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 C.OEXRIGKT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE WOOING 
 
 OF 
 
 QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 A Poetic Nosegay of Lyrics, 
 Ballads, Odes and Tales 
 
 By 
 LOUIS CARL MAROLF 
 
 Boston 
 THE ROXBURGH PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 Incorporated 
 

 ©CU68 6060 
 
TO MY LATE MOTHER 
 
 Who first told me fairy tales 
 
 This little Tribute to her love and art is thankfully 
 
 dedicated by an unforgetting Son 
 
Copyright, 1922 
 
 By LOUIS CARL MAROLF 
 
 Rights Reserved 
 
Preface 
 
 It is almost obligatory, in such a prosaic age as 
 ours persists to be, to introduce a new volume ot 
 poems with prose. This little matter of politeness, 
 formality, and non-offensive conformity being dis- 
 posed of, I need only remind prospective readers 
 in passing that many a great movement in the 
 growth of poetry has been ushered in by a preface 
 somewhat beyond the expected or ordinary. If this 
 shall be perceived as the goal or ideal of the present 
 preface, all efforts to make it significant shall be 
 amply rewarded. 
 
 In compliance with this apparently necessary 
 formalism, I have also placed "My Smithy" at the 
 head of this volume. It was after great deliberation 
 that I chose between this, and its companion-piece, 
 "My Lines." The former poem finally seemed more 
 in accord with what might be expected by the 
 average reader of a new book of poems, while the 
 latter appealed to me rather as an achievement 
 toward which all poems in their autobiographical 
 chain strove with unerring poetic progress. And 
 yet, upon closer examination of this Smithy of 
 mine, it will be noted that it contains neither a 
 Chaucerian address to my "little boke,'' nor a sum- 
 mary in verse of what might be expected, nor an in- 
 vocation to the Muses, the daughters of an Apollo- 
 nian or Miltonian inspiration. I wanted the reader 
 
PREFACE 
 
 to find in the place of honor simply a quite modern 
 reminder that the true inspiration of the poet is 
 work with the elements of his art, with the natural 
 consequence that he will come upon unexpected, 
 never before realized combinations of ideas and 
 ideals, as if by accident, which is the very essence 
 of true inspiration. The inevitableness of such suc- 
 cessful expression in poetry is then said to be a 
 product of pure genius, which has always been re- 
 garded with superstitious awe. But it is really the 
 faithful, persistent daily working with the facts of 
 life which reveals to the poet the beauty-words and 
 faith-words of which his mother-tongue is capable, 
 by which he "stumbles on beauty's tryst or finds the 
 word that comes from God." 
 
 And as these flowered life-fact-words arranged 
 themselves before my eyes in an unfailing, almost 
 logical sequence, the whole work appeared to me as 
 a great Wreath of Poetic Nosegays, assembling 
 themselves in groups of four Spravs ; the first of 
 these, a story of a triple pioneer courtship; the 
 second, a miscellany of authenticated autobiog- 
 raphy ; the third, a character-study in Americanism 
 and culture by example ; and the fourth, a later 
 sequence of modern moods and measures : — A book 
 of poems modern in arrangement, execution and in- 
 spiration ! 
 
 A Little Novel in Verse 
 
 The placing of "The Wooing of Quimby's Daugh- 
 ters" in the present volume is a concession to the 
 
 10 
 
PREFACE 
 
 popular interest in love-themes, the short story or 
 the novelette, and novelties in general in the realm 
 of literature, — all this, however, in the medium 
 of verse. For I am convinced that if we ever 
 build up a poetry for the future, it must be done in 
 some such manner as indicated in this book. 
 
 When I decided upon the meter of this poem, 
 there was in my mind a compromise form between 
 what seemed to me the lawless rhythms and ca- 
 dences of free verse, and the often over-rigid meas- 
 ures of formal prosody. A form between these two 
 seemed to be decidedly in order. Discarding rhyme, 
 I strove to let mainly the meter produce the artistic 
 effects of the tale. The division into stanzas was 
 then a ready consequence. The alternately masculine 
 and feminine end-feet in the three-stress lines gave 
 just the proper pause to produce that rising and 
 falling, or hesitating lilt, in which I wished to see 
 the story move onward. In the frequent repetitions 
 of words and ideas we have a further artistic means 
 of pleasing the perceptions, as in the stanza begin- 
 ning: 
 
 Quimby went on in his telling, 
 
 Telling of old-time tales ; 
 
 Told, till all had left him, 
 
 All but Annie, his wife — 
 
 and so on, through the stanza. All these elements 
 of primitive poetry thus assembled, occurred to me 
 as a most felicitous composite medium for the ex- 
 pression of the spirit of pioneer days, as far as 
 
 11 
 
PREFACE 
 
 this might be done through the meter. It has always 
 seemed to me that such studies are extremely 
 worthy of emulation by us present-day poets. 
 
 But even in such a comparatively regular meter- 
 scheme we must have disturbing irregularities, in 
 order to guard against monotony, as for example — 
 To Mother, with loving attention — 
 To Maud, Madge, and Millie — 
 And who were worthier than they were? — 
 Further, as in — 
 
 There one look of Madge's 
 Chilled his eager good will. 
 Such lines as — 
 
 Hopeful were Jack, Joe and Jimmie — 
 may then be taken to suggest the quickened emo- 
 tions of those mentioned, as also in the later occur- 
 ing line — 
 
 Quimby, Jack, Joe and Jimmie, 
 and its context. In fact the entire sixth stanza of 
 Part II is an excellent illustration of the changing 
 emotional effects of the events or incidents de- 
 scribed. It runs as follows: 
 
 Gallant as" an any soldier, 
 Gentle as old-time knights, 
 Each led down his lady, 
 Down to the landing-place — 
 Quimby, Jack, Joe, and Jimmie ; 
 Found the steamer moored ; 
 Busy the crew was unloading. — 
 Much surprising all, — 
 Prairie-plows, in number, 
 
 12 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Three, — and bright, and strong; 
 Three huge yokes for oxen, 
 Six great oxen also. 
 
 The hearts beat higher here, as is shown by the 
 dactyls in the first two lines. The third line, again, 
 is regular, just as the careful leading of these pion- 
 eer ladies by their knights, down to their goal over 
 those flag-stones, — a goal in sight always quick- 
 ening our hearts, if not our motion. The next 
 three lines depict the stationary steamer, by the reg- 
 ular meter. Finally, the broken-up elements of the 
 stanza indicate both the successive surprises, caused 
 by the unusual objects unloaded, and even the very 
 manner of the successive perceptions of the on- 
 lookers. 
 
 And in some such manner as this, one might an- 
 alyze the entire poem, for it is purposeful in every 
 line, and in every artistic aspect. In spite of the 
 prevalent banal, sophisticated views upon matters 
 of verse-making, I still endeavor to write in the 
 child-mind, and thus the poet-mind, which is after 
 all but another way of saying, in the spirit of a 
 really creative imagination, to which we clearly owe 
 all our material progress as a nation. It is time now 
 to begin the agitation of an adequate imaginative 
 interpretation of this marvelous progress, and its 
 elements and symbols in terms of the age-old 
 never-changing language of beauty, vision and in- 
 spiration. This is my greatest endeavor. 
 
 13 
 
PREFACE 
 
 A Poetic Autobiography. 
 
 The Second Spray of this Poetic Nosegay is 
 really my earlier artistic autobiography, thanks to 
 my habit of appending the exact date of composi- 
 tion to my first drafts, — a habit faithfully adhered 
 to even to this day. These Whisperings were in- 
 tended to be published separately, together with 
 "The Wooing of Ouimby's Daughters," under the 
 title, "Whisperings and Ouarryford," by subscrip- 
 tion, because of my poetic lack of funds. That luck- 
 less subscription progressed to not quite one hun- 
 dred names — not one-third the required number — 
 and has been most unromantically hanging fire ever 
 since. — But this time we must succeed ! — It is evi- 
 dent that in this part of the present volume lie the 
 germs of whatever poetic future I may be destined 
 to possess. Here I perceive in turn, as through a 
 glass darkly, — my peculiar management of the ele- 
 ments of the poet's art ; my conciseness and suc- 
 cinctness of expression ; my leaning toward the 
 poetic narrative ; my tendency to construct my own 
 stanzas or forms ; my faults, peculiarities, idio- 
 syncrasies and perhaps mannerisms, which often 
 struck me so forcefully as to seem almost 
 too intimate to be exposed to the world in 
 this manner, — like a sudden confronting of myself 
 in a great mirror ; and finally, my rudimentary ef- 
 forts to solve, or contributions to the solution of 
 poetic problems for our literature. — 
 
 Thus write each song as on the date 
 Thou wroughtst it down complete 
 
 14 
 
PKEFACE 
 
 At first, recast into the state 
 
 Thy conscience now deems meet, 
 But sparingly, as not to bar 
 
 That ancient version's sense, 
 Though faulty it may be, nor mar 
 Thy history's defense. 
 This is the finished form in which I couched my 
 theory of composition and revision. It is the critical 
 tenet put into practice in "The Boy's Chant to the 
 Flowers." This crude effusion had neither regular 
 meter, nor passable rhyme and apt word-choice 
 when first drafted. Now it may stand in my poet- 
 ical history as something suggesting the earlier 
 poems in English and American literature, as an 
 illustration of the saying, that the history of the 
 race repeats itself in the individual, which the sub- 
 title may connote. There may be found in it, if we 
 will, orderly development of theme, motion or ac- 
 tion, some felicity of expression and a quaint, primi- 
 tive atmosphere. "Lacinda" is a groping through 
 the magical mazes of the lyrical ballad, the first 
 actual experience of the supreme passion to compel 
 expression. Perhaps the most significant element 
 in this is the solution of the emotional content and 
 the interpretation of the customary farewell in love 
 poetry. There is no real parting, and relief from 
 the pangs of passion, except in death, — not actual 
 death, or even ugly suicide, but imaginative, artistic 
 death, in accordance with the poetic nature of such 
 expression. Then there is also a patriotic sentiment 
 in this ballad. "Old Year's Eve" is a religious ode, 
 
 15 
 
PREFACE 
 
 my first effort in depicting emotions changing in 
 their meter, and dignity of thought. Then we have, 
 in these three early attempts, the poetic phenome- 
 non of a fitting introduction to the entire Spray. The 
 severe Greek portico of "When My Fancy Spoke" 
 invites us to enter into the succeeding primal themes 
 of nature, love and religion, unstudied, unpremedi- 
 tated and inviolate. 
 
 Poetic Dawn Begins with 1904 
 
 Dawnlight begins with the year 1904, my first 
 most productive year. "Leon and Helen" is the 
 controlled, but passionate love-life of the Greek 
 South, going beyond the usual love-song in that it 
 holds up the actual state of marriage as the ideal, 
 not merely the present enjoyment of courtship. 
 "Whatever Is, Is Best" endeavors to reconcile di- 
 dacticism with beautiful images, while "Greatness" 
 is a study in a constrained symbolism from nature, 
 in which the rhyme is so subordinated as to be 
 almost unmarked — a trick I have practiced, though 
 unconsciously, several times since this early day. 
 There is something to me fascinating in the con- 
 sciousness that the rhyme-music is present, though, 
 like a modest maiden, retiring behind the screen of 
 the weighty thought, and the surface-dignity of 
 near-blank verse. Similarly, in "My Country," 
 'My Native Land," and "Iowa." I resolved and 
 endeavored to express, through artistic agencies, 
 the impassioned, elevated inspiration, and rejoicing 
 love for my state, and my incomparable nation. 
 
 In "The Lark of Fearingdale" we meet with the 
 
 16 
 
PREFACE 
 
 introduction of another theme, which flowers out 
 into an elegiac strain in "My Old Home," and "A 
 Child's Sweet Call." "The Lark of Fearingdale" 
 is a ballad with a moral attached, dealing with 
 the old poetic problem whether to express this di- 
 rectly, or leave it to be inferred. The concluding 
 stanza leaves the solution to the inference of the 
 auditor in the story, in that it both interprets, and 
 sounds out the situation suggested in the first 
 strophe. "An Elegy on My Old Home" records 
 faithfully the mental images, and their accom- 
 panying emotions in my inner being, as the true in- 
 cidents occurred, leaving me free to interpret my 
 experiences as I chose, without being accused of 
 moralizing for someone else. What is true of the 
 Elegy is simply intensified in "A Child's Sweet 
 Call" — a dwelling on the details of an unforget- 
 table event tragical to a deep and lasting affection. 
 
 A Symphony in Verse. 
 
 With the poem, "The Dandelion," another strain 
 is introduced. This has to do with nature and art, 
 the love of the out-of-doors, and its adequate ex- 
 pression through the elements of poetry. "The Dan* 
 delion" is an almost perfect symmetrical comparison 
 between the life-story of that humblest of flowers, 
 and the interpretation of this story in a spiritual 
 manner, thanks to my early acquaintances with the 
 best hymns of the Lutheran church. But from the 
 rather conscientious symmetry of this poem we pass 
 easily to the symphonic meter-and-rhyme play 
 
 17 
 
PREFACE 
 
 of "The River of Music." This serves as a monu- 
 ment to my efforts to create something original by 
 transcribing what I conceived to be a symphony in 
 music into verse. A Prelude, with the leading moods 
 of grandeur, rapture and inspiration, introduces the 
 main themes, which are evolved in seven typical 
 movements. The first of these, under the poetic 
 guise of the Home of Music, describes the various 
 instruments from which the spirit of this stranger 
 in a strange land, this Ruth in Israel's land, is 
 evoked. In the image of the Spring, or rivulet, in 
 the second movement, we recognize the introduc- 
 tion of an actual piece of music, with its manifold 
 possibilities of time variations and moods. The 
 movement increases in tempo, volume and liveli- 
 ness, under the emblem of the Rill of Music, only to 
 assume the roar, speed, turbulency, and destructive- 
 ness of the symbolical Mountain Stream, in the 
 fourth movement. But Music must descend again 
 into the calmer, richer and more picturesque levels 
 of the plain, in the fullness of the Brook, amplified 
 by a summary of all previous themes, at the begin- 
 ning of the sixth movement, and culminating in 
 the strong, plenteous and powerful current of the 
 actual River of Music, which continues to swell 
 and broaden and deepen, with the roar, the whirl- 
 ing, and the turgidity of it all, into the very fullness 
 of Music herself, the rich Ocean of all melody and 
 sweetness and strength. The Postlude then takes 
 up the introductory moods of the Prelude very 
 briefly again, adding and amplifying the spiritual 
 
 18 
 
PREFACE 
 
 significance of the entire symphony, barely sug- 
 gested in the sixth movement, at the hand of the 
 story of Ruth and Naomi, finally, and above all, 
 closing with a vision of eternal realization of all 
 heavenly music. 
 
 What an ideal of modern poetry, therefore, looms 
 here in the transcription of the spirit of the elusive 
 art of music into the poetic form of a symphony of 
 words, and holding it there in solution ! It is not 
 a perfect work, to be sure, but it may be a fair 
 beginning. It serves as an effort to give expression 
 to those words and images we must supply for our- 
 selves when we hear only the music. 
 
 Briefly, the remaining pieces of Whisperings in 
 the Dawnlight exemplify as many artistic problems 
 with their solutions from my view-point. "A Day 
 of Delight" proposes to bring to precipitation, as it 
 were, the peculiar nature-mood of a certain ideal 
 day late in August ; "Farewell'' is an attempt to con- 
 jure away from the pain of parting even its sadness, 
 which I saw so much over-emphasized, and to set 
 all this in a delicate frame and background of na- 
 ture, suggested by the forget-me-not, with its inter- 
 pretation as applied to this situation. More pro- 
 nounced is the setting from nature in "The Won- 
 derful Land of Dreams," with which is blended the 
 unconquerable vivacity, the charm, and the imagi- 
 native strength of the child-mind. In "An Epi- 
 cure's Ode to an Orange," the artistic aim has been 
 to produce an appealing fusion of a luxurious trop- 
 ical background and a rich mood of humor, and to 
 
 19 
 
PREFACE 
 
 contrast this with the near-arctic storm raging just 
 beyond the curtained window pane. 
 
 The Need of Labeling Our Poetry 
 
 If I now have succeeded in making anything clear 
 at all, it must be this, that my poetry has not 
 been drawn out of the blue sky merely, but that 
 there exists a conscious artistic aim and purpose 
 behind each poem, and that there is some attempt 
 at originality in carrying out the pre-conceived plan. 
 Personally, I am convinced of the utter inability of 
 even the average reader of poetry adequately to 
 appreciate even the most ordinary poetry. I 
 am going to make another revolutionary state- 
 ment ! Most of the poetry now printed — even 
 the best — ought to have tags attached to it to 
 inform the reader what it is or what it really 
 means. In other words, the reader needs a clew 
 in connection with the particular poem by 
 which he might be enabled to produce im- 
 aginative activity on the theme suggested in an 
 intelligent and satisfying manner. These are 
 two of the most potent reasons why I label my 
 poems with a minuteness bordering on that of 
 the scientific critical apparatus of the profes- 
 sional arbiter of literary standards. 
 
 But witness the moods of my poetic Sunrise. 
 
 I felt the need of encouragement in my poetic 
 pursuits, and still do feel it. From time to time I 
 have wondered what the fate of this element in my 
 nature will be, — whether it will meet ultimate suc- 
 
 20 
 
PREFACE 
 
 cessful fruition or not. This fear or dread I have 
 repeatedly treated as a type of all other types of 
 discouragement. In "The Better Day" I have tried to 
 set this forth on the strength of the pleasure and the 
 hope, the possible publication of my poems aroused 
 in me. "Winter and Spring" strengthens this same 
 mood, and expresses it more picturesquely, while 
 "Twilight-Tide," with its broken rhythms, repro- 
 duces exactly the mood intended in such a rondel- 
 lyric with dramatic tendencies. And, as if in an 
 inevitable sequence, follows the "Poet's Vesper 
 Song," once more re-enforcing the behest of My 
 Fancy, When She Spoke to me, that in this sub- 
 division of Sunrise lay the expression of my strug- 
 gle between Life and Art. 
 
 "To a Belated Katydid" simply derives courage 
 and beauty from nature, for want of a better 
 source. "Peace, Why Tarriest Thou?" is a pas- 
 sionate appeal for the rest and peace of creative 
 success, which could hardly be better expressed 
 than by a maiden's yearning for her lover — not as 
 is customary, by the stormy desire of the lover for 
 his love. Then the lines "To the Evening Star" 
 pray for guidance, leading with uncanny logic to 
 the wistful conjuring-up of final success in "Love 
 in a Cottage," and the resignation of the "The Lov- 
 er's Prayer." 
 
 These are the poetic embodiments of the creative 
 thoughts that occupied me during the years of 1907- 
 1909, as those thoughts struck root in my own life. 
 
 21 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Life and Love the Great Theme 
 
 But nowhere has the struggle for artistic success 
 so come to expression as in the dramatic lyric 
 ballad cycle, "Life and I," the severe Colloquy be- 
 tween Flesh and Life upon the calmer background 
 of the factual life-story of the Heart and the Soul. 
 Youth, Manhood, and Old Age are eternal, at least 
 in so far as anything can be so on earth; but in 
 among these facts of life, there is many a transi- 
 tory mood that comes to expression, usually in 
 conflict with Life, who then points out the way to 
 "the one right heart that doth the same — shall be 
 all thine." This final return to hope and youth and 
 love is inevitable, prompting again such little bursts 
 of song as "Early Spring," and even the passionate 
 "Trysting Sighs," culminating in the intermittently 
 recurring, "Where is thy laughing face?" — "That 
 last and hopeless word!" — 
 
 But, as if in answer to this question, My Fancy 
 re-appeared, in the Afterplay, and "commanded" 
 me I must simply live up to the heart, courage, and 
 success for which I yearned and prayed. There 
 was no other alternative for me. Either — "Pub- 
 lish !" — or — "Be a lonely heart !" There is no reply 
 to my temporizing. But, Oh, — 
 
 And here I published and am filled 
 
 With hope that I shall see 
 That Other, — as My Fancy willed, — 
 With Her forever shall be! — 
 And yet, although this Other may mean a human 
 
 22 
 
PREFACE 
 
 heart in my private life, She has been transfigured 
 into a being of beauty that must be manifested to 
 my fellowmen. There could hardly be a more 
 appropriate vitalization of such communication, or 
 "publishing," than we find in the Third Spray of 
 this Poetic wreath, the almost austere character- 
 study of ''Master Franz Hemsterhuis." 
 
 A Lay of Americanism from Holland 
 The pivot upon which the life and action of this 
 whole colloquy turns is Piet's visit to the Master, 
 and its purpose. This young Hollander, originally 
 an idealist from the university, comes to Master 
 Hemsterhuis on New Year's Eve, 1766, almost 
 completely disillusioned, to ask the Master for ad- 
 vice in his life-puzzles. He comes to Hemsterhuis to 
 ask "about his life," and for his "teaching for him." 
 Out of this simple question, and all its antecedent 
 and attendant circumstances, grows the tale of the 
 past of both Piet and Hemsterhuis. Out of this 
 query proceeds for us the complete knowledge of 
 the character of both individuals. Upon this re- 
 quest there arise, as upon a cameo, the history of 
 Holland, and the idyllic beauty of Dutch home-life; 
 the significance of the past to the present, and of 
 the present to the future; and the truth of life 
 to be derived from this blending of both past, pres- 
 ent and future into a concrete, typical object-lesson 
 for our present-day problems in our country. 
 
