes unguessed, echoes of ancient knell, 
 Dim coral treasure caves thou lovest well. 
 And gardens of wild beauty, terraced steep 
 Down to that under world, where thou dost hold 
 Thy galleons and heaps of stolen gold. 
 What Viking's funeral flames once lit the West, 
 Whose ashes long have strewn thy heaving breast ? 
 What dead do nourish thee whom thou hast wed ? 
 Nay, let it pass; sirens must have their dead. 
 
 121 
 
m 
 
 For thou art old and wicked, though most fair, — 
 
 Mistress of wiles; and Helen thou hast seen, 
 
 Thy dimpled waves have smiled on Egypt's queen 
 
 And caught her starry glance, and Sappho's bare 
 
 White arms entreated thee; naught can impair 
 
 Those final charms they lent thee; deathless mien 
 
 Of beauty, lone, inscrutable, serene, — 
 
 Wild song and stormy passion, all are there; 
 
 And so thou art half siren, with a heart 
 
 Throbbing from lost Atlantis; under ban 
 
 Of good and evil; sibyl old thou art; 
 
 Thou only and the voice of violin 
 
 Can utter forth the restless soul of man, 
 
 His wrath, his love, his prayers, his hidden sin. 
 
 122 
 
IV 
 
 What dim remembrances may yet enslave, 
 What subtle reminiscence often thrills 
 Along the blue and everlasting hills 
 In mighty swell and rhythms of air that lave 
 Their brow; what song of deep, resounding wave 
 Recurrent sweeps through towering trees, and 
 
 fills 
 The homesick heart with longing as it spills 
 In splashes of spent sound, from winds that rave 
 In upper fields of air; those ancient pines, — 
 Their own young little winds that play and run 
 Far overhead, are chanting the old lines, — 
 The swash of lapping waters in the sun. 
 O mountain pine, rememberest thou this day 
 Cedars and bays of Maine, cypress of Monterey ? 
 
 123 
 
The overpowering roar and rush of sound 
 
 Upon the granite crest of Sunset Rock 
 
 Rolls onward with the surge and thundering shock 
 
 Of many a rank of billows come' aground ; 
 
 'Tis but the voice from over waving mound 
 
 Of chestnut trees below that interlock 
 
 In gold and green; Satulah's clouds that mock 
 
 And glower by day, at midnight flow around 
 
 Her slippery crags, an ocean at her feet; 
 
 And when, where wavering sky and earth-line 
 
 meet, 
 Wide seas of foothills shimmer in the light. 
 The soul, sans care, like ship escaped from night, 
 From storm and wrack, with shining sails and 
 
 free, 
 Sets out thereon to search infinity. 
 
 124 
 
VI 
 
 All softly clad, in cloud and light enshrined, 
 
 Dear Range of Blue, what kinship may there be 
 
 Between thy steadfast hills and restless sea ? 
 
 What age-long bond, O sea, yet undefined. 
 
 May hold as strong as chains of iron to bind 
 
 The hills, humanity, the soul of thee. 
 
 In subtly strange, enduring trinity? 
 
 And ever thou dost hold the wandering mind 
 
 Of man, a harp of many strings, whereon 
 
 To play at will a low, mysterious strain, 
 
 Singing thereto seductively upon 
 
 The gamut of his longing and his pain; 
 
 While interlucent waters calmly lie 
 
 'Twixt Time and Earth, and the Eternal Sky. 
 
 125 
 
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