 I know of no better way of showing our modern 
 poetic proletariat that we of the poetic guild are in 
 
 23 
 
PREFACE 
 
 earnest, and intend to write poetry that actually 
 has something about it that can be interpreted if 
 necessary. 
 
 The Fourfold Test for a Poet 
 
 As I conceive this our great mission, there are 
 four general requirements the novice in present-day 
 poetry must meet before he can hope to attract at- 
 tention. These test questions are : — 
 
 Can he tell a story? 
 
 Is he authentic? 
 
 Can he communicate culture? 
 
 Is he modern in spirit and substance? — 
 
 The first three of these tests I have tried to sat- 
 isfy up to this part of my preface. Spray Four, and 
 last, may serve to answer the fourth question. 
 Poetically speaking, the substance of this division 
 of the poems may be called Moods, and the spirit, 
 Measures of Today. Among this group, none could 
 come more appropriately to hand now than the first 
 two, the sonnets, — the one Occidental, the other 
 Oriental, in form. I am in favor of keeping 
 alive the antiquity of our present-day culture, such 
 as it is ; for the ancient and modern elements in it 
 are really inseparable. It is well, therefore, to reit- 
 erate here the ancient question of the origin of 
 poetry, and answer that it means, making the crea- 
 tion of song a philosophy of life, with none less 
 than the divine Creator as an example. The Per- 
 sian ghazal, or sonnet, then simply carries the sug- 
 gestion into the psychological field, the old realm in 
 
 24 
 
PREFACE 
 
 which mind triumphed over matter. And the ballad 
 of the Tanner of Kenmare shows how this principle 
 is worked out from the artistic standpoint, for here 
 the traditional ballad form is compelled to yield to 
 modern briskness of narrative, a pace to which it 
 has not usually been accustomed. "The Race of the 
 Plodders," "The Wooden Horse," and "The Ballad 
 of Nineteen-Now," should be compared with "The 
 Tanner and His Raid," if we wish to gain some con- 
 ception as to how this primitive form might be 
 brought to house a variety of themes, both old and 
 new, in a more freely constrained manner. It is 
 not the creation of new forms that we need so 
 much as the deeper development of the older ones ; 
 although we ought to make some contribution of 
 our own to the art, if possible, in the matter of 
 form. 
 
 The Trinity of Life — Work, Love and Religion 
 
 "Life's Explorer" gives a new turn to the 
 philosophy of song. It is an exceedingly mod- 
 ern characteristic to try to analyze life. We 
 find here a conservatively poetic interpretation 
 of that great phenomenon called Life, as a uni- 
 fied trinity of life-work, love and religion. 
 "Treasures of Life," a little further on in this auto- 
 biographical sequence, deals with the same subject, 
 but in the form of a rhymeless lyric, relying on the 
 repetition of similar or identical sounds as a rather 
 novel rhyme-effect ; — the artistic form is never for- 
 gotten here, no matter what the theme. This last 
 
 25 
 
PREFACE 
 
 fact is especially brought out by "The Song of the 
 Seasons," an example of a song that might be suit- 
 able for any season, overcoming the often awkward 
 obstacle of inappropriateness of songs to the time 
 of the year. "Wooing Sleep" aims to carry sound- 
 music to its simplest, yet highest typical develop- 
 ment. The "Aphorisms" also have an artistic prob- 
 lem of their own. They are a broad criticism of 
 life as it is lived now, and of art as it is conceived 
 to be in relation with life. The aim here has not 
 been to produce terse and incisive epigrams, but 
 only to create a different way of writing sayings 
 with some point to them. We ought to get out of the 
 habit of writing in forms and moods which critics 
 can adversely compare with standards that really 
 hamper poetic progress. Otherwise, why be, and 
 have our being as moderns? — 
 
 Another fact in our all-inclusive life, to which 
 we ought to become accustomed, is the emphasis of 
 other love than that of man and woman, so long 
 as such love is beautifully legitimate. "To A 
 Beautiful Child" calls attention to this feeling in a 
 rather sublimated intensity, but I shall let it stand 
 in its place. "The Blessed Water-Ouzel," with an 
 almost equal degree of feeling, expresses what 
 we might call the love for a spiritualized conception 
 of life and art, or whatever similar to this we 
 may make out of it ; though in a succinct 
 narrative form, which, however, we cannot 
 over-emphasize, for this is a story age, and 
 we must give the public its stories also in our 
 
 26 
 
PREFACE! 
 
 special medium. Incidentally, "Salema" and "Phil- 
 lippa" are both types of love which are beautiful 
 in their uniqueness, and youthful fervency. They 
 may approach that passion now so unreservedly, 
 almost shamelessly laid bare before all the world, 
 but they temper it with the balsam of reserve. 
 
 The Modern Mood of Despair 
 
 There is a very modern mood of despair running 
 through the poems at this point in the sequence. 
 And this mood has a very real foundation in my 
 own life. Seemingly imprisoned in uncongenial, 
 adverse, and discouraging environments, I persist- 
 ently struggled for an ideal of artistic freedom in 
 such ways as were open to me. I felt my powers, 
 but my wings were bound fast to my sides. It is 
 a feeling shared by thousands of my fellow Ameri- 
 cans. Hence they cannot help but understand me. 
 ''The Race of the Plodders," with its humor, which 
 only emphasizes the tragedy of it all, is but the gen- 
 eralized application of the more specific theme of 
 the life-history of "The Blessed Water-Ouzel," the 
 professional yearning of the poet. Only the poetic 
 reply to a request for rhymes from a friend at 
 work among the lowliest of the low in the "black 
 belt" of the South could inject a mood of pro- 
 phetic hope into this period and its work. "The 
 Pine Torch" bears witness to this ray of light in 
 that twilight, but not without a grace-note of envy 
 for a success I could not call mine. 
 
 Even "The Penitent," with its spiritual grief, 
 
 27 
 
PREFACE 
 
 discouragement, and fear, and its efforts to over- 
 come these by sheer faith, is not without its ray 
 of hope. But in "Married !" all this mood of despair 
 is redoubled, and there reaches its climax. And yet, 
 is not this very effort and act of successful expres- 
 sion the best remedy for its relief? This certainly 
 is also a modern trait. 
 
 Modern Short Stories in Verse 
 
 In logical sequence once more, and in series, as 
 so often before this, we next meet a half-dozen 
 poems combating the very evil that would deprive 
 us even of the remedy against despair in the worst, 
 the spiritual form, — infidelity, unbelief, atheism. 
 Of course, it is rather the fashion in our times to 
 be just what these poems contradict. "The Great 
 Gap" reproduces the effect of a scientific age on 
 poetry, in the rigid prosody of its lines. "The Beast- 
 Man'" expresses the soul of realism, with all its 
 ugliness, sophisticated knowedge, and cynical atti- 
 tude toward nature and human life, stated here 
 with the purpose of combating that spirit through 
 its own poison. In "The Wiseacre," the modern at- 
 titude toward the Bible is similarly castigated, 
 while in "I Seem Like Adam," the present-day 
 position toward the art of poetry receives its thrust 
 of irony, sarcasm, and satire, in the same concen- 
 trated style of expression. Finally, in "Impatience," 
 we feel the modern reaction against nature, and 
 often against her God, symbolically pointing to the 
 result of the mental standpoint criticised in the 
 
 28 
 
PREFACE! 
 
 four previous poems. But "Salema at the Saviour's 
 Tomb" is a very object-lesson of faith — true, sav- 
 ing faith — and original interpretation of the Scrip- 
 tures, which is one of the fruits of such real faith 
 that conquers all things. It is a faith not easily 
 maintained, however, and if we wish to express that 
 fact in the newest medium or style, we require a 
 mode of blank verse reproducing such struggle in 
 a realistic manner, following the best traditions of 
 the short story, except for the poetic atmosphere. 
 
 It was with considerable hesitation that I in- 
 cluded in this collection such poetic rhapsodies as 
 "The Seasons in Rhyme," and other similar pieces. 
 I found, however, that there was much in them 
 that could move me to retain them. Fragmentary, 
 or even puerile, as they may seem to many, these 
 strummings, or this tuning up of the poetic instru- 
 ment, these poetic studies, have their own special 
 merits. "The Seasons in Rhyme" is simply a repeti- 
 tion of the music of the four main measures of 
 English prosody, progressively developing the four 
 seasons through four irregular stanzas. "Rhymes 
 and Stanzas,'' a little further on, exemplify in fin- 
 ished units the spirit of seven of the principal fixed 
 stanzas built under the influence of the French and 
 Italian forms in the history of English literature. 
 "Echoes from Old Greece" typify three measures — 
 hexameters, Sapphics and choriambs — as adapted 
 to modern accents, yet achieving the unity of 
 thought in each little miniature poem. And lastly, 
 in "Rhyme Play," we have a series of adaptations 
 
 29 
 
PREFACE 
 
 from stanza- forms created by certain of our class- 
 ics of only yesterday, not even forgetting magazine 
 verse, and nonsense media. But after all, how differ- 
 ent from their original ancestors are the stanzas 
 here adapted in my own way! It is simply another 
 proof that we cannot successfully imitate those who 
 have invented successful forms in the past, unless 
 we either adapt their forms in our own manner, or 
 follow their example in originating forms of our 
 own. 
 
 The Modern Lyric 
 
 There is something plaintive and dolorous ; some- 
 thing still, though less bitterly, related to the moods 
 of despair in the previous strain of poems, in "The 
 Seasons in Rhyme." It is a mood that carries with 
 it a twinge of tragedy in the lyric, "The Indian 
 Grave,'' which ushers in a group of so-called mod- 
 ern lyrics, of which the name and variety and form 
 are legion. "The One Night'' is anomatopoetic in 
 type, with something of exaltation in it, and "The 
 Sea" approaches closely the broken rhythms of a 
 dramatic lyric. Other types in this collection are, 
 "The Sun" and "Thy Bitter-Sweet Smile," the one 
 throbbing with the mood of grandeur, and the other 
 vibrant with that of love. In all of them, two or 
 more poetic thoughts are permitted to take poetic 
 shape in what seems to be their appropriate form, 
 and to come to a free-restrained relationship in the 
 final lines of the lyric. This is my way of doing; I 
 do not know whether the critics will pass me in this 
 
 30 
 
PREFACE 
 
 or not. I only contend that we should at all times 
 be modern in our moods and measures according 
 to our best lights. This is only a prosaic way of 
 saying what is said poetically, and repeatedly, in 
 "Rhymes and Stanzas." The first three modern 
 lyrics here also point toward a future new awaken- 
 ing in the treatment of nature, not the weak-kneed, 
 magazine-verse manner, but a robust, virile expres- 
 sion of her moods. "Milton's Self," like a shade 
 from another world, hovers between lyric and de- 
 scriptive treatment, and suggests the greatest object- 
 lesson of such enjoyment of nature in poetry that 
 we possess. 
 
 The Modernized Song 
 
 "The Song of the Hearth-Smoke" marks another 
 transition in this wonderfully inevitable sequence 
 of modern moods and measures. It is rightly 
 named a song, for it w a speciman of thai 
 peculiar form of lyric, which combines so 
 well the old stanza- forms with the modern 
 artistry of rhyming and compactness of expres- 
 sion, the predominating lyrical quality of the type 
 being fused with the epigrammatic and startling 
 combination of ideas, so much admired today. "The 
 Song of the Spring Wind" is only a sister-lyric to 
 that of the Hearth-Smoke, both in origin and 
 in spirit. "The Spirit of the Middle West," and its 
 companion-piece, "The Gate of the Middle West," 
 though widely separated by the dates of their first 
 drafts, are other examples of this song-type. "Who 
 
 31 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Am I?" "Land O' Leal," and perhaps, "My Lines," 
 simply show the range of theme and form to which 
 the general type may be developed. In fact, mod- 
 ernity is very strongly pronounced, even in the last 
 three songs, in the employment of unusual stanza- 
 forms, or the adaptation of more common forms, 
 "Who Am I?" typifying the new to a greater ex- 
 tent than the two succeeding songs. 
 
 Home Building and Housekeeping 
 
 The theme in the vicinity of "The Song of the 
 Hearth-Smoke," as has already been suggested, is 
 life-work, or home-building, and its varying ele- 
 ments. The double-mood of L'Allegro and Penser- 
 oso in "Milton's Self" typifies the two spirits of 
 courtship days. We have then a song of the spirit 
 of home-making, or the imaginative overcoming of 
 the hum-drum routine of prospective housekeep- 
 ing, in "The Song of the Hearth-Smoke." "My 
 Home" logically gives the location for this home- 
 building. It is one of the rare, almost purely descrip- 
 tive poems in this Spray. We must not have many 
 such productions in our age, and these few must be 
 short, and have some point to them. The making of 
 men and women, either in prospect or retrospect, the 
 very business of a true home, is portrayed in "A 
 Ballad of Nineteen-Now." And the graphic warning 
 against the worm-at-the-core dangers threatening 
 the sanctity of such a wonderful institution as- 
 sumes artistic form in "The Wooden Horse." 
 
 32 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Upon the achievement of these prerequisites of 
 a good home, follows the leisure of the safely 
 established home-life, a pastime that brings fruit 
 in studies of life, art, and religion. The modern 
 lyric, "The Sun," strikes the keynote to such 
 studies. Here the great natural phenomenon of 
 the universe, the Sun, is seen in a flash, as the 
 visible representative messenger of Him Who 
 maketh His servants flames of fire. It is a vision 
 that points logically to such heights as Nebo or 
 Pisgah of old, from where a divine promise is 
 beheld as being fulfilled, of which the sonnet, 
 "My First Aeroplane" gives an instance. Akin 
 to this, except that it is somewhat more earthly, 
 is the interest in real music, in living poesy, and 
 true expression and appreciation of the dramatic 
 arts, as indicated, respectively, in "Echoes from 
 Old Greece." And yet we never get far away 
 from our own home and country. "Apple-Pluck- 
 ing Time" is France, American Middle West, 
 home, and life in general, all in one. Even 
 American youth re-appears, with its cleanly 
 frolic and rollicking and boisterous exuberance, 
 singing "The Song of the Spring Wind," and end- 
 ing in the exquisite fooling of the various moods of 
 "Rhyme Play." Then comes a burst of more 
 serious sentiment, "Thy Bitter-Sweet, Sweet 
 Smile," rising finally to expressive heights of 
 sympathies clasping the healing hands of nature, 
 and the failing hands of a less fortunate brother, 
 and even a larger humanity. The two songs 
 
 33 
 
PREFACE 
 
 of "Summer Magic" testify to these feelings. It 
 is verily the spirit of the modern in poetry as we 
 now should have it — keeping in living touch 
 with all humanity of both past and present, 
 that we see in this entire strain of the "Fourth 
 Spray." 
 
 Humanity and World-Questions 
 
 But there is only one step between sym- 
 pathy with humanity and the world-questions 
 which agitate her. It is certainly very modern 
 again to be concerned over such problems. "The 
 Plaint of World-Peace," is an impassioned ex- 
 pression of a feeling that moves us this very 
 hour. There are divided opinions upon this, as 
 well as other international questions, but as for 
 me and my portion of this great nation, "Spirit 
 of the great Mid-West, arise !" Mid-West, arise, 
 not only to take your stand on the world-wide 
 question of peace, but stand up for national cul- 
 ture in its finest sense ! Become, even while do- 
 ing this, a supporter of living artists who link 
 Greece, and the country of Shakespeare with the 
 very scareheads of today's newspaper. That cer- 
 tainly is being modern through and through, 
 with a will and a vengeance. "Lines on Hearing 
 Alfred Noyes" represents an epochal incident 
 in this present-day movement for the advance- 
 ment of poetic art. 
 
 Trivial as all these themes may seem to the 
 majority of even my readers, I have shown that 
 they are symbolical of the subconscious modern 
 
 34 
 
PREFACE 
 
 moods that moved me at the time of composition, 
 and thus made and kept me a true child of my 
 age. 
 
 And Free Verse Also ! 
 
 Moreover, we modern peoples are given to rev- 
 elry from time to time in all things, — given to ex- 
 tremes, we ordinarily say. And that again seems 
 to be a modern trait, though in the large always 
 a temporary one. With "The Trains of Day and 
 Night," we begin a strain that expresses our par- 
 ticular American aspect of modern moods and 
 measures in an extraordinary fashion. The theme 
 is the most prosaic of modern facts of national 
 life with us — the railroad. The measures are in 
 the main four-stress lines, read in vers libre, or 
 free verse manner, in a suspended rhythm of ac- 
 cents, phrases or cadences. Whatever critics 
 may say, this is my conception of free verse, and 
 my expression of this idea in actual practice. Su- 
 perimposed on the ordinary topic of the trains 
 that pass in the day and the night, there plays an 
 atmosphere palpitant with a free-restrained in- 
 terpetration of those plainly stated facts, which 
 combines a peculiar surprising piquancy of the 
 new, with the mellowness of the old. The four- 
 stress measure, varied by three-stress, and two- 
 stress lines, as artistic occasion seemed to de- 
 mand, lends the stability of the older tradition in 
 poetic art to this extremely modern symphony, 
 while almost every other element of the poem — 
 
 35 
 
PREFACE 
 
 irregularities of rhythmical feet, imagery, and 
 flashes of connoted meaning- — provides the spice 
 and novelty and literary charm. Similar points 
 might be emphasized in connection with "The 
 Age and the Artist," a four-stress symphony of 
 somewhat greater rhythmic freedom on the whole 
 than its companion-piece just mentioned. Here 
 the theme, an odic treatment of the seven arts, as 
 exemplified in America, or as they may be devel- 
 oped here in the future, carries us to broader and 
 higher table-lands of beauty, vision and inspira- 
 tion, which is the very business of the arts, if we 
 may indulge in paradox. 
 
 Again I take this strong instinct to build, an 
 ambition so comparatively easy to realize in our 
 time and clime, and transpose it into an ode in 
 four-beat free verse on "The Streets of Progress," 
 wringing magic from the very catalog of vehicles, 
 and the streets on which they travel. It is this 
 we moderns must do, if our readers wish to read 
 about nothing except what they see with their 
 everyday eyes, every day of their everyday lives ! 
 And I cannot explain the method for this any 
 better than through the free verse sketch, "The 
 Descent of the Eagles." A topic of only yester- 
 day, an incident tickling our fancy only for a 
 minute, an unusual occurrence in the day's travels 
 of a much-traveled race — that is all the theme 
 seems to be here. And yet it ought not to be 
 wasted ; someone may find a meaning in it, may 
 give a permanent form to it, or even wrest a po- 
 
 36 
 
PREFACE 
 
 tent inspiration from its inherent poetic worth. 
 A prominent editor of the recent century-change 
 once declared that no poetry could be written 
 about a rotten log. Perhaps no magazine poetry, 
 but the poet of today will attack any subject and 
 distill from it some poignant poetic truth. It is 
 time our contemporaries know this ! 
 
 Facts of Life as Faith- Words 
 
 After we have indulged in the madness of 
 ultra-modern measures, we turn to a more con- 
 servative view of poetic form, — a form m 
 which, however, the newer and the older 
 mingle in sweet unison. There is originality in 
 stanza-form, rigid artistry of meter and rhyme, 
 and a sharp juxtaposition of apparently unre- 
 lated ideas ; and the dominant mood is nothing 
 less than man's destiny in various aspects. 
 "Who Am I?" is typical of this mood and meas- 
 ure, from the spiritual point of view. "Can You 
 Guess?" lifts the veil on the ultimate state of hu- 
 man love. i 
 
 And it is only a still more intimate destiny that 
 is striven for in "If I Should Come." And when 
 we have received certainty sufficient on this 
 theme of life, all other facts of life are ours, — 
 dawn, birth, nature, death ; but now chiefly our 
 ideal of life, humor and gayety ; song, merry- 
 making, heavenly bliss; in short: "Land o' Leal." 
 But this unpretentious lyric is only a weak sug- 
 gestion of a far more lasting mirth and happiness 
 
 37 • 
 
PREFACE 
 
 than any fact of life here on earth ! "Oh, what 
 will life — all-embracing life — be like, in Land O' 
 Leal?" Oh, it will be like telling our Father a 
 wonderful story which we ourselves have lived 
 better than we knew by His grace, and "cannot 
 come to all the sum" of this sublime narrative. 
 And will there be pain in our hearts for him who 
 deliberately shuts himself out from this blissful 
 country — "The Suicide?" Oh, "sore heart," do 
 not give us this pain in that supreme happiness 
 where we would see all united ! "Take a man's, 
 a woman's part !" Then you will solve the riddle 
 of destiny as did "The Sonneteer," in the tragi- 
 comic practice of his very life-work, which is typ- 
 ical for every poet who is worthy to be called 
 professional in his art. A true poet never ceases 
 to be conscious of his profession. From the angle 
 of a conqueror of life and love, a view-point from 
 which all love-stories engender in him a deep 
 sympathy for the fate of lovers, there is opened 
 to him the door to "Phillippa," a tale of old ro- 
 mance, swift, brief, and modernly told. And the 
 epilogue to this strain of destiny and fate is "Ra- 
 dium," a sonnet realizing the age of faith, of 
 the faith of Phillippa come down to us from the 
 first century, and though not accepted by the ma- 
 jority today, yet a leaven that leaveneth the 
 whole lump. Life then comes to be largely a 
 transcription of its facts into faith-words, and 
 among these wholesome humor may also be one. 
 
 38 
 
PREFACE 
 
 And Humor a Faith- Word 
 
 "Kitty and Doggie" is child-humor keeping 
 within the bounds of reason, word-choice, and 
 poetics. It is a realistic record such an encounter 
 as it celebrates produced on the mind of a little 
 child. "The Tale of the Awful Oozle" carries 
 us into non-sense words and ideas, and indulges 
 in the wildest flights of the child's imagination, 
 and adventurous instinct. In "The Battle of the 
 Rhymers" the humor descends to the very depths 
 of the farcical, reducing the over-refinement of 
 poetics to ridicule. Occasional merriment and 
 mirth, throughout babyhood, childhood, and ma- 
 turity is here, as in life, the spice that offsets the 
 heavier courses of this feast called human exist- 
 ence, destiny, and destination. And the Middle 
 West with its virile song is then the symbolical 
 noontide from whence we may look to the dawn 
 on the one hand, and the sunset on the other, and 
 always within our reach there loom the ideals of 
 labor, determination, inspiration, and faith in 
 the Lord of creation, and His divine grace. 
 
 I therefore sum up this attitude of cheerful 
 faith in "My Lines," which amply speak for them- 
 selves. There are a few facts which this preface 
 has emphasized throughout. The first of these 
 is that "my lines have meaning." The entire vol- 
 ume is a logical sequence, based on the exact 
 dates of the first drafts, and therefore autobio- 
 graphical. There is gossamer fabric of grace and 
 delicacy, and dream-stuff of idealism and inspira- 
 
 39 
 
PREFACE 
 
 tion. My lines are rule-proof, and they end in 
 pearl or bead, as the requirement might be, and 
 all with a purpose. I console myself by auto- 
 suggestion, addressing that peculiar feeling I pos- 
 sess for my art, weary of further laborious self- 
 defense, as follows: 
 
 Then cease, my love, your fixing 
 
 Of my queer lines, 
 Or you will miss my mixing 
 
 Of bitters and wines, 
 That make the well and sick sing 
 Of jeweled shrines! 
 
 THE AUTHOR 
 
 40 
 
MY SMITHY 
 
 I sit and work in my smithy all day, 
 And wield my hammer with rhythmic sway, 
 But you see no grime, nor soot, nor spark, 
 Nor hear a sound, if you may hark. 
 
 My anvil — 'tis the dumb blank sheet, 
 Whereon with hammer-pen I beat 
 The words of iron to steely thoughts, 
 And wires I tie to lovers' knots. 
 
 And as I work, and beat, and twist, 
 I often stumble on beauty's tryst ; 
 And often, when I squirm and plod, 
 I find the word that comes from God. 
 
 41 
 
Spray One of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 42 
 
The Wooing of 
 Quimby's Daughters 
 
 A Tale of Pioneer Days of the Lime Kilns on the 
 Iowa River 
 
 First my tale must tell of 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Then my tale must tell of 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie ; 
 Then of Vance and. Maud, 
 Then of Vince and Madge, 
 Then of Vernie and Millie; 
 Now and again must tell of 
 Madge, and Maud, and Millie; 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance ; 
 Vance, and Vernie, and Vince; 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie. 
 
 I. Quarryford Cabin 
 
 Quarryford, by the river, 
 That was the home of the three : 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie. 
 Pioneer girls were they all, 
 All the quarryman's daughters ; 
 Were it in times and days, 
 Seem to us like ages, 
 
 43 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Ages and days ago, 
 When, as we hear them telling, 
 All was plain and blunt. 
 Beautiful not, but lovely ; 
 Strong, and true, and heartfelt. 
 
 So were the times and the people, 
 
 They, our betters, say ; 
 
 Such were the times and the seasons, 
 
 Such the winters and springs, 
 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie, 
 
 Lived at Quarryford ; 
 
 Quarryford, the cabin, 
 
 Broad, of giant logs, 
 
 High on the bluffs of limestone, 
 
 Nestled in native oaks, 
 
 Scorning the river below it, 
 
 Lifting its brow to the sunrise. 
 
 Far did Quarryford cabin 
 Look the river beyond, 
 Look to the rolling northward, 
 Far to the lowland south, — 
 All a billowy ocean 
 Tall of prairie grass, 
 Golden far in the sunlight; 
 Dotted but here and there 
 Dark with shadowy cloudlets, 
 Lazy, like wandering isles; 
 Bearing, like long-limbed sea-fish, 
 Long-stemmed flowers and berries. 
 
 44 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Thus the cabin had heard it, 
 
 Told at evening time, 
 
 Told by its quarryman master, 
 
 How, long years ago, 
 
 How he crossed the ocean, 
 
 Crossed the watery sea ; 
 
 Left the crowded eastland, 
 
 Came to the freer West ; 
 
 Cut through that prairie ocean, 
 
 There at the dark, broad line ; 
 
 Forded the river to cross it, 
 
 Built him a raft of oak-logs. 
 
 So the cabin heard it, 
 
 Or how would it know? 
 
 Heard it told so often 
 
 From its rough-built porch ; 
 
 Heard it in the twilight, 
 
 Told to the quarryman's folks ; 
 
 To Mother, with loving attention 
 
 Whirring the spinning-wheel ; 
 
 To Maud, and Madge, and Millie, 
 
 Sewing, or knitting a bit, 
 
 Chatting the quarry-hands often, 
 
 When they would listen respectful : — 
 
 Quimby, he talked so gripping, 
 
 Often with flashes of wit. 
 
 Sudden, like sparks from the flint-stone 
 
 That lit his corn-cob pipe. 
 
 Ah, but never so charming; 
 
 45 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 No, nor half so sweet, 
 
 Gripped the pioneer's talking, 
 
 As, when his dreamlike words 
 
 Chanced to turn to his daughters, 
 
 His only children three, 
 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie, — 
 
 Dwelt on their wonderful childhood. 
 
 Then was the talk of Quimby 
 
 Sweeter than any chat, 
 
 Maud, or Madge, or Millie, 
 
 Gave the quarrymen three ; 
 
 For he seemed so kindly 
 
 To be hinting then, 
 
 He would give his lime-boats, 
 
 Give his ferry-boat, 
 
 All his precious lime-stone, 
 
 All to three worthy sons, 
 
 Worthy to woo his daughters ; — 
 
 And who were worthier than they were? 
 
 "Still, it seems not so far off," 
 
 Quimby recalled again, — 
 
 "Maud here, and Madge, and Millie, — 
 
 They're quite young yet, and spry. 
 
 Maud here, she's only twenty ; 
 
 Madge is nineteen now ; 
 
 Millie's seventeen — maybe — 
 
 Annie, now am I right?" — 
 
 And his wife, she nodded 
 
 Proudly. And he kept on : 
 
 46 
 
QUIMBY' S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "Maud, she came in winter — 
 Made her so sober, I reckon." 
 
 Quimby struck for fire, then. 
 
 Maud, she flashed reproach. 
 
 Stolen glances flitted 
 
 From the hired men to the girls ; 
 
 Glances all admiring; 
 
 Yes, they were friendly, these girls ; 
 
 Ah, but friendly only! — 
 
 "Yes," said Quimby once more, 
 
 "Maud, she came that winter, 
 
 Our first winter here ; 
 
 Came that heavy winter 
 
 When we froze, and were snow-bound." 
 
 Jack, the quarryman oldest, 
 Glanced at Maud again ; 
 Glanced so tender, defending; 
 Said, "Maud can't be glum, — 
 Only full o' life-blood- 
 No, she can't be cross," 
 Laughed he, in kindliest effort — 
 Ah, but she bit her lip! — 
 Jack was forty, and over, 
 Now that he courted Maud; 
 Maud, she was chatty with him, 
 But to his love would not listen. 
 
 "Madge, she came," said Quimby, 
 After a quiet smoke, — 
 
 47 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "Madge, she came when I quarried; 
 
 Built my lime-kiln there, 
 
 Built my ferry-boat below there, 
 
 When the westward road 
 
 Followed the bluffs on this side; 
 
 When I burned my lime 
 
 First in daytime and night-time, — 
 
 Then's when Madge was born, — 
 
 Madge, our business woman, 
 
 Born in our busy season." 
 
 Quimby filled his pipe-bowl, 
 Struck the steely flint : 
 Madge, she heard not, saw not, — 
 Studied the river's haze ; 
 Saw not the longing glances, 
 Never the glances of Joe, — 
 Joe, the quarryman younger ; 
 Joe, he came to her aid; 
 Said, with wistfullest wording: 
 "Madge is sensible." 
 There one look of Madge's 
 Chilled his eager good will. 
 
 "Millie, our youngest," said Quimby, 
 Breaking his pipe-dream off, 
 "Came with the river steamboats, 
 Plying from south to north ; 
 Came with my little steamer, 
 Hauls my rock and lime 
 Up and down the river, — 
 
 48 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Settlers, cattle, and goods ; — 
 That was Millie's coming - ," 
 And he touched her hand, 
 For she was always near him, — 
 "That's why she's so lively." 
 
 Quimby filled his cob-pipe, 
 
 Lit it again with his flint, 
 
 "Daddie, you know you are joking," 
 
 Sweetly she chided the word, 
 
 Stroking his hand wifh forbidding. 
 
 Millie saw the glance 
 
 Jimmie, the quarryman youngest, 
 
 Yearningly lifted to her; 
 
 Heard what his lips were saying: 
 
 "Millie's a tender heart." 
 
 Yes, but she left at the plain words, 
 
 Went to her room in the cabin. 
 
 Quimby went on in his telling, 
 
 Telling of old-time tales : 
 
 Told, till all had left him, 
 
 All but Annie, his wife. 
 
 Then he carried her spinning, 
 
 Carried her wheel inside, 
 
 Leaving the quarry-hands thinking, 
 
 Thinking upon their seats, — 
 
 Jack, and Joe, and Jimmie, 
 
 Thinking about those girls. 
 
 "Guess they are looking for others," 
 
 Jack drawled off, and they followed. — 
 
 49 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 This is the childhood story, 
 These are the girlhood days, 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie, 
 Lived at Quarryford ; 
 This is the bachelor story, 
 These are the courting days, 
 Jack, and Joe, and Jimmie, 
 Toiled for Quimby's girls : 
 Pined, when people were heart-felt, 
 Yearned when girls were scarce ; 
 Yes, and never a whit cared 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie ! 
 
 First my tale has told of 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Now my tale must tell of 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie; 
 Then of Vance and Maud ; 
 Then of Vince and Madge; 
 Then of Vernie and Millie ; 
 Now and again must tell of 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance ; 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Millie, and Madge, and Maud; 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie. 
 
 II. The Newcomers 
 
 Once again 'twas twilight 
 
 Round old Quarryford, 
 
 And on the porch of the cabin 
 
 50 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Sat the Quimby folks, 
 Talking, and spinning, and chatting, 
 Sewing, and knitting a bit ; 
 Cheerful, and all forgetful 
 Quite of that evening's pain, 
 Frankly when all their courting, 
 Millie, and Madge, and Maud, 
 Gently the quarrymen's wooing 
 Put aside, and forever. 
 
 No, but not forever, 
 Though they never so much, 
 Though they never so bluntly 
 Put their wooing aside. 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie, 
 Be they never so frank, 
 Could not chill the hope of 
 Jimmie, and Joe, and Jack ! 
 Friendly — chatty — they still were ; 
 Yes, and who could tell, 
 Might not chat and friendship 
 Blossom to yielding and loving? 
 
 Sudden the peaceful murmur, 
 Murmur of voices and chat, 
 Suddenly broke, and was scattered 
 Wide by the loudest of toots. 
 "Listen, that's the 'Quimby' !" 
 Leaped from the lips of all ; 
 Brought them to feet, and they shaded 
 Eyes in the growing dusk, 
 
 51 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Far to the southward, where gleaming 
 Red through the river's haze, 
 Shone the lights of the steamer. 
 Sent on the breeze her puffings. 
 
 Quimby adjusted his glasses, 
 Quick whipped out a glass, — 
 "Sure, that's our own 'Quimby' !" 
 Quimby cried for joy. 
 Quick his arm he offered, 
 Led his help-meet down, — 
 Down the yard, the stone-path ; 
 Down the steps of flags, 
 Broad and steep of flag-stones ; 
 Down to the landing-place, 
 Built with a little store-house, 
 Hugged by its anchored ferry. 
 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie, 
 
 Followed loiteringly, 
 
 Each" in her sister's footsteps. 
 
 Gazes fixed on the lights. 
 
 Quick, at the steps of the flag-stones, 
 
 Jack gave Maud his arm, — 
 
 Following Quimby's example ; 
 
 Joe gave his arm to Madge ; 
 
 Jimmie gave his to Millie ; 
 
 Gently they guided them down. 
 
 Maud, Madge, and Millie were flattered 
 
 Hopeful were Jack, Joe, and Jimmie. 
 
 52 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Gallant as any soldier, 
 Gentle as old-time knights, 
 Each led down his lady, 
 Down to the landing-place : — 
 Quimby, Jack, Joe, and Jimmie ; 
 Found the steamer moored; 
 Busy the crew was unloading, — 
 Much surprising all, — 
 Prairie-piows, in number 
 Three, — and bright, and strong; 
 Three huge yokes for oxen. 
 Six great oxen also. 
 
 All were struck with wonder, 
 Till the busy crew, 
 Once more safe and sound now, 
 Greeted the Quimbies all ; 
 Showed them three newcomers, 
 Settlers for the West, — 
 Three strong, stalwart fellows, 
 Set upon building their homes 
 High on the other bank there, 
 Where they bought in a row 
 Three fine eighties, these Swinkers,- 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie. 
 
 Jack, and Joe, and Jimmie, 
 Each kept close to his girl, 
 Saw with sharpness, and fearing, 
 How their girls now met, 
 Met these strangers manly, 
 
 53 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Neat in home-spun flax, 
 Hats of plaited wheat-straw, 
 All so fresh and clean : — 
 Jack saw Maud look longing; 
 Joe saw Madge could yearn ; 
 Jimmie heard Millie sighing: — 
 Ah, how the three were puzzled! 
 
 Charmed were daughters, and mother, 
 Sure, by these brothers three ; 
 Captured by Quimby's daughters, 
 Seemed these brothers all ; 
 Climbed, amidst the Quimbies, 
 Chatting, and laughing, the steps ; 
 Nearer the girls than the hostess, — 
 Hostess and host, who led ; 
 Chattering, followed the boatmen ; 
 Lingered the quarry-hands last. 
 Said Jack then: "Look now in front there! 
 See now what figure-heads we are." 
 
 "Never you fret," said Joe then, 
 "Madge is a sensible girl." 
 "Sensible? Yes, too much so; 
 Far too sharp for you ; 
 You, a common workman : — 
 They are owners of land, 
 Owners of priceless oxen ;" — 
 That was the answer from Jack •• 
 "Madge," replied Joe, with choking, 
 "Loves not oxen, nor land." 
 
 54 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "Neither loves you, I reckon," 
 Jack returned him sharply. 
 
 Joe, he quickly recovered ; 
 "You are not sure," he said; 
 "I have reasons to hope yet." 
 "Yes, and I, too, have hopes," 
 Jimmie broke in: "I'll fight, yet: 
 Fight for Millie, I will." 
 Jack, he heard the youngster, 
 Listened to Jimmie, surprised, 
 Laughed at the foolish boasting, 
 Laughed as if all were a joke. 
 So they came to the cabin. 
 Seating themselves by the others. 
 
 There was father Quimby, 
 Smoking his corn-cob pipe, 
 Telling his old-time stories, 
 All to the steamer crew, 
 All to the brothers Swinker, 
 Seated on benches around, 
 Seated around on the porch-floor. 
 Soon there appeared in the door, 
 Ouimby's wife, and his daughters, 
 Asking them in to eat ; 
 Asking in the crew-men, 
 Smiling in the Swinkers. 
 
 Then, within the cabin, 
 Back in the eating room, 
 
 55 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Low, and freshly white-washed, 
 Served a belated meal, 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Served the steamer crew ; 
 But, before all others, 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance; 
 Leaving the work in the kitchen 
 Mostly to Mother's care : 
 Carving of smoked ham slices, 
 Pouring the wheat-brown coffee. 
 
 Still, there were waiters too many, 
 
 Quite too many for nine, 
 
 So that out came Millie, 
 
 Out to father's yarns, 
 
 Smiling, and chatting, and laughing, 
 
 Never so lovely before ; 
 
 Chatting with Jimmie so brightly, 
 
 Jimmie was quite entranced, — 
 
 Thought of his supping rival ; 
 
 "Come for a stroll," he sighed. 
 
 Silent was kind-hearted Millie: 
 
 Said, "I must go and be serving." 
 
 Soon, stern Madge was resting 
 
 From her serving acts, 
 
 Smiling bright as never, 
 
 Chatting much with Joe ; 
 
 Full of gayest fancies, 
 
 He had never heard, 
 
 Never heard from Madge yet. 
 
 56 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 'Twas a hopeful chance; 
 "Come for a walk," he murmured. 
 Madge grew silent quick; 
 Said, "I must go waiting," 
 Leaving Joe a-thinking. 
 
 Then grave Maud was resting 
 Brief in her serving zeal, 
 Last came out a-smiling, 
 Cheered grim Jack with words 
 He had never dreamed of. 
 Never heard from Maud. 
 Cold he heard, he listened, 
 Though his heart grew warm, 
 Till, in truth to try her, 
 "Come for a ramble," he said. 
 Quiet was Maud a moment, 
 Then she left him in silence. 
 
 Now came out the boat-men, 
 Smacking their whiskered lips, 
 Sat at the feet of Quimby, 
 Swapping him river tales 
 Found on their latest voyage. 
 Ah, but the Swinkers three, 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie, — 
 These they would not come ; 
 Neither would stolen glances 
 Into the lighted house; 
 Neither would sharpest listening, 
 Ever discover their presence. 
 
 57 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Then the quarry-hands shifted 
 All the steamer crew 
 Over to Quarryman Quimby, 
 Closer together sat, 
 Spoke in lowered voices. 
 "Did she refuse you a stroll?" 
 Jimmie asked Joe, quite angry. 
 "Yes, a walk," snapped Joe. 
 "Yes, Maud snubbed me a ramble," 
 Growled old Jack with rage. 
 Then they looked at the river, 
 Down to the distant roadway. 
 
 Suddenly Jimmie sat upright, 
 
 Staring upon the road ; 
 
 Joe was staring also, 
 
 Choking caught his breath ; 
 
 Jack sat unconcerned-like, 
 
 Simply looked down there ; 
 
 There came Maud with Vance now; 
 
 Madge came up with Vince ; 
 
 Millie came up with Vernie ; 
 
 Sauntering side by side. 
 
 Jack, he muttered : "Your hopes are 
 
 Hit with — hit with — sand-bags !" 
 
 First my tale has told of 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie ; 
 Then my tale has told of 
 Vance and Vince and Vernie, 
 Now of Vance and Maud, 
 
 58 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Now of Vince and Madge, 
 Now of Vernie and Millie : 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie ; 
 Millie, and Madge, and Maud; 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance ; 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie. 
 
 III. Finding Each Other 
 
 'Twas in the days of the settlers, 
 
 Days of the pioneers ; 
 
 Days when people were heart-felt, 
 
 Plain, outspoken, and blunt; 
 
 Times when women were lovely, 
 
 Beautiful not, and fair ; 
 
 Times when women were needed; 
 
 Times when girls were few, 
 
 Scarce on the few-cabined prairies ; 
 
 Found by a weary search ; 
 
 Years when men went searching — 
 
 Searching, and finding, they wooed them. 
 
 So were searching, and searching, 
 Now on their westward way, 
 Out to their new-bought eighties, 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance, — 
 They, the Swinkers, three brothers, 
 First come to Quarryford. 
 Ah, and searching proved finding ; 
 Yes, and finding, they wooed ; 
 Yes, and wooing, they said so. 
 Ah, but the wooer's path, 
 
 59 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Even the path of the favored, — 
 No, it is seldom the straightest! 
 
 Minded to press their wooing, 
 Soon they found their chance, 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie; 
 All at that memorable meal, 
 After their very first supper, 
 After the boat-crew had left, 
 Mother remained in the kitchen. 
 Ah, and the friendly chats 
 Never could find an ending. 
 Vance could not part from Maud, 
 Vince from Madge not sever, 
 Vernie from Millie not wrest him ! 
 
 So, and before they thought it, 
 
 Chatting, they left the room ; 
 
 Passed through the eating-room doorway, 
 
 Into the evening air; 
 
 Strolled in the pleasant coolness, 
 
 Aimless among the trees, 
 
 Down to the northern roadway, 
 
 Far, they knew not how far; 
 
 Vance with Maud beside him ; 
 
 Vince with Madge at his side ; 
 
 Vernie with Millie beside him; 
 
 Strolling, and chatting, and laughing. 
 
 So, in the silent forest. 
 After leaving the house, 
 
 60 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 Strolled and chatted these six, now; 
 Heard not the whip-poor-will's song - , 
 Heard not the clamorous hoot-owl, 
 Heard not the night-bird's calls. 
 No; they were getting acquainted, 
 Telling each other their lives, 
 Rapt on the fateful learning 
 Wooing must feed upon : 
 Plainly, without concealing, 
 Turn-about giving and taking. 
 
 "So you are twenty-four then, 
 And you have made this plan, 
 Brought your brothers to us here," 
 Pondered Maud to Vance. 
 "Yes, we divided the money, 
 All that Father had left ; 
 Came here to settle and live here, 
 Came here to hunt for a home." 
 Vance helped down the hillside 
 Her steps to the northward road ; 
 Gently continued : "My hunting — 
 Searching, is ended in you now." 
 
 Maud strolled on in silence ; 
 Vance strolled on at her side, 
 Still repeating his purpose, 
 "Maud, will you share mv home?" 
 Still they strolled on in silence, 
 Waiting for answer, and — words. 
 "Maud, will you share it?" he touched her 
 
 61 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Gently, and took her hand. 
 "No," she said, and withdrew it. 
 Onward they strolled again ; 
 Onward, but no great distance ; 
 Silent, they soon turned homeward. 
 
 Meanwhile, still in the forest, 
 Lingered Vince and Madge ; 
 "Twenty-three is your age, then ; 
 Yet you have oxen and land, 
 Besides a plow, to support you," 
 Practical Madge remarked. 
 "Not to support you also?" 
 Vince took Madge by the arm, 
 Helped her down the hillside. 
 "Cannot tell you now," 
 Madge postponed her answer, 
 And on the road they turned homeward. 
 
 Likewise, but down on the highway, 
 Vernie and Millie came home. 
 "Twenty-one are you only, 
 Sprightly Millie began, 
 "And so rich already?" 
 "Millie — could — you not add — 
 Add yourself to my riches. 
 Make me richer than all?" 
 Vernie half-sighed at her ear then. 
 "I cannot," Millie sighed, 
 Millie pleaded forgiveness; 
 Homeward they strolled in silence. 
 
 62 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 So they came back to the cabin, 
 
 Scantily chatting, and low ; 
 
 Cheerful not, as before this ; 
 
 Laughing not as before. 
 
 "Oh, yes; must have forgot you," 
 
 Quimby the Swinkers joked; 
 
 Showed them his quarrymen three then; 
 
 Sat, and continued his tale. 
 
 Never would chatting and laughing 
 
 Flourish so well with these six; 
 
 Even the daughters were silent, 
 
 Wordless, drew back to their mother. 
 
 "Lively chaps," laughed Jack then, 
 Dropping that night on his bed, 
 Back in the quarrymen's bed-room, 
 "But they got mittens like ours." 
 "Likely girls," growled Vance then, 
 Closing the bed-room door, 
 Off in the company bed-room, 
 "Blame them never so much: 
 One is mine ; I know it, 
 And I will know who she is." 
 "Madge is mine," claimed Vince then; 
 "Mine ! — or it's Maud," cried Vernie. 
 
 So they contended, and labored, 
 
 Toiled in the days that came ; 
 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie, 
 
 Toiled for their homes, and — their wives? 
 
 Yes, but their courage to woo them 
 
 63 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Lay in their hearts asleep ; 
 
 Slept, while the grass of the prairie 
 
 Fell to their swinging scythes ; 
 
 Dreamed, while the matted greensward 
 
 Yielded to ox and plow ; 
 
 Hoped, while they lived at the cabin, 
 
 Near Maud, Madge, and Millie. 
 
 Ah, but how long could their courage 
 Soundly sleep, dream, and hope, 
 Near Maud, Madge, and Millie, — 
 Roused by their laughter and chats? 
 How could it help but wake them, 
 How could it help but grow, 
 When, at their cabin-raising, 
 Quimby helped them so much, — 
 Half gave them logs as presents, 
 Lent them his ferry-boat ; 
 Mother and daughters so kindly 
 Gave them a bounteous feasting? 
 
 Lo! and the forest listened, 
 Once at the twilight hour; 
 Listened with keenest sharpness, 
 For they were sweet and low ; 
 Low were the words that were spoken ; 
 So low that scarce you could hear, 
 Spoken by Vance, Vince, and Vernie; 
 Millie, and Madge, and Maud ; 
 Spoken by Vance to Madge now ; 
 Spoken by Vince to Maud ; 
 
 64 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Spoken by Vernie to Millie; 
 Each two alone in the forest. 
 
 Here strolled Vernie and Millie, 
 Chatting in tones so low, 
 Each absorbed in his future, 
 A future all his own ; 
 Futures that could not be common: 
 "I am so young and so wee ; 
 Oh, for a tall, brave settler!" 
 Laughed out Millie at last, 
 Yet how much in earnest ! 
 "Quick of temper, and acts, 
 How I long for my equal !" 
 Vernie returned in answer. 
 
 There walked Vince and Maud now; 
 Mated as ill and wrong, 
 Mated like Vernie and Millie, 
 Speaking as lonely as they. 
 Ever came Vince's firm accents ; 
 Ever came Maud's sharp words : 
 "Need some one to unbend me — 
 My hard mind to control," 
 That was Vince's expression. 
 "Yes, I want some one, — 
 One to check my quickness !" 
 That was Maud's keen purpose. 
 
 Yonder stood by each other, 
 Chatting, Vance and Madge. 
 
 G5 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Now and again, through the silence, 
 
 Darted the words of Vance; 
 
 Stole some words of Madge's. 
 
 "Well, but I have a home, 
 
 And I want someone to share it ; 
 
 There, that cabin is mine — 
 
 Vernie and Vince will build yet," 
 
 Pleaded the voice of Vance. 
 
 "Yes, but I want an equal 
 
 That fights me," Madge replied him — 
 
 "Not happy yet, I reckon," 
 
 Muttered Jack once more, 
 
 When they returned to the cabin, 
 
 Saw them so quiet again — 
 
 Ah, such a clear understanding, 
 
 Knowledge of greatest need, — 
 
 Oh, so far the fulfilment, 
 
 Fulfilment of fondest hopes! 
 
 Days, and days of toiling, 
 
 Dreaming, and hoping, and fear: 
 
 Search of the one that was needed — 
 
 Dragged, and dragged on, for the lovers. 
 
 Peace, Oh, peace for the heartache, 
 Heartache of all these days! 
 That was the cry of these lovers, — 
 Treasure they could not lift : 
 Sought it again in the forest, 
 Once in the autumn air, 
 All in the tinted silence, 
 
 66 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Silence of turning leaves; 
 Sought it in murmuring voices, 
 Laughter, and chatting, so warm ; 
 Finding themselves in each other, 
 All the world forgetting! 
 
 Vance was walking with Millie ; 
 Vince was strolling with Madge ; 
 Vernie was roving with Maud now; 
 Blessed by the silence around, 
 Blessed by ease from their heartaches, 
 Blessed by the forest peace. 
 Ah, and the words that were spoken, 
 Who, yes, who can tell? 
 Scarce could the silence perceive them 
 Low, and so dear, and so sweet ! 
 Yes, they had found themselves now, 
 Found themselves in each other. 
 
 "Boys, I guess we're finished," 
 Sighed big-hearted Jack, 
 When they returned to the cabin. 
 Closely locking arms. 
 "Father, your blessing," the lovers 
 Kneeled at Quimby's feet. 
 Quite overcome with emotion, 
 Quimby held out his hands, 
 Trembling said : "God — God bless you. 
 And there was shaking of hands, 
 Even the quarry-hands joining; 
 "Came by it honest," Jack faltered. 
 
 07 
 
THE WOOING OP 
 
 First my tale had told of 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Then my tale had told of 
 Vance, and Vince, and Vernie. 
 Now of Millie and Vance; 
 Again of Vince and Madge ; 
 Then of Maud and Vernie ; 
 These my tale has told of: 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie; 
 Vernie, and Vince, and Vance ; 
 Vance, and Vernie, and Vince ; 
 Maud, and Madge, and Millie. 
 
 68 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Spray Two of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
Whisperings of My Fancy 
 
 FOREPLAY 
 
 When My Fancy Spoke 
 
 In loveless moment recently, 
 
 When with divided mind, 
 My ancient songs had come to me 
 
 So crude and unconfined, 
 
 A touch that thrilled me through and through, 
 
 From out the dark around 
 The high back of my settle, flew 
 
 From shoulder down to ground, — 
 
 Filled me with pacified desire : 
 
 I knew, My Fancy spoke. 
 I glanced not round with startled fire, — 
 
 Her heart was still the same ! 
 
 I felt My Fancy's breath, who bent 
 
 With kindness over me, 
 Upon my ear with music sent 
 
 Her words before. And She : — 
 
 "What was it thou didst sing before?" 
 
 I started at her voice, — 
 A harmony not heard of yore, 
 
 When whispers were her choice. 
 
 70 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "That voice ! — Thy voice !" was all I caught 
 
 Up from my flooded heart. 
 "My voice didst thou sing o'er, when naught 
 
 Of it thou heardst, and start 
 
 "Thou didst at it, a twinkling back?" 
 
 She spoke all to my bliss ; 
 I said : "I started for the lack 
 
 Of it so long ere this." 
 
 And She: "So thou didst miss it?" — "Yea; 
 
 And why didst thou not let 
 Me feel its music till this day, 
 
 And only whispers set 
 
 "My erring voice aright?" I dared. 
 
 And she spoke motherly : 
 "In whispers I my thoughts declared, 
 
 That I might temper thee !" 
 
 "Mightst temper me?" repeated I; 
 
 "And why so rare and few 
 Thy words?" "To try and test thee by," 
 
 Laconic came my clew. 
 
 "Test how?" I marveled unconvinced. 
 
 And kind My Francy spoke; 
 "I tempted thee, if thou unwinced 
 
 My whispers heed no joke, 
 
 71 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "And follow out my biddings all, 
 
 To letter and to dot ; 
 My self resolved, that if thou fall, 
 
 I even whisper not ; 
 
 "But if thou heed, that thou shouldst hear 
 
 My voice, and be repaid." 
 Her music ceased, and pause of fear 
 
 Came over me, and preyed 
 
 Upon my words ; but I ennerved 
 
 At last snatched it away, 
 And said, "I tried at least unswerved 
 
 To sing as thou didst say." 
 
 Then She : "And now I let thee know 
 My voice." And I, in doubt, — 
 
 "As my reward?" And She: " Tis so." 
 "I cannot mete it out," 
 
 " 'Tis undeserved," I soon declined. 
 
 Rut She replied : "What for 
 Else did I come? What seized my mind? 
 
 But to reward thee more?" 
 
 And I, enthralled: "To let me feel 
 Thy voice through flesh and soul !" 
 
 And She with calmness: "Give my seal! — 
 And in what further role?" 
 
 72 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 And I : "I may not guess." And She, 
 
 In earnest tone : "Then hark, 
 What my demand from thee might be." 
 
 I: "Speak; my mind is dark." 
 
 And She, in selfsame tone : "I heard 
 
 Thee sing, and I am pleased. 
 Thy revelation day hath stirred, 
 
 A new sun now hath seized 
 
 "On thy retreating night and dawn, 
 
 And thou must rise to meet 
 Him now. 'Tis time these songs be drawn 
 
 Up into booklet neat, 
 
 ''And covers, binding them to one, 
 
 For they are now a whole, 
 Complete in body that is done, 
 
 And in its own true soul. 
 
 "All are the Whisperings I breathed 
 
 Into thine ear alone, 
 In thine own words and voice ensheathed, 
 
 In phrase and form thine own. 
 
 "Now write these songs with thine own hand, 
 
 And severally set 
 In order, as I whispered, planned, 
 
 And willed — all thirty — met 
 
 73 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "In one ; and call them Whisperings 
 
 Of me, for such they are, — 
 Thy work of eight long years, the springs 
 
 From three impulses : — Far 
 
 "And first, thy boyish longings, dark 
 And weary-brained wrought out, — 
 
 Three years consumed ; and then the spark 
 That Life held to the bout 
 
 "Which thou didst give the world, that caused 
 
 A three years' fire ; and last, 
 Thy gleanings from the strife that paused 
 
 On that abyss which passed 
 
 "For thee between both Life and Art, — 
 
 And this a three years' war. 
 Now lay thy work this wise apart: 
 
 Becrown the first short score, 
 
 "The Whisperings of Night ; the next, 
 
 The Whisperings at Dawn ; 
 The last, the Whisperings with text 
 
 Of Sunrise on the lawn. 
 
 "Thus write each song as on the date 
 Thou wroughtst it down complete 
 
 At first, recast into the state 
 
 Thy conscience now deems meet, 
 
 74 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "But sparingly, as not to bar 
 
 That ancient version's sense, 
 Though faulty it may be, nor mar 
 
 Thy history's defense. 
 
 "This is my will, and all the law 
 
 I came to thee to bring." 
 Thus spoke My Fancy, stern, with awe 
 
 In her sweet voice. But wing 
 
 Took soon my fear, and desperate, 
 I scoffed : "Such rubbish? Nay !" 
 
 "It is the rock whereon is set 
 Thy future building lay," 
 
 Spoke She. And I but muttered: "Spare; 
 
 The world will laugh !" "The world 
 Must be convinced that thou wilt dare 
 
 To build thy fortune !" hurled 
 
 My Fancy back. "My Fancy, peace ; 
 
 I am ashamed to write," 
 I groaned. And She, without release : 
 
 "Thou art not honest quite 
 
 "In that, my son ! Thou art ashamed 
 
 Of that thou lovest most? 
 Of poet-craft so nobly framed, — 
 
 Of me, thy willing boast? 
 
 75 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "Hast thou foresworn thine artist-vow?" 
 
 I begged : "Another work, 
 Completer, fairer, — not this now, — 
 
 I surely will not shirk!" 
 
 "Then is the work of thy whole life 
 
 Not all complete," She held. 
 And I, reflecting long and rife, 
 
 "I write what thou hast spelled." 
 
 I sought Her eye, but She had gone. 
 
 And thus My Fancy sought, 
 That what She whispered should live on, 
 
 And I — refused Her not. 
 
 76 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 I. WHISPERINGS IN THE NIGHT 
 
 (A Boy's Chant to the Flowers 
 Done in Primitive Rime) 
 
 We have trees in beauty arrayed, 
 Both the finer and the staid: — 
 Lo! the mighty oak-tree, 
 And its kingly splendor see; 
 Root is firmly planted in ; 
 Trunk is strong ; and beauty's sheen 
 Decks him over all. 
 
 Choose we now the poplar-tree, 
 And on it the beauty see ; 
 Lo! its queenly splendor ken! 
 'Neath its shade go wander then ; 
 Hear the musicale alway, — 
 Jesting of a fairy's lay, — 
 Ever overhead ! 
 
 Force has no prevailing here ! 
 Hosts of strength cannot be dear 
 To a tender heart-string, — 
 Never bring a poet to sing; 
 'T must be worthy of beauty well, 
 For 'tis beauty bids to spell 
 Words kin to itself. 
 
 You have chosen for your queen 
 The highest type of beauty seen ; 
 
 77 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Yea, that e'er a mortal hath 
 Had God's mercy in the path 
 Of his vision to find, and regard 
 The angelic image! Never can bard 
 Praise her fairy blush ! 
 
 I see your queen before mine eyes ; 
 Cherish it a glad surprise 
 With her in this world to live, — 
 Grace as only God can give ! — 
 Blessed to no bounds are those who love 
 Such beauteous beings from above, — 
 Joy in sorrow is theirs ! 
 
 That blessed vision comes again : 
 She is in the morning of her reign ! 
 On her cheek is the blush of health, 
 On her robe is the glory of wealth. 
 As a tranquil queen on her throne 
 Of verdure she queenly rests. Own, 
 Own, dear Flowers, this Queen! 
 
 (That blessed vision comes again) 
 As once, in the dusk of morn, 
 When I stole from my bed forlorn, 
 In nature my mind to calm, 
 And to list to her morning psalm ; 
 Sought, what I sought all night long, — 
 List to nature's morning song, 
 Under the open heavens. 
 
 78 
 
QTJIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 On a happy morn it was, 
 When I walked along- the paths ; 
 When the brown thrush, Robin sweet, 
 And the oriole, the band did greet 
 Of the earliest sheen in the east; 
 When wondrously my eyes did feast 
 On all dewy nature. 
 
 Thus I wandered to the rose, — 
 Stood there long in dreaming repose, 
 Looked upon the beauty displayed, 
 How her foliage throne was swayed 
 In the breezes, how her flowers 
 Glittered in their dewy showers, 
 How their perfume spread ! 
 
 Ah ! who can the merits tell 
 Of all flowers at a spell? 
 Thousands, yea, millions are they, — 
 Lo ! and the beautiful things we say 
 Of each of them, and for each and one 
 We a pretty tale have spun, — 
 Heed them living jewels ! 
 
 From a time of thousand years, — 
 Came the sages, came the seers; 
 Since the birth of Mongol-land, 
 Since pyramids and sphinxes stand ; 
 Through all civilization told, 
 Through all gorgeous times of old, 
 Man hath loved the flowers ! 
 
 79 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Needed companions are you to man! 
 Hardly has he arrived, he can 
 Soon perceive your fragrance sweet. 
 In his youth, everywhere at his feet 
 Flowers caress him. They adorn 
 His altar-pledge; and Death's thorn 
 He hides under flowers ! 
 
 LACINDA 
 
 She dwells toward where 
 The Rockies rear 
 Their beauteous snow-clad crowns. 
 She is now come to see, 
 As hoary Winter frowns, 
 
 How all might fare, — 
 Her kinsfolk, friends, and — me ! 
 
 Be welcome here, 
 Oh, beautiful Lacinda ! 
 
 Fairer my heart calls thee, 
 Than Prussian fair, or blue-eyed Greek,- 
 
 Such as alone I see 
 Our own dear land within, and seek, — 
 
 A beautiful Lacinda! 
 
 The sleepy moon 
 
 From back a veil 
 Of downy clouds arose, 
 When last with thee I spoke, 
 And thine, by cheerful glows. 
 
 80 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 But ah ! too soon 
 That pleasant circle broke! 
 
 Yea, mirth will fail, 
 Sweet, loveliest Lacinda ! 
 
 Upon my lair 
 
 I long lay wake, 
 With many woes and sighs, 
 Though thy sweet voice did yet 
 Rest in my heart, and lies 
 
 Your image there : 
 I cannot e'er forget, 
 
 Though parting take, 
 Dear, angel-like Lacinda ! 
 
 And barely had 
 
 The youngest morn 
 Upon my sleepless bed 
 Its softest raylets left, 
 But that the message spread, 
 
 So dire and sad: 
 Mishap hath thee bereft! 
 
 Ah! how forlorn, 
 My bride-to-be, Lacinda ! 
 
 Ah, who could see, 
 
 That our young love 
 Would thus be early nipped? 
 Thy moonlit face, thy press 
 Of hand, thy words, ne'er stripped 
 
 From mine shall be ! — 
 
 81 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Oh, that me, too, might bless 
 
 Thy joy above, 
 And life were done, Lacinda ! 
 
 Fairer my heart calls thee, 
 Than Prussian fair, or blue-eyed Greek, 
 
 Such as I only see 
 Our own dear land within, and seek, — 
 
 A beautiful Lacinda ! 
 
 OLD YEAR'S EVE 
 
 Once more ye speak, ye brazen bells; 
 
 At dead of night your clanging spells 
 Disturb my slumbers deep, 
 Keep me from restful sleep ! 
 
 Your sounds inanimate 
 
 Know yet the noble art 
 
 To speak to human heart : — 
 
 Ye solemnize 
 
 Life's sad demise, 
 Ye make our joys sublime. 
 So, as the Old Year's dying, 
 The New Year's slowly nighing, 
 Your twofold strains relate, 
 Repeat your soulful chime ! 
 
 I 
 Ring slowly, 
 Ring lowly ; 
 
 82 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 With cadence sadly sweet, 
 
 The funeral dirge repeat, 
 
 And bury him that's dying, 
 With proper rites, and solemn sighing, 
 Whose spirit has returned to whence 
 
 It lately only came, 
 
 And shortly, as a flame, 
 So swiftly, flickering, fled from hence 
 Into the darkness, and the past, 
 Thus showing us how swift, how fast, 
 How fleeting is our own short life. 
 Then wrap him fond in linens white 
 Of gay, and sad rememberance. 
 Do not forget the flowers of joy, 
 That make our journey short and light; 
 Nor do neglect the cypress coy, 
 That signifies Grief's fruitless strife. 
 
 In such array, 
 With weeping lay, 
 Bear we away, 
 And sadly bury him. 
 
 Be still, 
 
 And turn thy thoughts to God, His will, 
 His love, who holds the rolling sands, 
 The world, in His almighty hands! 
 
 II 
 Ring li^htlv, 
 "Ring sprightlv. 
 As from the boundless sea 
 
 83 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Of dark eternity, 
 
 The young year comes a-tripping, 
 Into each heart a drop a-dripping 
 Of Heaven's hope, and gladdest cheers, 
 
 Befraught with glittering gold, — 
 
 Our future all untold ! 
 As out of utter dark appears 
 A radiant, beaming, beckoning light ; 
 Behind, before, no thing in sight; 
 No man may know from whence it comes, 
 Nor whither it doth take its way ; — 
 E'en such are all the coming years ! 
 But ring ye wildly on ! Ring on, 
 Ye bells, and sing your welcome gay, 
 In carols sweet in thought and tone ; 
 As, lo ! God's mercy o'er us looms ! 
 
 And as the same 
 Ye bells proclaim, 
 We speak His name, 
 And enter at the gate. 
 
 Be still, 
 And turn thy thoughts to God, His will, 
 His love, Who holds the rolling sands, 
 The world in His almighty hands! 
 
 II. WHISPERINGS IN THE DAWNLIGHT 
 Leon and Helen 
 
 Lo! on the distant hills 
 Lie the gilded clouds asleep, 
 
 84 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 In the summer clay's last glow. 
 
 The sun his royal frills 
 In the liquid tints did steep; 
 Soft the evening breezes blow. 
 
 Here we stand and gaze, gaze and stand, — 
 It is you, dear Helen, and I your lover true. 
 
 Your golden head doth rest 
 
 Upon my joyous breast. 
 Sweetly into mine look now your eyes, the truest 
 
 blue ; 
 My right hand holds yours, — hand in hand ! 
 
 Hark, dear, from yonder grove 
 Hail the lovely, flowing notes 
 Of the flutelike nightingale. 
 
 Oh, naught but truest love 
 E'er to such a song devotes 
 Pleas would pierce a heart of mail ! 
 
 Here we stand and list, list and stand, — 
 
 It is you, sweet Helen, and I, your lover true. 
 
 My heart, your eyes, prolong 
 
 Love's calm, yet mighty song. 
 Sweetly into mine look now your eyes, the truest 
 
 blue; 
 My right hand clasps yours, — hand in hand ! 
 
 Yea, dear, from yonder dell, 
 From the blossoming citron-tree, 
 Comes a sweetly perfumed breeze ; 
 
 85 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And, dearest, doth foretell, 
 Omen-like, our future fee, — 
 When the day us — wedded — sees ! 
 
 Here we stand, inhale: — happy stand! 
 
 'Tis you, dearest Helen, and I, your lover true. 
 
 No, sweeting, cast not down 
 
 Your eyes, and blushing, frown ! 
 Let me ever look into your eyes, such soul-deep 
 
 blue; 
 Thus, I mean, — and — yield to my demand ! 
 
 WHATEVER IS, IS BEST 
 
 Alas ! I am a-weary 
 Of the constant woes of life, 
 And of a sky so dreary, 
 Of the never-ending strife. 
 The sun of joy doth hide his face 
 Behind the clouds, nor deigns to grace 
 My piteous day with one bright ray, 
 To ease my pangs, smooth out my way. 
 
 Oh, would I could discover 
 At this very instant fell 
 
 Of woes, a land where hover 
 Aye the birds of joy, and dwell 
 To build their nests. On joyous wing 
 Would I mount you winds that sorrow bring, 
 And bid adieu to misery's lair, 
 And seek my home and fortune there ! 
 
 86 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Oh, Child of Man, didst ever 
 In thy mournful years thou see, 
 
 That after winter never 
 Came the spring with joy and glee, 
 And that the heavens never smiled? 
 Nay, more ! Lest we should be beguiled, 
 All joy by sorrow is oppressed 
 To teach : Whatever is, is best. 
 
 GREATNESS 
 
 The year is at the fall, 
 
 And nature tendreth you 
 
 Her fruits a thousandfold ! 
 
 'Tis but a little speck of earth, 
 
 This vale between the hills, 
 
 Enchanted by the sun's retreating ray, 
 
 And follows all his changeful cycle's sway,- 
 
 A sight oft seen, and old, 
 
 That doth oppress, enthrall, 
 
 The heart of lowly, selfish measures ; 
 
 In that to self and others true, 
 
 Its own true beauty, and true worth 
 
 Doth dawn, and slowly fills 
 
 Such heart's recesses with its treasures. 
 
 Then go we to yon hill, 
 That seems so dark before 
 The sky, and view our vale : 
 It lies serene, and fair, and gay, 
 As lands oft seen in dreams, 
 
 87 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 O'erspread with golden gauze of mellow fall. 
 
 The scents and tints of ripeness beck us all 
 
 To come and eat, regale 
 
 Ourselves in autumn's fill. 
 
 Now court the Lens' charming, mild rood : 
 
 The scene is large, and near, and o'er 
 
 It frisk such beams of light, and play, 
 
 As Old Age always seems 
 
 To see enshrine the scenes of childhood. 
 
 Thus, as the eve of life 
 
 For him who is inspired 
 
 Draws nigh, he brings his fruit. 
 
 He is but a failing man like all 
 
 His kin, and wears the dress 
 
 Of all his fellows. But there is a glow 
 
 About him, and a sparkling, and a flow 
 
 Of wondrous light, which bruit 
 
 A sleeping strength for strife 
 
 With mighty, unattempted powers. 
 
 And praise is his; he is admired, 
 
 With laurels crowned, as comes the fall 
 
 Of life; but selfishness 
 
 Spreads blackness o'er his fairest flowers. 
 
 And when the coming years 
 
 By one and one have passed 
 
 Into oblivion ; 
 
 And aged Father Time has led 
 
 Us to his snowy peaks, 
 
 He holds his glass before our eyes, and lets 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 Us view the genius from afar, and sets 
 His greatness on her throne, 
 And shows how she appears 
 In Fame's bright hall, and ever vernal; 
 How glorious his achievements last, 
 By love and thankfulness e'er fed, 
 For man's own good, — and speaks 
 Of her as something of the Eternal. 
 
 MY COUNTRY 
 
 My Country, can I not be proud of thee? 
 Put by all worthless boast and vanity, 
 And love thee for thy own sweet sake — 
 
 As thy great fathers ever did, 
 
 Whose love for thee was never chid? 
 May not my heart with rapture quake, 
 
 As does the patriot's oft, 
 
 When kindly breezes waft 
 His country's dear name to his ears, 
 And he in distant lands it hears? 
 
 May not that love increase without alloy, 
 As for a mother, pure, and never cloy? 
 May I not bid thy mountains ring 
 
 With one continuous, joyous shout, 
 
 As fling the shepherd boys about 
 The Alps, when loud their lays they sing? 
 
 And may my love for thee 
 
 Not e'er as ardent be, 
 As his who bows his head in death, 
 And gives for thee his last dear breath? 
 
 89 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Yea, how can I but sing of thee with pride, 
 When I see all thy honors at thy side, 
 When Peace stands smiling at thy gates, 
 
 And Plenty pours her blessings rare 
 
 Upon a land once waste and bare, 
 My own God-blessed United States ! 
 
 And may thou long endure 
 
 As fortunate and pure, 
 As thy great fathers prayed, and saw, 
 My proud, beloved America! 
 
 MY NATIVE LAND 
 
 A Hymn 
 
 Happy and prosperous, free and grand, 
 Spread ocean to ocean, 
 From Mexico's main 
 To Canada's plain, 
 And far in the Western sea; 
 Wherever my flag may be, 
 With tender devotion 
 I call my country, my native land ! 
 
 Aged but a hundred years art thou ; 
 Yet riches and glory 
 
 Are thine among lands, 
 Spite all their demands ! 
 And still I could wish the sum 
 Of thousands of years to come, 
 For patriots hoary 
 Ever devout to fulfil their vow! 
 
 90 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Grand are thy towering, rocky mounts; 
 And mighty thy rivers, 
 
 Thy valleys and plains, 
 With their fabulous gains 
 Of rich-golden wheat and corn ; 
 And lakes thy north-woods adorn ; 
 The sunbeam bright quivers 
 On thy smooth waters, and geyser-founts. 
 
 Joyfully sing we thy praises now, 
 Thy sons and thy daughters ; 
 And earnestly pray, 
 With jubilant lay, 
 That thou in His grace might rest, 
 As hitherto thou wert blessed, — 
 Who guides through the waters 
 Perilous, to Whom all dangers bow. 
 
 THE LARK OF FEARINGDALE 
 
 An Allegorical Legend 
 
 "Did ever you hear the tale 
 
 Of the Lark of Fearingdale; 
 
 Of the lark and her wonderful hymn, 
 
 That she sang when the stars grew dim?" 
 
 The question was put, they say, 
 By one who was old and grey, 
 With so solemn and truthful a mien, 
 That a lie he could never so screen: 
 
 91 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "The City is large and great, 
 
 By Sorrow, and Joy, his mate, 
 
 And with cheer, and pleasure complete, 
 
 In fair Fearingdale seldom you meet. 
 
 "Its meadows are green in spring, 
 And the birds their carols sing, 
 And the flowers all bloom there bright, 
 In all tints of the sky's pure light. 
 
 "And in season there came a lark, 
 
 But none seemed her presence to mark; 
 
 And she builded her nest in a nook 
 
 Of the mead, by the low-gurgling brook. 
 
 "And then, in the morn's first glow, 
 With music so mellow and low, 
 The lark with the light would arise, 
 As a bird from her captors flies. 
 
 "Then the townsmen all gazed profound, 
 As upward her climbing wound ; 
 And such music was shed from the skies, 
 That they thought of the Lord's Paradise. 
 
 "And thus she soared each day, 
 At the morning's first bright ray, 
 And the people must wonder and gaze, 
 And the bird and her song amaze. 
 
 "But none did a query make, 
 Or sought the spell to break, 
 
 92 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Nor ever did venture approach, 
 On her deep haunts to encroach. 
 
 "And once were the heavens dark, 
 But upward still rose the lark; 
 And the rainstorm came on, and she fell 
 And a fear came on all, as they tell. 
 
 "But at last, on a morning bright, 
 Rose the lark with loud delight. 
 But none to this day saw her fall, 
 And a rapture obscure came on all." 
 
 Then the little old man hobbled off 
 Down the street, with a meaning laugh, 
 And a sly, funny wink in his eye, 
 And left me pondering why. 
 
 "Oh, Bird of Hope, that greets 
 
 From Heaven's sunlit streets !" 
 
 It seized me like a gale, 
 
 " Tis thou, that's the soul of the tale !" 
 
 IOWA 
 
 First be thy praises, my Iowa, sung, — 
 Blithely, as ne'er o'er thy prairies they rung! 
 Motherly State of my birth and my choice ; 
 State in whose welfare thy children rejoice ! 
 Quite from the Father of Waters' bright gleam 
 Far to Missouri's fair glistening stream, 
 
 93 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Rustle the cornfields in choruses grand: 
 Iowa, Iowa, beautiful land! 
 
 Thrilled by a rapture that never quite stills, 
 Leaps up my heart, in the sight of thy hills, 
 Dotted with kine that contentedly graze, 
 Wide on thy pastures, midst grain and midst 
 
 maize ! 
 Plenteous art thou, my Iowa, blessed, 
 Even as no other state of the West! 
 Laughingly whisper thy grainfields so bland: 
 Iowa, Iowa, beautiful land! 
 
 True are thy children to thee, their old home, 
 Where in their childhood they erstwhile did 
 
 roam ; 
 True are thy kin, who abide now in thee, 
 Citizens happy, contented, and free: 
 Prizing their liberties higher than gain, 
 Striving at any cost these to maintain ; 
 Evermore cheers thee thy patriot band ; 
 Iowa, Iowa, beautiful land! 
 
 AN ELEGY ON MY OLD HOME 
 
 (Written on the tearing down and rebuilding of 
 my birthplace in the spring of 1904) 
 
 Fate has run a varied course with me, 
 Since my last farewell I took of thee, 
 To this moment, as my eyes now roam 
 Over the field to thee, my dear old home. 
 
 04 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Ah, that I must see thee fall apart ! 
 Never shall I without a wounded heart, 
 Think of thee, that art no more, — 
 Dearer dwells thy image than before. 
 
 Never, Oh, never shall I so be led, 
 To forget thy sacred form, o'ershed 
 By the pleasant sunshine, or with rays 
 That my memory spreads, in gloomy days. 
 
 Gladly did I leave thee for the South, 
 For the land of sunshine, where nor drouth, 
 Nor the winter's cold would penetrate, — 
 Flowers spring's sweet tale all year relate. 
 
 Ah, but short and fleeting were my joys, 
 In the land of glee, for Death, alloys 
 AH our pleasures, took away from me 
 Mother dear to God's own Blessed and Free. 
 
 And my brother lies beneath the sod. 
 At her side — beholds the throne of God. 
 And the pity of my father's kin 
 Called us back; as parents took us in. 
 
 And though short the years that after passed, 
 We again upon the world were cast. — 
 After wandering here and there alone, 
 Dawned thy view, for all else to atone ! 
 
 Old and weather-worn art thou, I see, — 
 Still my heart leaps up at sight of thee ! 
 
 95 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Glories thankful in the joys were once, 
 And the griefs, thy memories ensconce. 
 
 Even while I gaze thou fallest away, 
 As an ancient tree from long decay, — 
 Yielding to the common law of things, 
 Ere the Doomsday Angel's trumpet rings. 
 
 Even while I gaze, the groundwork new, 
 And the beams and timbers strong and true, — 
 Yea, the very walls and roof arise, — 
 All in turn and place, — in glad surprise ! 
 
 Thus the builders wrought a mansion good, 
 Where my dear old lowly home once stood, 
 In whose walls home's blessedness will reign,- 
 Newly bloom, and henceforth will remain. 
 
 Thus the Old and Passed must constant yield 
 To the scythe of time's incessant wield, — 
 On the very groundwork of the Old, 
 Doth the New its better things unfold. 
 
 Time is short, and Life is fleeting; aye, 
 And I lay all empty phantoms by, 
 So that when my life in ruin lies, 
 For me rise the mansions of the skies. 
 
 A CHILD'S SWEET CALL 
 
 I am resting in the summer-scented grass, 
 And slow before my troubled spirit pass 
 
 The scenes of former years, 
 
 With all their hopes and fears. 
 
 96 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And as I dream of things both bright and drear, 
 A child's sweet call of "Mama !" rings out clear, — 
 
 So happy, blithe, and free, — 
 
 Across the field to me ! 
 
 Oh, time was once when I could call that name ! 
 But long, long years since then are past reclaim; 
 
 Still, bright their scenes will stay, 
 
 As in that distant day : 
 
 That long sickness, the sanguine hopes we 
 
 shared, 
 The sudden shock that Death's dread visit bared, 
 
 The death-bells' solemn peal, 
 
 That speak as if they feel ; 
 
 The weeping, and the quietness that reigned, 
 The soft white shroud, the casket sorrow-stained, 
 
 The bearers of the pall, 
 
 The still, sad rites, and all : — 
 
 The sombre train that bore that gloomy day 
 My mother slow and solemnly away, 
 
 The mound they bade arise 
 
 Beneath the South's fair skies. 
 
 Though I beyond life's noisome troubles be, 
 These scenes of grief can never quite from me 
 flee ; 
 
 Though they will never restore, 
 
 They oft return once more. 
 
 97 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 But child — dear child, repeat your call again! 
 
 It gives my wandering thoughts a happier strain, 
 
 To know you happy there, 
 
 In home's completeness fair. 
 
 THE DANDELION 
 I 
 
 Humblest flower by the wayside! 
 
 By the hot and dusty street, 
 In the pleasant-smiling meadows, 
 
 Laughingly dost ever greet, 
 Oh, golden-visaged dandelion ! 
 
 Even before the songs of springtime, 
 
 Comest thou back to us again, 
 All thy thousand pleasures bringing 
 
 To the luckless sons of men, 
 Oh, golden-headed dandelion! 
 
 T tiniest the meadows bright and golden, 
 
 With thy ever-gladdening smile ; 
 Makest them aye an El Dorado, 
 
 All our sorrows to beguile, 
 
 Oh, golden-tempered dandelion ! 
 
 Looking on thy sunny features, 
 
 Who is he would not be glad, 
 Could resist thy joyous sunbeams, 
 
 Which thy bright eyes ever had, 
 Oh, golden-eyed dandelion! 
 
 98 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Oh, the beauty that thy Maker, 
 Humblest flower, placed in thee, 
 
 That can touch the human spirit, 
 That the soul of man can see, — 
 Oh, golden-hearted dandelion ! 
 
 Oh, the gladness thou dost bring us, 
 Smothering oft the heavy sigh; 
 
 Oft thy gold so pure remindeth 
 Of the golden streets on high, 
 Oh, gold-incarnate dandelion ! 
 
 II 
 
 When the evening shades are falling, 
 And the sun has gone away, 
 
 Close thy sleepy eyelids softly, 
 Sleepest thou to the break of day, 
 Oh, ever hopeful dandelion ! 
 
 Though the day be hot and sultry, 
 And the dust lie on thy face, 
 
 Yet, through all its darkness smiling, 
 Shines thy lasting sunny grace, 
 Oh, ever cheerful dandelion ! 
 
 When at last 'tis autumn coming, 
 For thy future home and stay, 
 
 Makest ready, and art waiting, — 
 Sailest at last in clouds away, 
 Oh, ever happy dandelion ! 
 
 99 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Let us learn the task thou settest, 
 
 Keeping only what is good, 
 Bar our thoughts and deeds to darkness, 
 
 Banish what is base and rude, 
 Oh, ever faithful dandelion ! 
 
 When the heat of life oppresses, 
 
 And the veils of sorrow dim 
 All our vision, hopefulness shall 
 
 Ever brightly through them gleam, 
 Oh, ever blessed dandelion ! 
 
 When the shades of life are closing 
 
 All about us at the end. 
 We shall on the breath of Heaven, 
 
 Like thee, joyous upward tend, 
 Oh, ever inspiring dandelion ! 
 
 THE RIVER OF MUSIC 
 
 Prelude 
 
 Music, gentle Maiden, 
 Like a Ruth in Israel's land, 
 Thou that speakest the language of the soul ! 
 Through thy varied mazes echo, roll, 
 Accents sweetly laden 
 With thy thousand harmonies 
 And liquid melodies ; 
 Accents strong and mighty, grand. 
 Moving with a martial tread, 
 
 100 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 That recall the pageantry of war with dread ; 
 That destroy its carnage, and its crime, 
 Make it poetry sublime. 
 
 Sounds that tremble, tinkle slowly; 
 Whisper confidingly, softly, lowly ; 
 Sounds that joyous mount, 
 
 Swiftly leap, 
 
 Steep upon steep, 
 As the sparkling of a fount, — 
 
 All so rapturous, 
 
 And voluptuous ; 
 Sounds that break exultant as the day, 
 That in joy profound, and restful sleep, 
 
 Sweetly flow away. 
 
 Notes that wildly rush in song, 
 As a storm the mountain gorge along; 
 Notes so wild, impassionate, 
 That upon thine ear they grate ; 
 Notes replete with anger, hate and ire ; 
 With defiance, grief, despair, desire; 
 And with love's heart-breaking, and hean-rending 
 fire; 
 Notes again euphonious, 
 
 Harmonious, 
 And in chorus full and deep, 
 With a grand, majestic sweep; 
 Ever the soul inspiring, 
 Upward, onward firing, 
 To her rightful goal, untiring; 
 
 101 
 
THE WOOING OP 
 
 Notes that speak of endless peace and love ; 
 Sacrifice, humility, forgiveness, 
 That can truly make us happy, and will bless ; 
 Notes that let us view the golden spires above, — 
 Thus the choral anthem swells on the air, 
 Painting visions sweet, and grand, and fair. 
 
 I. The Home of Music. 
 
 Bare, and dead, and lifeless quite; 
 Quaint, or queer, or rugged — beautiful or plain ; 
 Darksome, raven-hued, or light; 
 Tinted, golden-fair or silvery bright; 
 Rent, and splintered thousand times in twain, 
 Weird, grotesque, or wild; 
 Midst mighty gnarled oaks, — 
 Pines, — spite thousand thunder-strokes, 
 Still, as once, alive, 
 All as scarred heroes thrive; 
 Or mid shady, woody nooks, where mild, 
 Whispering breezes blow, or smiled 
 Quivering the sunbeams at play, 
 Places ever blessed with the beauty of May, 
 Dreamland-like, all through the day: 
 
 This, on barren mountain-side, or hillock green, 
 Music, is the image of thy home ever seen. 
 Here thou dwellest in thy golden halls, 
 Slumberest sweetly in thy silent walls, 
 Liest in repose, 
 While thy portals close. 
 
 102 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 II. The Spring of Music. 
 
 Thus, while living, dead thou seemest, 
 Softly slumberest, sweetly dreamest, 
 By some happy circumstance, 
 Ends thy beauteous dream and trance, 
 And thy gates swing wide. 
 Thou, whose glories thee adorn, 
 Now arisest as the roseate morn, 
 Donned with beauty as a bride. 
 
 This, Oh, Music, is thy spring, 
 Whence thy waters onward sing! 
 
 In a tiny stream, 
 
 With a joyous gleam, 
 Lustrous sparkle, and a sunny beam; 
 
 Cool and fresh and clear, 
 Pleasantly thy liquid wavelets veer, 
 
 Whispering, murmuring, singing, 
 
 Lisping, and happily springing 
 
 Over moss-decked stones, 
 As a crowd of happy little ones, 
 When it over the step-stones runs, 
 Over the rocks across the brooks, 
 Or in sunshine or in shady nooks. 
 
 III. The Rill of Music. 
 
 Onward, down the steep and rugged mountain-side, 
 Or adown the gently sloping hill, 
 Or across the flowery dale, 
 Or along the smiling vale, 
 
 103 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 In thy infancy thy waters glide, 
 
 Music, as a solitary rill. 
 
 With its little crystal feet a-tripping, 
 
 And with gladsome frolic skipping, 
 
 With the dews of morn and evening dripping ; 
 
 Through the tall and waving, swishing grass, 
 
 Through the beauteous and fragrant flowery mass, 
 
 'Neath the richly verdant, over-leaning ferns, 
 
 Wind thy softly whispering, silvery turns. 
 
 But over rock and stone, or pebble round, 
 Leapest thou with a merry bound ; 
 Over the rapids, ledges, and abyss, 
 With a free, and happy, scornful hiss. 
 
 IV. The Mountain Stream of Music 
 
 But thou gentle, lonely, wandering rill, 
 Playful little daughter of the stone, 
 
 Art not solitary yet, 
 
 Nor art long alone ; 
 
 For thy brothers, one by one, 
 
 And thy sisters, to thee run, 
 
 Joining hands with thee, 
 
 Laughing, shouting merrily, 
 Running down the mountain-side at will, — 
 Never has a happier band thus met ! 
 
 Wildly roaring, rushing, 
 Gamboling, and leaping, and rushing, 
 Madly dashing, 
 
 104 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Loudly crashing, 
 Furiously splashing, 
 And plashing, — 
 All its members quivering, trembling, quaking; 
 Faster — faster — faster onward flying, breaking 
 Into froth and foam and pearly spray ; 
 Ever raving, 
 Ever violently beating, 
 Ever corroding, ever eating; 
 
 Deeply caving, 
 With each thud and shock, 
 Even the very living rock. 
 
 This, Oh, Music, is thy mountain stream, 
 Heard and seen 
 By the Night-queen, 
 When she spreads her fairy gleam. 
 
 V. The Brook of Music 
 
 Thus, O tuneful Maiden, thunder on thy mountain 
 
 streams, — 
 Till the lowlands' sunny calm above them gleams; 
 
 Quietly, pleasantly dreams, — 
 
 Now a placid, silvery brook, 
 
 On whose glassy, crystal flood, 
 
 Heaven's smiling countenance doth 
 brood : — 
 
 Murmuring through woody gloom, 
 
 Lapsing where the rushes nod, 
 
 Softly gliding through the velvet sod, 
 'Neath the reedy roof a-babbling; 
 
 105 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Little fishes in its waters dabbling, 
 
 Winding gayly in and out, 
 
 All its eddies, and its whirls about ; 
 
 Singing where the violets bloom, 
 
 Where the blooming willows soft their catkins 
 
 shook ; 
 Whispering where the dainty wild roses list, 
 Where thy wavelets by the over-leaning grass are 
 
 kissed, 
 Where the leafy boats at anchor ride, 
 Green and golden side by side. 
 
 IV. The River of Music Itself 
 
 Sprung from lifeless rock, a crystal spring, 
 Grown a whispering rill, and roaring mountain 
 
 stream, 
 Then a softly singing brook, 
 Yet thy river, Music, fuller grows, 
 Stronger, broader, deeper flows, 
 Even that one might deem 
 It a chorus grand, which thousands sing, 
 And which Heaven ward.its journey took, 
 Mighty, with a jubilant accord, 
 Adoration, praise, and love, 
 Upward to the blue-tinged sky it soared, 
 That the massive pillars, and the domes thereof, 
 Over and over again, 
 Trembled with the joyful strain. 
 
 River of Music, thou flowest along, 
 Singing thy powerful song. 
 
 100 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Widely meandering thy way through the land, 
 With a movement majestic and grand, 
 With the smile of Heaven on thy bosom bright, 
 And thy wavelets glittering in the sunny light: 
 Thus thou flowest through smiling meadow green, 
 Through the forest deep, and dark, and drear, 
 Through the barren tracts, both black and blear, 
 Through brown shrubbery, withered, low, and 
 
 mean ; 
 Now through regions blessed by Plenty's horn, 
 Through the tasseled, waving, rustling corn, 
 Through the drooping fields of golden, heavy- 
 headed grain: 
 Thus thou coursest through the land amain, 
 Thou, the hope and life-blood of the plain, 
 Leaving fruitfulness within thy train. 
 
 Under dark, or gloomy skies, 
 Through the fields, or through the bog, 
 Underneath the thickly lowering fog, 
 Shroudlike over thy bosom lies ; 
 Through the raging tempest's gust, 
 Under winter's blinding crust, 
 Onward, onward, rolls thy current still, 
 To the dictates of thy will ; — 
 
 Placidly, peacefully gliding, 
 
 Now pellucid and clear, 
 Clear as glass, 
 Through which pass 
 Fair the sunshine's flood of light, 
 All illumining thy pebbled footpath bright; 
 
 107 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Roaring, foaming, rushing, 
 
 There and here, 
 
 All thy crystal waters flushing, 
 All thy smoothly sanded highways hiding 
 With the redness of thy clay; 
 Thus, Oh, Music's River, makest thou thy way! 
 
 VII. The Ocean of Music 
 
 Thus, Oh, Stream of Music, by thy varied, wind- 
 ing course, 
 Wanderest thou throughout the earth, 
 From thy high-born mountain source, 
 From thy rock-bound place of birth, 
 Under sunshine, and the cloud, 
 
 Of this earthly life ; 
 Now amid Life's rejoicings loud, 
 
 Now amid its strife, 
 Under sorrow's darksome shroud ; 
 Wearing now the ermine garb of peace, 
 
 Rest, and quietude, 
 Making music through Life's sylvan solitude, 
 Gliding through the fields of bountiful increase; 
 Now apparelled in armor of war, 
 Meeting the storm of the foe, 
 Raving the blazing skies under, 
 Quaking with fear at the loud-crashing thunder, 
 
 Fleeting through scenes of woe, 
 Dost thou with triumph thy victories score! 
 
 Thus, Oh, Music's River, flowest thou on, 
 To thy distant home, 
 
 108 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 As a child that long did roam 
 
 In the wilds, so far astray. 
 
 On, and on ! through night and day, 
 Through the mire, and through the loam, 
 Speakest thou thy motto ever and anon, 
 While thy constant efforts I may con, 
 On, on ! to where all perfections dawn ! 
 
 And as the portals of Ocean thou drawest nigh, 
 
 Breath of peace comes over thee, 
 As with rest the pines softly sigh, 
 
 When thy troubled face they see. 
 
 Then, one battle more ! 
 Yet once more thou burstest into foam, 
 Breakest into one more desperate roar, 
 Turbulent with trembling motion ! 
 
 Yea, but soon 'tis overcome, that threatening potion, 
 
 Thou art hale and sound 
 
 In eternity's profound, 
 In the peaceful, cradling, rocking, mighty ocean. 
 
 Postlude 
 
 Quite departed hath the vision, 
 With its melodies elysian, 
 
 Music, gentle maiden, 
 
 Ever sweetly laden 
 With the bliss of Paradise, 
 Where the everlasting mansions rise. 
 
 109 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 There, there thy mother sees, 
 
 What never man hath seen, 
 Nor ever by a mortal heard hath been ; 
 There, where blows the everlasting breeze, 
 
 Laden with eternal balm, 
 Sweetly whispering peace in ever verdant palm. 
 There, there thy Mother ever resides, 
 
 Where so tranquilly, so calm, 
 Tempest-stricken ship at anchor rides, 
 
 Evermore ashore: 
 
 Yea, evermore! 
 Thou art as a Ruth, who gleans 
 Ears of golden grain among our sorrows; 
 Whose dread visages thou over-screens, 
 Teaching us to look for better morrows. 
 Yea, thou earnest down to man, 
 To this famine-country drear, 
 To be round him as a sister dear, 
 
 As but such a one ever can. 
 And thou wanderest with him all his ways, 
 Through his fair, and through his gloomy days ; 
 
 Sayest, Thy own God is mine. 
 
 And my country thine ; 
 
 Where they bury thee, 
 
 Shall my grave beside thee be ; 
 
 Neither joy nor pain, — 
 
 Only Death's dread bain. 
 
 Ever shall part us twain. 
 
 Music, thou speakest the language of the soul, 
 As no writ or spoken word can do, 
 
 110 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Thou that canst assuage the savage breast, 
 
 Canst inspire with the Noble, and the True, 
 
 When the bells of sorrow toll, — 
 
 How must in the regions of the Blessed, 
 
 Ever thy mother's mellifluous strain, 
 
 In the peaceful fields without a pain, 
 
 At the Lord's right hand, 
 
 Where a thousand harpist-angels stand, 
 
 Jubilantly flow, 
 
 And with sweetness come and go ! 
 
 A DAY OF DELIGHT 
 
 'Tis a peaceful autumn day, 
 With the freshness of the May, 
 With the spring-time's low-sung lay, 
 With the fruit-time's balmy breeze, 
 And the sunlight's mellow ease. 
 
 Though the sky was dank and drear 
 Yesternight, and far and near 
 Fell the thunderbolts severe, 
 Shines today the sun again 
 On the fields refreshed by rain. 
 
 Gayly play the sun's soft beams 
 On the meadows and the streams; 
 All the world a-dreaming seems, 
 Drowsing in the afternoon 
 Of this ripe day's tranquil boon. 
 
 Ill 
 
, THE WOOING OF 
 
 Cloudless is the sky's far blue, 
 Sleepy landscapes greet your view, 
 Breezes whisper over you ; 
 From the grasses all around 
 Comes a lazy, chirping sound. 
 
 Oh, you autumn's treasure-trove, 
 Such a day as all men love, 
 Blessed are you from above ! 
 Oh, what beauty you reveal, — 
 Oh, the rapture that I feel ! 
 
 FAREWELL 
 
 Tis time that we must part, 
 Our saddest moment now is nigh, 
 
 When madly heart from heart 
 Is torn with deep and heavy sigh; 
 Oh, woe and pain is me, 
 But it must be ! 
 
 Then take this sign, 
 
 And make it thine, — 
 A meek, blue-eyed forget-me-not ; 
 
 And I will ever to you be true. 
 But give to me at times one thought, 
 
 And I shall ever think of you, — 
 Forget you not — forget you not! 
 
 May Heaven's boundless grace 
 Be ever with you day and night, 
 
 112 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And in your dwelling-place, 
 And be therein your sun and light : 
 Oh, let this wish from me 
 Your solace be ! 
 
 But fondly, and with pain, 
 Ask heart and soul at parting time : 
 
 Dear, shall we meet again, 
 When we have strayed from clime to clime? 
 Oh, make reply to me, — 
 Let "Yes," it be ! 
 
 So when alone you stand 
 On some far distant, lonely shore, 
 
 Far, far from homing land, 
 And there might dwell on things of yore, — 
 Oh, promise now to me, 
 Not sad to be ! 
 
 Then take this sign, 
 
 And make it thine, — 
 A meek, blue-eyed forget-me-not; 
 
 And I shall ever f o you be true. 
 But give to me at times one thought, 
 
 And I shall ever think of you, — 
 Forget you not — forget you not! 
 
 THE WONDERFUL LAND OF DREAMS 
 
 Oh, how sweet 'tis to dream, 
 In the moon's silvery beam ! — 
 
 113 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 When the soft breeze of summer his arms lay* 
 
 around me, 
 To cool and to kiss my cheek ; 
 And the singing of crickets so faintly floats round 
 
 me, 
 From bushes and trees, — so weak, 
 I could almost fall asleep, 
 And would never wish to peep, 
 But hurry to Dreamland away, 
 And dwell there till break of the day : 
 
 "Like a bird on her wing, 
 I shall haste to that beautiful land, 
 That tired little children love, 
 
 Where the birds always sing, 
 And the flowers all wait for my hand, 
 The moon smiles down from above. 
 Yes, there would I go, and there would I be, — 
 To the wonderful Land of Dreams take me !" 
 
 Take me up from my seat, 
 Papa dear, at your feet, 
 And please let your knee be my galloping pony: — 
 
 Your little girl sang for you. 
 With a shout I fly up, and alight on my pony, 
 
 The swiftest you ever knew! 
 Come with us, Oh, come, come fast ! 
 Mother, dear, or you'll be last ! 
 Come, sing us a song that is gay, 
 To dance with our hearts on our way! 
 
 114 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "Like a bird on her wing, 
 I shall haste to that beautiful land, 
 That tired little children love, 
 
 Where the birds always sing, 
 And the flowers all wait for my hand, 
 The moon smiles down from above. 
 Yes, there would I go, and there would I be, — 
 To the wonderful Land of Dreams take me!" 
 
 Oh, the fun and the joys, 
 Little girls, little boys ! 
 As my hair from my shoulders flies loose in the 
 breezes, 
 Oh, look, we outrun the moon! 
 But I feel, my dear pony, the sweet-smelling 
 breezes, — 
 We are there, ah, too soon — too soon ! 
 And so now, go feed, my dear, 
 In the meadows, far and near, 
 While I in sweet Dreamland take rest. 
 On Papa's great, kind-loving breast! 
 
 "Like a bird on her wing, 
 I shall — haste to that beautiful land, 
 That tired — little children — love, 
 Where the birds always sing. 
 And the flowers all — wait for my hand, — 
 The moon — smiles — down from above. 
 Yes — there would I — go. — and there — would I — be, 
 To the wonderful — Land — of Dreams — take — me !" 
 
 115 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 AN EPICURE'S ODE TO AN ORANGE 
 
 An idle moment calls thee forth, 
 By winter evening's dreamy fire, 
 Thou straying wanderer from the land 
 Of everlasting spring. 
 I hold thee now apart and gaze at thee, 
 With half-closed eye, in joyous reverie ; 
 For well thy face may bring 
 To me a dream and vision grand, 
 Of lands where joy knows no desire, 
 As roars without the boisterous North. 
 
 Thy golden face seems still to wear 
 
 The southern sun's unaltered smiles, 
 
 And fragrant breezes, and the bees, 
 
 Are merry round thee still. 
 
 And speak! knows not thy heart still all the mirth 
 
 Of that far sunlit vale that gave thee birth? 
 
 Thou smilest : "Do thy sweet will ! 
 
 My draught I give for thee to please, 
 
 That thou mayest see, and dwell in isles 
 
 With peaceful seas, and swooning air." 
 
 And as thou offerest thy brimful glass 
 
 Of costly sweets, thy perfume mild 
 
 Is foretaste of thy bliss to me ; 
 
 I sip with lingering ease. 
 
 I wonder where such vintage gladdened hearts; 
 
 I go abroad in groves where never departs 
 
 The leaf or bloom from trees ; 
 
 I lay me down where faint the bee 
 
 116 
 
QUIMBT'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Hum-drums, — around me flowers up-piled — 
 Who raps? — 'Tis the storm! — All's a dream — alas! 
 
 Ill WHISPERINGS AT SUNRISE 
 
 THE BETTER DAY 
 
 The better day is yet to dawn! 
 There is no waning-eyed despair, 
 Though morning's curtain be undrawn : 
 
 The soul was never meant to fare 
 
 As meteor that falls at sea, 
 
 Its light hissed out, to sink from air 
 
 To sunless pit. Nay, come with me, 
 Who sought, and found, the better day, 
 Till thy sick soul with mine be free, 
 And care hath gone hopeless astray. 
 
 WINTER AND SPRING 
 
 Then sleep, dear Mother Earth, without alarm, 
 And shield within thy snowy bosom and arm, 
 Thy baby bloom from chill mishap and harm ; 
 
 Until the Maiden Spring, wake thine and thee, 
 With kisses from the South, and smile of glee. 
 Oh, then bestir thee, Earth, — rejoice with me! 
 
 117 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 TWILIGHT-TIDE 
 
 Is twilight-tide not time for rest, 
 The flower maid that heralds sleep? 
 She bolts the gates to maddest quest, 
 In far-off mystic castle-keep? 
 
 Why, Tempest, roar, and, Lightning, leap? 
 Why, scudding clouds, be storm-oppressed? 
 Is twilight-tide not time for rest, 
 The flower maid that heralds sleep? 
 
 Then woo thou sleep, my Heart, to guest. 
 Forget the raving wind's wild sweep, 
 Put by those ghosts thy peace infest, 
 And give them over to dungeons deep ; 
 Is twilight-tide not time for rest, 
 The flower maid that heralds sleep? 
 
 THE POET'S VESPER SONG 
 
 Now come, sweet dreams, 
 And flit about my burdened head ; 
 Show me your tranquil beauty-gleams ; 
 Come, play this night about my waking-bed. 
 
 Make me forget 
 The day's bewildering cares entire, 
 Take from my thoughts all weight, and let 
 Me wake with joy to work and to aspire. 
 
 118 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Come, angels fair, 
 Sent far to earth from beauty's home, 
 And tell me now what marvels there 
 Of rest across your care- free ken may roam. 
 
 Your ministerings 
 I need this weary night so much, 
 You ministers of God! Where springs 
 Fair Gilead's balm, wherewith my heart to touch? 
 
 Where, cool and deep, 
 Arise the sweets of Jacob's Well — 
 Oh ! but enough from thence, to steep 
 My lips, I wish far more than I can tell ! 
 
 Entreat your King, 
 Sweet dreams, if you are not to yield 
 To me on clear-sped moonbeam's wing 
 My Promised Land in Pisgah's dim-seen field. 
 
 And in that hour — 
 That prescient hour — to let you ply 
 Your magic musings sweet in power, 
 For me to sing my coming numbers by. 
 
 Ah ! this my soul 
 Must feed upon, to keep her life, 
 To keep her peace when tempests roll, 
 To struggle upward by when doubt is rife. 
 
 I shall be strong, 
 My heart be besomed pure and sweet — 
 
 119 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 A bower fit for such a throng 
 Of beauty-folk in harmony to meet! 
 
 Then come, sweet dreams, 
 And flit about my weary head; 
 Show me your tranquil beauty-gleams ; 
 Dance me to sleep tonight with airy tread! 
 
 TO A BELATED KATYDID 
 
 Dreaming of summer still? 
 Here in October's withering grass, 
 Where the dead leaves fitfully pass, — 
 
 Still wilt have thy will ? 
 
 Singing as divine, 
 As if summer were newly come, 
 Leafy trees were still thy home, — 
 
 Oh, for a heart like thine ! 
 
 PEACE, WHY TARRIEST THOU? 
 
 Crimson evening creeps 
 
 Over my mossy garden deeps, — 
 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 Lone in my arbor here I wait, 
 Early, noon, and late ! 
 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 
 All my prayers, I ken, 
 Never — like doves — shall turn again,- 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 
 120 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Give me my soldier lad once more, 
 Give him me, O War! — 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 
 Oh, that I could yield 
 
 Daily my life his life to shield! 
 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 Then could my tears and anguish cease, 
 And my heart have peace, — 
 
 Peace, why tarriest thou ? 
 
 TO THE EVENING STAR 
 
 Oh, evening star, 
 In the autumn damp, 
 Light me thy lamp, 
 And greet afar! 
 
 Thou twilight spark ! 
 The pending gloom 
 In my soul illume, 
 And banish the dark. 
 
 Oh, heavenly sprite, 
 Let ever on me 
 Attendant be 
 Thy guiding light ! 
 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE 
 
 When swallows come in May 
 Beneath my eaves to build, 
 
 121 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 With song and wooing-play, 
 
 My heart is sweetly thrilled 
 With thoughts, my love, of thee,- 
 Oh, come and live with me! 
 
 When in the fall they leave, 
 With all their twitter-lore 
 
 About my cottage eave, 
 
 That housed their joy before, 
 
 I yearn, my love, for thee, — 
 
 Oh, come from death to me! 
 
 THE LOVER'S PRAYER 
 
 Sweet and still as night-fall, 
 
 Come my thoughts of thee, 
 Like a benediction 
 
 Hovering over me; 
 As I stand in silence 
 
 In my garden lane, 
 Pointing where thou dwellest 
 
 Far beyond the plain. 
 
 And thy words, returning, 
 
 Steal, as first they stole, — 
 Coy, endearing music, — 
 
 Through my waiting soul ; 
 Words that made thee happy, 
 
 Spite thy blushing face, 
 Words that made us tremble 
 
 Sweet in first embrace. 
 
 122 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Now, as sleep caresses 
 
 Tenderly thine eyes, 
 Softly closed in dreaming, 
 
 Till the morning rise, — 
 Moved by that first tremor, 
 
 Forms my heart a prayer, 
 For thy tender keeping 
 
 In the dear Lord's care. 
 
 LIFE AND I 
 
 A Colloquy in Seven Moods of the Flesh, with 
 Prolog, Interlude, and Epilog of the Soul 
 
 PROLOG 
 
 Youth 
 
 That time, meseems, 
 
 I was a meteor, lost 
 
 On mad career; force-tossed, 
 
 Dead mass that gleams. 
 
 And yet, at soul, 
 True fire from mother-sphere: 
 My will my own, to steer 
 From pole to pole! 
 
 But when with scars 
 Of flight I woke, and moan, 
 I was a lonely stone 
 From foreign stars. 
 
 123 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 MOOD THE FIRST 
 The Oracle's Response 
 
 One eve in lonely mood, 
 To Life I raised this cry : 
 
 "Oh, gracious motherhood, 
 Whose very own am I ? 
 
 "Thou hast not given me 
 
 A single living heart, 
 That dares, in truth, to be 
 
 My soul's sweet guiding part, — 
 
 "To come with laughing face, 
 With kiss, with open arms, 
 
 With strengthening embrace: 
 To me thy dearest charms!" 
 
 But dim the answer came : 
 "I gave thee love and art ; 
 
 Let these thy powers claim, 
 And dwell with these apart !" 
 
 MOOD THE SECOND 
 Love and Art 
 
 And from my window far 
 
 I leaned into the world, 
 Above me, star by star, 
 
 When summer's bloom unfurled. 
 
 124 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Again I asked my plaint, 
 For I would not be spurned ; 
 
 Again that answer faint, 
 And yet the same, returned. 
 
 And I grew lonelier still, 
 
 And queried as before: 
 "Oh, Life, is that thy fill : 
 
 Just love and art — naught more? 
 
 "Ah, what is art ; what, love, 
 To famished soul like mine? 
 
 I crave these far above, 
 A living heart of thine!" 
 
 Then Life: "Do not be wroth 
 
 With me! Without these twain, — 
 
 Both love and art, in troth, 
 All else is craved in vain." 
 
 MOOD THE THIRD 
 
 Love 
 
 Then came a whimful breeze 
 
 Of freshness from below, 
 From out the brooding ease, 
 
 But solaced not my woe. 
 
 And I to Life replied : 
 
 "Alas, thy cruel tone! 
 I cannot choose thee guide ; 
 
 Must sadly seek mine own. 
 
 125 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "How can I love, pray tell, 
 
 When that I most desire 
 Never yet my lot befell?" 
 
 Then Life, with little fire: 
 
 "Yearnest for the good within 
 
 Thy sphere?" And I: "Thou knowst, 
 
 I do." And Life: "Then win; 
 Hast gained my best and most!" 
 
 MOOD THE FOURTH 
 
 Art 
 
 With sleep, an insect's croon, 
 Up from the garden, brushed 
 
 Me by ; but would as soon, 
 It let me be, and hushed. 
 
 And I again laid hold 
 
 On Life, with begging grasp: 
 "Is Love so bare and cold?" 
 
 Life spurned with "Nay!" my gasp. 
 
 And T, despaired : "What, then, 
 Is art?" With voice of dove, 
 
 Life gave me word again: 
 
 "The second thought of love!" 
 
 126 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 MOOD THE FIFTH 
 Strife 
 
 And brisk, cool summer throbs 
 Flapped wing against my cheek, 
 
 And ceased ; but left me sobs, 
 And greater heat, and — weak. 
 
 Then I, to Life, once more: 
 
 "What need of art for me, 
 When none, to labor for, 
 
 Is mine?" And Life: "Pray, — see: — 
 
 "Thou longest for the good?" 
 And I spake, "Yea!" And Life: 
 
 "Thou hast the strength thou should?" 
 And I : " 'Tis mine, — through strife." 
 
 "Then act the good that's thine!" 
 
 Life bade our parley cease. 
 The stars increased their shine. 
 
 All — all but me had peace ! 
 
 INTERLUDE 
 
 Manhood 
 
 Upon a joyless day 
 
 I found the earth 
 Bloomed up in sudden May, 
 
 Full steeped in mirth ! 
 
 127 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Then chanced athwart my path 
 
 A girlish thing, — 
 "Ah ! which more beauty hath, 
 
 Or she, or spring?" 
 
 But spring had not that soul, 
 
 That lit her smile ; 
 And not her words, — now droll, 
 
 Now grave, to beguile. 
 
 And May had not the light 
 
 I found in her, 
 And not her language, bright 
 
 And sweet to stir! 
 
 Soon she was mine, to hold. 
 
 To keep fore'er, 
 To be my loss consoled, 
 
 My heart's one care. 
 
 And last, as mother of men, 
 
 I learned her name ; 
 I found me young again, 
 
 But — twilight came. 
 
 MOOD THE SIXTH 
 
 Solitude 
 
 No inharmonious sound 
 Came to my pausing ear; 
 
 Throughout the night's profound, 
 All blended sweet and clear. 
 
 128 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 But Life must not forget 
 My plight, and I required: 
 
 "I, doing good, do fret 
 Apart; is that desired, 
 
 "Then I am sick of all !" 
 
 Then Life: 'Thy mind is aye 
 
 A pebble, shut by wall 
 
 From every other. Play, — 
 
 "Play, then, thy part howe'er 
 Thou please, thou art the sole, 
 
 And lonely witness there ; — 
 There have thy toil, and thole 
 
 "That sacred solitude 
 
 Of thine own mind, and quit 
 It not till thou art good 
 
 Thyself, and pure, and fit!" 
 
 MOOD THE SEVENTH 
 Resolve 
 
 And then the deep dispute 
 Lived over, I ventured on: 
 
 "I may no more refute; 
 The monkish garb I don 
 
 Even now, of secrecy, 
 And yet my wistful arm 
 
 Enfolds but air, spite thee, 
 And all,— regret,— alarm !" 
 
 129 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Then Life replied with heat: 
 "The good that's thine, go do; 
 
 Keep by thy search ; repeat 
 
 What failed; take hope; be true. 
 
 "Then in this quest, the one 
 Right heart that doth the same, 
 
 Shall be all thine!— Is't done?" 
 And — "Yea" — my answer came. 
 
 EPILOG 
 
 Age 
 
 The summer dawnlight came, 
 But in my bones was still 
 
 The evening's weariness 
 
 And weight, that gave distress ; 
 I could not con its will ; 
 
 It made my spirit lame, 
 
 I left my bed of sleep, 
 Unbolted wide my door, 
 
 The rising day to greet, 
 
 My wandertask to meet ; 
 
 I grasped my staff once more, 
 
 To wend through vale and steep. 
 
 I heard my name! and then, 
 In trembling joy : "Lay by 
 Thy staff, and come with me!" 
 Spake one I could not see, — 
 
 130 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And I obeyed — and I 
 Was — young — forever again ! 
 
 EARLY SPRING 
 
 Last evening's sportive, light-strewn snow 
 
 Has flown away. 
 The cuckoo calls so far, so low, 
 
 At rise of day. 
 Ah, surely, spring is near, — 
 
 Sweet spring is near! 
 
 A breath of teeming May-day cheer 
 
 My soul unshrouds, 
 And peep of sun laughs at the fear 
 
 Of scudding clouds. 
 Ah, surely, spring is here ; 
 
 Sweet spring is here ! 
 
 TRYSTING SIGHS 
 I 
 
 Oh, thou passest so fair, 
 
 Though my heart beseech thee, 
 
 Into thy dwelling there, 
 
 Till my eye can never reach thee! 
 
 Oh, that my heart, as my eye, 
 
 Only can follow thee after, 
 Only thy image supply, 
 
 Ever forsake thee, content and laughter! 
 
 131 
 
THE WO<MN(J ()K 
 
 II 
 
 Oh, that the deepening night must warn 
 
 F.ver my heart to leave thee ; 
 Threaten my eyes, and my arms, in scorn, 
 
 Ever of thee to bereave me! 
 
 Oh, that my heart, and eyes, and arms, 
 
 Thee now must uncover, — 
 Now to the night and her thousand harms, 
 
 Over thee may hover ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Heart of my heart, eyes, arms, and kisses, 
 
 Oh, the envious dawn ! 
 How it ever thy presence dismisses, 
 
 When my dreams are withdrawn! 
 
 Heart, with its yearning; eyes, with their seeing; 
 
 Arms, with their long embrace ; 
 Kisses, that speak thee my inmost being, — 
 
 Where is thy laughing face? 
 
 A.FTERPLAY 
 
 When My Fancy Commanded 
 
 And when my labored hand had traced 
 
 That last, and hopeless word, 
 My light was tenderly erased 
 
 By hands that never occurred 
 
 L32 
 
QTJIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 TV) my bewildered eye, but whisk 
 
 Of air it seemed to be, 
 That cooled, like summer rain-winds brisk, 
 
 My glowing face and me. 
 
 A pacified desire from far, 
 
 Commingled with my soul, 
 When presently, from out the bar 
 
 Of blackness round, there stole, 
 
 Like fervent organ peal, the voice 
 
 I knew My Fancy had, 
 That made my trembling flesh rejoice, 
 
 My heart with rapture mad, — 
 
 'Twere uncontrollable, I feared ! — 
 
 And calm My Fancy spoke: 
 "Peace, peace, my son ! When I have cleared 
 
 Thine eye, thy dream has woke 
 
 "Into fulfillment quite through me, 
 
 Thou shalt behold her face 
 Again," She promised thrillingly, 
 
 And touched me for a space 
 
 My shoulder, that it pierced me through 
 
 And through. But I replied, 
 With mastery: "Ere this I knew, 
 
 Her face were not denied 
 
 "To me ; but pray, how long a while 
 Shall I behold, — an hour 
 
 133 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Or two, at eventide, her smile 
 And voice to overpower 
 
 "Me tenderly, and then, — depart 
 From Her again so soon?" 
 
 And sweet My Fancy said : "No, heart 
 Of such fond love, my boon 
 
 "Is greater still : Forever then 
 Thou shalt not leave Her side 
 
 Entirely, when thou shalt again 
 Behold Her." Oh, how wide 
 
 I felt my soul unfold for hope, 
 
 And joy! And I cried out: 
 "Oh, haste that day, My Fancy ; ope 
 
 Its dawulight portals stout, 
 
 And let its sun leap up!" And quick 
 Spoke She : "Thou hast the means 
 
 For this in thine own hands, and brick, 
 And steel, all willing, leans, 
 
 "And toppling, falls before that sun, 
 Through what thy hand did write." 
 
 And I, all unbelief, undone, 
 Exclaimed: "I am not quite 
 
 "So mad, My Fancy!" Curt and plain 
 
 My Fancy spoke : "I know 
 What I have said." And I : "In vain 
 
 That giant might didst show, 
 
 134 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "Of what I wrote. How can fulfill 
 My writ such splendid dream ?" 
 
 My Fancy spoke, and shorter still : 
 "Publish!" And I: "Oh, stream 
 
 "Of overwhelming floods! Thou art 
 
 All too severe with me!" 
 And She: "Then be a lonely heart!" 
 
 And I, unmanned, would free 
 
 Myself from such necessity, 
 
 And said — I scarce knew what — 
 That 1 could not obey, lint She: 
 
 "Thou even try est not?" 
 
 But I could not comply, for all 
 My heart had failed me. "Must 
 
 I act?" I asked. No answer-fall 
 Has come, that I dare trust, 
 
 Unto this day. My Fancy had 
 
 Deserted me, and I 
 Was left to weigh the good and bad 
 
 Of our dispute, and — try ! 
 
 And here I published, and am filled 
 With hope, that I shall see 
 
 That Other, — as My Fancy willed, — 
 With Her forever shall be. 
 
 i::r, 
 
Spray Three of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 136 
 
Master Franz Hemsterhuis 
 
 (Being the Lay of the Making of an American as Sung 
 in Eight Idyls from Holland) 
 
 Idyl One 
 The Greeting 
 
 "Good even, Piet ! — How do you fare? 
 Come in." And Hemsterhuis beamed out 
 A kindly smile's broadness on him 
 Who filled the little greeting-hall 
 With trim dark hair and shaven face, 
 And furry-coated stature, black 
 And tall, that was all his ; on whom 
 The table-lamp poured full its light, 
 And scarce could reach the glossy tiles 
 Behind him. — 
 
 Still in welcome waved 
 Calm Hemsterhuis his firm-fleshed hand 
 Into the warm lap of his room, 
 And ended, smiling still, his wish 
 With deep- voiced chuckle, of good will 
 And quiet, hearty gladness made. 
 And Piet came in with sprightly step, 
 And Hemsterhuis took heart-felt hold 
 Of Piet's rough hand, and held, and shook, 
 With firmness. Piet's round face flushed up 
 
 137 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 For joy, and he gave answer quick: 
 "I fare quite modestly, I dare 
 Say, Master : Thank you." High Aid lift 
 With wonder Hemsterhuis his brow, 
 And jested half-way : 
 
 "But your hand 
 Has freshly toiled with fowling-piece, 
 Or vermin-spade, I feel. — You fare 
 But modestly, and did not win 
 Your shoulder-straps with offices 
 You paid your country ; and such hand 
 Did not your name of Staatwaard bring 
 Some glory in, on battlefield? — 
 That is a stubborn nut for me 
 To crack, Piet !" chuckled Hemsterhuis 
 Quite cheerily, and loosed the hand 
 Of Piet, and closed the oaken door 
 In haste. 
 
 And Piet gave answer quick : 
 "You have forgotten, Master, what 
 My first ambition was, I fear," 
 Smiled Piet, regretfully. 
 
 But bent 
 On Piet's good ease, now Hemsterhuis 
 Stooped over the wood-bin for the sticks 
 Of biggest girth, and tucked them in 
 Among the plenteous coals and shut 
 The doors with cheerful clang, and eyed 
 
 138 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 His bluish tile-stove over with care 
 And satisfaction. Piet, as if 
 At long-familiar signal-hint, 
 Upon that homely sound, shelled out 
 His stalwart body from his coat, 
 And felty shoes ; and folded straight 
 His coat upon the sofa near, 
 With cap and mit beside ; and set 
 The shoes beneath. And Hemsterhuis 
 Rolled near the stove another chair, 
 Of leather, bulging brown, and deep 
 For ease, and beckoned Piet thereto ; 
 And Piet sank in, and crossed his feet. 
 And Hemsterhuis dropped in his chair, 
 With wool-worn sheep-skin all lined out, 
 And mustered Piet's appearance trim: 
 From broad-cut collar while, and cuffs ; 
 From grayish woolen jacket loose, 
 Knee-breeches puffed, and stockings snug, 
 Down to his slippers, shining black, 
 Oft darting from their buckle-clasps 
 Thin silver beams back from the lamp. 
 And Hemsterhuis nodded consent 
 To Piet's accoutrements, and asked 
 Thoughtfully: 
 
 — "First ambition did 
 You call it? That needs better term, 
 And stricter test. What was your aim, 
 When you took service first?" And calm 
 Sat Hemsterhuis to wait. — 
 
 139 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Idyl Two 
 
 Piet Staatwaard 
 
 And Piet 
 Looked frankly up into the eye, 
 The great brown glance of Hemsterhuis, 
 That met his fatherly ; and Piet 
 Answered with memory's help: 
 
 You know, 
 Hans, — first of all my fore-fathers, — 
 Who took the name of Staatwaard first, 
 Of all Dutch patriots, of whom 
 We hear in history, and war, 
 And fame, was once an ardent Gueux, 
 With Nassau's Louis ; and on fire 
 He was for Dutch repulsion swift 
 Of Spanish Philip's host ; — as told 
 By old tradition in the house 
 Of Staatwaard. Then, my next grand-sire 
 Helped Silent Father William win 
 Us free from Spain, for this Baltus 
 Lived out what he believed : 'We need 
 No foreigner — Can stand alone !' — 
 Henrik, the third of Staatwaard's line, 
 Held stoutly : 'What, though free we were ! — 
 We must unite.' And he marched out 
 With Maurice. But Staatwaard the fourth, 
 One Moritz felt no fellowship 
 And faith in Frederick Henry's balk, 
 Nor William Second's awkwardness ; 
 
 140 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 But saw his country's star rise up 
 
 Anew in William Third ; believed, 
 
 And lived, and shaped this tenet: 'Now 
 
 We must build up a government 
 
 For Holland.' He was first of us 
 
 To speak in high States-General, 
 
 To help cast out dread Spain for good, 
 
 At Muenster, when the Eighty Years 
 
 Of War, in sixteen forty-eight, 
 
 Were done. He helped to frame with zeal 
 
 The laws, assembled and confirmed 
 
 By that great court of three short years 
 
 Thereafter. And the fifth Staatwaard, — 
 
 Wilhelm by name, my grandfather, — 
 
 Loved not the English policy 
 
 Of William Third, and not the weak 
 
 Home-leaning over to France. He gained 
 
 The Council of the Provinces, 
 
 And warned aloud : 'Eye not to France 
 
 For help, nor England either ; else, 
 
 When they see fit, they let you squirm 
 
 And die. So let us build alone, 
 
 Or die alone !' The sixth Staatwaard 
 
 Was Fritz, my father ; he spoke too, 
 
 Here in the Hague, from Council-seat, 
 
 And simply called the patriots 
 
 To peace again, and yet again, 
 
 Till death.— 
 
 "And now they have made peace,- 
 But that is all ! — and Holland still 
 
 141 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Lies panting for exertion late 
 
 Of war, and rage, and carnage, all 
 
 Too weak to nurse her weakling brood. 
 
 Well-meaning William Fourth has gone 
 
 Without much glory. William Fifth 
 
 Is worse, for merits well deserved. 
 
 The honor of my country called 
 
 No longer to my boyish heart : 
 
 I tried to labor only for 
 
 The glory of my family, 
 
 Since Holland then was dead and razed 
 
 To me. I joined the army-ranks, 
 
 When I had turned my back at last 
 
 On dim old Groningen, with all 
 
 Her study-books ; and was dismissed 
 
 But lately honorably. I went, 
 
 As I have told you, for the lack 
 
 Of other Staatwaards, who could keep 
 
 Our name in honor ; for I thought, 
 
 With boyish willingness to do 
 
 Something, my country needed me 
 
 Until she gain her strength again; 
 
 And I would go and be a stone 
 
 In her defensive wall, — for that — 
 
 Was all I could be. — Still I hoped 
 
 For war like Father William waged, 
 
 And Maurice, in the olden days 
 
 Of independence, that I might 
 
 Lift up again the Staatwaard flag 
 
 Of battle, and make over quite 
 
 This drowsy, spiritless disgrace 
 
 142 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Of peace about us. — Five bare years 
 I droned away in barracks thus, 
 And hoped, and waited, but — in vain! — 
 And now I came down to the Hague 
 Here, straight to your own house, to talk 
 To you about my life." 
 
 And Piet 
 Had ended all his lengthy tale, 
 And waited for the fruiting thought 
 Of Hemsterhuis, who sat in deep 
 Deliberation still, and stared 
 Down to his leathern breeches, sleek 
 With wear, and on his wooden shoes. 
 
 Idyl Three 
 
 Fritz Staatwaard 
 
 And Hemsterhuis prepared to speak, 
 To answer Piet's long history, 
 His right hand ruffling thoughtfully 
 His long brown hair, as he began, 
 In kindly voice: 
 
 "You read quite bold 
 Our history, and understand 
 Your fathers well. — Piet, let me tell 
 You plain, ambition was the word 
 For that old aim of yours This bred 
 The blight of failure in your life 
 Till now. You had not drawn the stern, 
 But noble aim your fathers kept, 
 
 143 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 From out their lives and deeds. You cast 
 Upon the quiet, self-kept blood 
 Of all your fathers, that ferment, 
 Which now Remonstrance leavings brew 
 Among the student-folk, and drives 
 Them to believe that war is great, 
 And peace is bare. You have not learned 
 The proudest lesson your own race 
 Of Staatwaard taught you : They did all 
 For country's sake, — fight, vote, suggest, 
 Or write their names to treaties. Fame, 
 And glory for their family, 
 And selfish honor, touched them not. 
 Though Franeker and Friesland paused, — 
 Their native home, and yours, and mine, — 
 And hung aloof in doubt, they left, 
 And worked for what they saw not yet, — 
 That Holland, which has come, and they 
 Knew well would come at last, though long 
 They might be dead then. Party-trust 
 They even cherished not. If king, 
 Council, and State, and People stood 
 By Holland, they too, stood by these ; 
 If these deserted Holland, then 
 They, too, deserted these. Such brave 
 Giants they were ! — I know, 'tis true ! — 
 I knew your father well, Piet ; heard 
 Him even sue for peace, as you 
 Have told me here ; saw him arise 
 Upon the Council-floor, since I 
 Am secretary here for it. 
 
 144 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 His very life was peace, his deed, 
 
 His word, his thought. Fritz Staatwaard! — Yes — 
 
 How we respected him, and loved 
 
 Him, as men love each other, grim 
 
 Without, but deep within, and built 
 
 On worth of him they love ! — Ofttimes 
 
 He pleaded with us : 
 
 " 'Reason, men ! — 
 The patriot's work does change. At first 
 There is a need of war, to free 
 Ourselves; then, to defend our rights. 
 Then, when respect and credit keep 
 The foe at honest distance, comes 
 The time to build a government. 
 And when the border enemy 
 Rolls jealous eyes upon this fort. 
 And schemes to undermine, — invades 
 With pride, — then dawns the day for bold 
 Defensive front, and punishment. 
 But when we own our freemen-state, 
 And proved it by defeat of those 
 Who envied us, then must we have 
 Our peace to us alone, as long 
 As possible. — Men, make we peace, — 
 Keep peace ! — and work, rebuild, and not 
 Destroy. For peace we need today; 
 But war, and statesmen's tricks, and thirst 
 For fame, we need no longer now. 
 We must restore the broken state, 
 And for that task we must have peace, — 
 
 145 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 For peace will bless, and we shall work 
 
 And be content. And after peace 
 
 Will come culture divine to us, 
 
 And teach, and we shall listen. — That, — 
 
 That is the Holland we must have! 
 
 If we serve Holland thus, and not 
 
 Ourselves, our race, or family, 
 
 Then we serve men alone, for we 
 
 Provide our countrymen a home 
 
 Secure, and livelihood, and give 
 
 Them leisure that they serve mankind 
 
 With culture all their own, of soul, 
 
 Of heart, and mind. — Dutch culture! — Then, 
 
 My men, our Holland serves the world !' — 
 
 So spoke Fritz Staatwaard oftentimes, — 
 
 Your father, Piet; and he was right. — 
 
 Is it not so?" 
 
 And when this surge 
 Of soul had welled out into hands 
 And fingertips, in Hemsterhuis, 
 For gestures that should lay out clear 
 The meaning of the word, he dwelt 
 For love, and anxiously in wait, 
 Upon the troubled face of Piet, 
 From out whose dark-blue, open eye 
 All youthful pride had faded now, 
 And from the rounded cheek, and mouth 
 With upward curling lip. And Piet 
 Sat, sunken looks upon the floor 
 Of brightened oak, some while unvoiced. 
 
 146 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Idyl Four 
 A Gentle Parley 
 
 And Piet uplifted slow his glance, 
 
 Until it reached the flaxen vest 
 
 Of homespun durable that arched 
 
 The goodly paunch of Hemsterhuis, 
 
 For bold into the Master's eye 
 
 He could not look. And Piet gave word 
 
 Quite heartless back, about himself : 
 
 "Then has the race of Staatwaard lost 
 Its high originality 
 In me, its final sprout." But soon 
 Did Hemsterhuis gainsay him firm: 
 
 "No man can be original. — 
 
 That rests alone with God, and He 
 
 Has set each man into the time 
 
 And work he wisely wished ; and then, 
 
 When man has understood this hint 
 
 Divine, and molded it to thought, 
 
 And word, and deed, his brothers say. 
 
 Man is original ! — No, Piet, 
 
 Each Staatwaard simply grasped his age, 
 
 And framed that grasp to word, and act, 
 
 And life, — that was their only own, 
 
 And that was given them !" But Piet 
 
 Made plainer his discouragement, 
 
 With lesser vim even than before, 
 
 And unuplif ted eye : 
 
 147 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "But I 
 Can even not as much as guess 
 God's hint for me. They found it out 
 Themselves, but I must err about 
 To find it : I am lower-born 
 Than they, and could not win, how sore 
 I tried." And Hemsterhuis read out 
 Of Piet's despairing, fitful glance 
 The voiceless cry for counsel-help 
 Up from his heart, and spoke with grace, 
 And softened words for guiding him: 
 
 "There is no man who does not have 
 
 His teacher and his school, where he 
 
 Must learn with toil, despair, and hope. 
 
 Your fathers were not different 
 
 From all the rest of us, be sure ; 
 
 You only see their finished lore, 
 
 And not the fight they won it by. 
 
 Their teachers were the same as yours : 
 
 Sometimes, their fellowmen ; sometimes, 
 
 But little lifeless happenings, 
 
 That touched them gently ; sometimes too, 
 
 Life's sword of grief — life's wine of joy, 
 
 That nearly killed the soul, or winged 
 
 It into Heaven quite. So you 
 
 Are no exception to your sires, 
 
 And there will still be some success 
 
 Of other kind for you in your 
 
 Own life. And what can matter this, 
 
 If I, or yet another, give 
 
 148 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 You words and hands of help, that save 
 You from your helpless self?" And deep 
 The eye of Hemsterhuis beamed hope, 
 And melted into pity mild 
 For Piet's distress. And Piet gave word 
 With groping eye, and voice : 
 
 "What is 
 Your teaching, Master Hemsterhuis, 
 For me?" 
 
 But Hemsterhuis sprang up 
 And hurried, clattering along 
 The oaken floor his wooden shoes, 
 Around the oaken table, quick 
 To free the pressing heat, and swung 
 The upper double-pane outward 
 Upon its axis, where the sky 
 Blue-black leaped into sight, and here 
 And there great snow-flakes flew, like moths 
 In summer, anxious for the light, 
 Clumsily past. And Piet rolled back 
 His chair from out the stove's sharp heat, 
 Along the table, with its lamp 
 Of crystal glass, and high-piled books, 
 And writing-tools on glass inkstand, 
 And half -overwritten page, and near 
 To him, "The Protocol," — neat-bound 
 In leather, — "of the Council High 
 Of State of These United, Free, 
 And Self-kept Provinces, for this, 
 The year seventeen sixty-six." 
 
 149 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Thus read the golden legend on 
 That book, the trust of Hemsterhuis, 
 And voucher for his office. 
 
 "That 
 Was sent to me today, the first 
 Token of this New Year's to me," 
 Smiled Hemsterhuis at Piet's wonder 
 And interest. And Piet picked up 
 The folio volume, leafed it through 
 Its yet unwritten pages, pleased, 
 And put it by contentedly. 
 
 Idyl Five 
 
 Master Hemsterhuis 
 
 And Hemsterhuis moved quickly back 
 His chair also, as Piet had done 
 Brief while before, and sat, and crossed 
 His knees, and mused at first : 
 
 "Yes, yes, — 
 'Tis quite a privilege for me 
 To write these empty pages full 
 Of new-made history of my 
 Own country, as I see it made. 
 I love to nurse my little charge, 
 My secretaryship. It is 
 No monied gift of state, but gives 
 Me over-enough to live upon, — 
 And mine : Five babes and wife and me, 
 
 150 
 
QUIMBT'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 With plain and honest needs, in this, 
 
 My debt-free home. — I chose this task 
 
 To keep my finger on the pulse 
 
 Of state, because I had pressed down 
 
 Into the heart of human kind 
 
 At quiet Leyden's Academe ; 
 
 For in the state does mankind's heart 
 
 All flower out, and there you see 
 
 It rounding out its fruit. The scenes 
 
 Are different, the actor's still 
 
 The same ; we only learn to know 
 
 By gaining knowledeg of the scenes 
 
 Of life, one after other, till 
 
 The play is ended all. This does 
 
 The heart yearn for, before the flesh. 
 
 In which it lies imbedded, draws 
 
 The never-breaking reins still fierce, 
 
 And fiercer back, if heart heed not 
 
 The mastery of flesh, and yield. 
 
 To keep the peace between these two 
 
 Ever-warring parts within, I set 
 
 About to build a truce for them. 
 
 That would be lawful unto both, 
 
 And neither part would lose its right 
 
 And dignity. 
 
 "I sought a scene, 
 On which these two brave parts were just 
 And even balanced. But where could 
 I find this, in the jumbled world? 
 I found it not within the walls 
 
 151 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Of parents, nor of my own home 
 Alone. There was another scene, 
 Which I felt strongly I must know, 
 Besides these two, where all, my heart 
 Had learned, had needs be rounded out 
 In full, by that part which the flesh 
 Could set me as a task. But where 
 Was then this rounding-out device? 
 I thought I found it in the school 
 At Leyden, but my heart was there 
 But strengthened by the theories 
 Of intellects, so that I left 
 The university all heart, 
 That spurned the flesh, and paid no heed 
 To it. But prettily the flesh 
 Soon held me in his hunger grip, 
 While I had weened I had been made 
 Of angel-stuff. So I stowed up 
 Into my heart what there belonged, 
 And sought to satisfy my flesh 
 With what my father, and my home, 
 Could never give me more. Besides, 
 I sought this, then my greatest prize, 
 With that same store within my heart 
 Locked up, and bargained more, and ever, 
 Until the half of my heart-store 
 Paid for the whole that flesh could give 
 To me. In humble terms, I found 
 That scene in which the heart and flesh 
 Run half and whole to one full whole: 
 That was the Council of our State ! 
 
 152 
 
QUIMBT'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 There rules the heart, kept whole by mind, 
 
 Through patriotism chiefly shown. 
 
 This was the half the Council kept, 
 
 When it had sold its other half 
 
 Of selfish freedom of each state 
 
 For just itself. — This tallied plain 
 
 With my full half of vanity 
 
 I sold to my flesh. — Then the State 
 
 Bought with its selfish half the whole 
 
 Of its own flesh, the feeding-means 
 
 Of all its hungry mouths. — And this 
 
 Had been my seeking, theretofore, 
 
 And thus my State and I were one. 
 
 And I have helped it until now, 
 
 And it has helped me too. — 
 
 Idyl Six 
 The Good Teaching 
 
 And Piet 
 Spoke wonder and high honor plain, 
 In all his face, for Hemsterhuis, 
 His teacher, masterful and wise, 
 And all his deep and kindly words. 
 Almost Piet's parted lips had framed 
 His great life-question once again, 
 Not yet quite answered, but in haste 
 The master drew up in his chair, 
 And snatched the word from Piet: 
 153 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "I just 
 Recall that you have asked me, some 
 Short while ago tonight, for my 
 Teaching for you. — I can but look 
 At your life-path with my own eyes, — 
 Else I were not honest with you, — 
 And you must not heed my counsel 
 Blindly, without conviction tried, 
 That it is true in your life. — You 
 Have stored your heart with home-lore sweet 
 At dear old Franeker ; you proved 
 And tested this by wisdom's lore 
 You gained at Groningen's great school ; 
 You felt the twinge the flesh gave you — 
 The same as I — and made your choice 
 The barrack-life. But quite the half 
 Of all this gathered lore of heart 
 Of yours, was family renown, 
 And your fond pride thereof. — I do 
 Remember one redeeming part 
 Of all your selfish aim : You thought 
 Our Holland needed your defense. 
 Till she would have her strength again, — 
 One lucky moment. But you hid, 
 And smothered soon again, that lump 
 Of gold, in dross of selfishness. 
 You failed to sell this useless half 
 Of your heart-lore to your own flesh. 
 Therefore, your flesh but paid you half 
 Of its whole only, for that fourth 
 Of your lonely redeeming thought, 
 
 154 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 That you would give of your defense 
 To Holland, but that you would not 
 Give over your kinsman-pride. Whereas, 
 If you had sold to your own flesh 
 All your life-killing pride, it would 
 Have given you not life-means just, 
 But peace of mind with barrack-ways, 
 Your country's warless love-defense : — 
 That is honor enough for life 
 And death ! 'Tis honor quite enough 
 For any Staatwaard, all enough 
 For you, Piet. — I should say : 'Go back, 
 Piet, to your barrack-life. Enlist 
 Again, and leave your olden aim 
 To flesh to keep forever. Let 
 Your flesh give up its lacking half 
 For your all-hurtful fourth, and learn 
 To be at peace with your own flesh.. 
 And with your soldier-life, and you 
 Will be content.' — 
 
 "When you have made 
 The peace between the heart and flesh, 
 And taught your erstwhile quite too proud 
 And overweening heart justice, 
 You must not slight that other part, 
 That other half of priceless lore 
 Your heart had kept ; for you must teach 
 That half now beauty first. 
 
 "You will, 
 When you are soldier once for all 
 
 155 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Again, — as you are even now, 
 
 By reason of your kinship brave, 
 
 And your own build of mine, — then you 
 
 Will suddenly awake some morn 
 
 Unto the fact, that your own life 
 
 Is beautiful. Then that kept half 
 
 Of your heart-lore has found its own. — 
 
 How that may be ? — 
 
 "You know your scenes 
 Of life, — the home-scene, school-scene, now 
 The barrack-scene, — your senses could 
 But severally grasp, and could 
 But keep in mind, one after one, 
 The kernel of each scene, when they 
 Had hulled each kernel out, and call 
 Back, how they used this. Your home-scene 
 Was first the shaper of your sense 
 Five-fold; your school-scene was its guide; 
 Your barrack-scene its working-place, 
 Where it has gathered for its use 
 All manifoldness there, and wrought 
 A perfect whole ; for all the sights, 
 And hearings, touches, smells and tastes 
 Of home are with you still. Things seen 
 And heard at school, sleep still within 
 Your understanding, but its touch 
 Is lost, its smells and tastes forgot. 
 And now the touches, tastes and smells, 
 So priceless, of your home, have blent 
 In barrack-life, where these are wed 
 
 156 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 To sight and hearing of our school. 
 
 And where the high and low of life, 
 
 The heart-store and the flesh-store, — home's 
 
 Chief senses three, the school's chief sense 
 
 Twofold, — can live so peacefully 
 
 Together, there is beauty's home. 
 
 And so your barrack-life, with all 
 
 Your former life wrought into one, 
 
 Piet, is so beautiful become, 
 
 That I can hardly speak it out, 
 
 And show you !" 
 
 Idyl Seven 
 
 The Picture on the Wall 
 
 Scarce could Hemsterhuis 
 Catch breath, so had his matter seized 
 His mind and speech, and he read quick 
 Piet's features : 
 
 "But you look so mazed, 
 And unbelieving, wonder-struck, 
 At me ! — I shall make plain my theme 
 To you at once, and give you there 
 Upon the wall a picture, fit 
 For all I said. — There hangs a sketch 
 In water colors, which I had 
 A student-friend of mine, who knew 
 His art the best at Leyden, paint 
 For me, until he caught the truth 
 Of its original to match 
 
 157 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 My liking stern. 'Tis, as you know, 
 
 Our Rembrandt's Portrait of Himself. — 
 
 There hangs it now and does its work ! — 
 
 We get at one full glance the man, 
 
 As all our senses blend to one 
 
 Soft harmony, and we must call 
 
 The picture beautiful. But so 
 
 We tell but half the story. Why 
 
 Is this portrait so beautiful ? 
 
 Because we grasp so much at once ! 
 
 Our senses are for grasping much 
 
 As possible at once, as one 
 
 Five-fingered hand. But this sweet dream 
 
 Is lost to them long since through sin, 
 
 That jarred such concord out of tune. 
 
 Our Master Rembrandt felt this too, 
 
 As every artist does. It pained 
 
 Him much, I fancy, that his eye 
 
 Could not behold himself, his ear 
 
 Not tremble at his own love-words, 
 
 His hand could not caress his self, 
 
 His nostrils feel his dearest meat 
 
 Not coming, nor his lips could taste 
 
 His rarest drink, and sense all this 
 
 At once, but first must teach each sense 
 
 Painstaking by itself, to do 
 
 Its part, and place these teachings all 
 
 Together into one whole thought, 
 
 And call that pieced-up thought himself. 
 
 But such frail, changing picture he 
 
 Could not be pleased with. He would have 
 
 158 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 It painted ; and he painted it. 
 So Rembrandt wrought a fairer self 
 Than he knew. — Then he saw at one 
 Swift glance that Portrait of Himself, 
 As we do now ! — Quick through the gates 
 Of sight the fuller knowledge rushed 
 Five-fold, — the sight, the hearing, touch, 
 And taste and smell, that made the man! — 
 The leisure-cloak, the corselet steel 
 And chain, unravished hair, and cap 
 Of jaunty make and poise, and then — 
 That face there in the picture's heart ! 
 The face— Eyes, largely made, at rest. 
 But deep enough to strike the root 
 Of things ! — The ear — what's left of it 
 For all the hair — full broad, to catch 
 Notes hidden oft to common ears. — 
 That nose, long built, and rounded well, 
 A fitting harp for rarest scents 
 To play upon ! — That mouth, which speaks 
 What man would speak, but cannot ! — 'Tis 
 A towering ideal ! 
 
 Piet, 
 You go and paint your picture so ! 
 Go, paint the soldier for yourself, 
 As Rembrandt did the painter. — That 
 Is what I meant, when I told you, 
 Your barrack-life were beautiful, 
 Should you go back to it again. — 
 So all that you have learned till now, 
 
 159 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Becomes the ground-wall, whereupon 
 You are to build your ideal 
 Of life. 
 
 "But when you gather stones 
 For this high task, I must forewarn 
 You that you keep you doubly brave, 
 For you will not be pleased with what 
 You build, when it is done. Then track 
 This evil of defect in you 
 Down to its roots, in sin and death, 
 And do not give the lie to them, 
 And all their curse of you, but give 
 Them back your pride, and they are still, — 
 Just as you gave your pride to flesh 
 Before, as likeness of this trade 
 Now. Then will sin and death give rest 
 To you, and God perfection free 
 And true, in Christ. Then is your cup 
 Of life all filled, and you may sip 
 Unto the feast's rich end !" — So came 
 The master's teachings to a close 
 That breathed a perfect peace for both. 
 
 Idyl Eight 
 
 The Parting 
 
 And Piet Staatwaard stepped up, made whole 
 By all the teachings Hemsterhuis 
 Had given him, with manly strength 
 And frankness standing out in all 
 His face and form, and gave his hand 
 
 100 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 To Hemsterhuis, who rose in haste 
 At Piet's unlooked-for bearing. Piet 
 Shook warmly, earnestly, and said: 
 "Thanks, Master Hemsterhuis, you are 
 Indeed a master ! — I shall go 
 Back to the barrack-life again. — 
 I have sat spell-bound at your words 
 Of weight to night, but I cannot 
 As yet give you their measure heaped 
 With profit high for me. — But now 
 I wish you well, for I have drawn 
 Out far too long my stay even now." 
 And Piet looked up with great esteem 
 Into the eye of Hemsterhuis 
 That spoke its hearty thanks, and on 
 The lips of Hemsterhuis, that wished 
 Him well in turn. And Piet sought out 
 The sofa and enshrined himself 
 In shoes and coat and mits, against 
 The outside cold. 
 
 And Hemsterhuis 
 Stood by, with arms crossed thoughtfully 
 Behind, and watched the deft young hands 
 Of Piet, and spoke with quiet smile : 
 "I must go down, and bid my babes 
 Good night now. — Shall I yet show them 
 To you ? — You have not seen them yet ; 
 I think, for five years, more or less." — 
 And Piet declined, as best he might : 
 161 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "I fear, not now, Master, for they 
 I lave all forgotten me, and I 
 Should frighl them now. And this is not 
 The time to sec them. 1 liavc stayed 
 Too long already now.' — When I 
 Shall conic again, I shall delight 
 
 To have you show them to me all, 
 
 'To know them, play with them, — some eve, 
 
 A thing I am quite fond of." — 
 
 "Sure," 
 The Master caughl his word again: 
 " "I is greal comfort to play with them. — 
 There's laughing Wilma, golden haired, — 
 Just like her mother! full of tricks, 
 In spite of her eleven years. — 
 Franziska, dark, with quiel smile, 
 And sober, for hei ten shorl years. 
 Tiberius, brown-haired, wide eyed, 
 
 The scholar of the family, 
 
 Though only eight.- And Bernhard, dark, 
 
 A fiery youngster of six years, 
 
 With heart of gold.— And Gretchen, hlack, 
 
 With dark blue eyes, of mischief full, 
 
 And only lour the baby! — Piet, 
 
 Ybu have not seen her yet ! You mus1 
 Come up some eve, and early too. 
 When all aie fresh yet. Then we'll play 
 Together, you, the children, I, 
 
 My wife Elizabeth!— Bui her 
 
 1 must not praise, they say, who am 
 
 1(12 
 
QUIMBT'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Jler husband, for I should but praise 
 Myself in that!"— 
 
 And I Eemsterhuis 
 Ended in one round, hearl born laugh, 
 And Piet must promise over again. 
 And over, that he would conic, before 
 I lc wen- a soldier once again, 
 
 And after thai at every leave 
 
 ( )f absence. — 
 
 And they bade good night 
 
 Each other heartily once more, 
 
 And parled for thai evening. 
 
 Thus Left these two the cheery room; 
 
 And I'iet Staatwaard soughl quietly 
 
 I lis lodge, and I lemsterhuis turned down 
 
 Into the lap of his home folks, 
 
 'I he bosom Of his family. 
 
 108 
 
Spray Four of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 I CI 
 
Moods and Measures 
 of Today 
 
 THE ANTIQUITY OF POETRY 
 
 When man first prisoned in thy soul with dearth 
 Of lifeless word ; when in the dawn's fresh glow 
 Of Time he bade thy spirit free sing slow 
 In moods that filled his heart with stillsome 
 
 mirth ; 
 Dear Poesy, was that thy hour of birth? — 
 When David first thy name in rhythmic flow 
 Spelled out divine; when Homer sweet and low 
 Thy beauteous crade song intoned for earth? — 
 
 Ah, no! Thou wert a long-lived angel fair 
 When man was young. Alone with God in long 
 And dim-lit void thou wert, when from His brow 
 The first mild light beamed out on thee, and air 
 And earth beneath His hand burst forth in song: 
 Yea, even ere Space and Time and World, wert 
 Thou. 
 
 THE SOUL TO THE SEA 
 
 A Persian Ghazal 
 
 After the manner of the poet, Haiiz. The poet 
 contemplateth the sea from beneath a clump of ole- 
 anders, upon an eminence overlooking a very forest 
 
 165 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 of flowering jessamines, making the air heavy with 
 their much perfume. It is evening, and the bulbul 
 bcginneth his song afar off. The poet is moved to 
 speak : 
 
 Ah, thou art not too great, Oh, flashing sea, 
 
 For human soul to span, thou plashing sea! 
 
 'Tis true, my sluggish body lingers here, 
 
 Above thy swishing reeds, my clashing sea. 
 
 But over thee, my soul roves on at will, 
 
 With airy, swift-sped wing, sail-slashing sea, 
 
 On sweet prevision rapt of turrets far 
 
 No hand hath builded yet, surge-lashing sea, 
 
 And pauses there in bliss untold awhile ; 
 
 Then seeks her home refreshed ! Hull-crashing 
 
 sea, 
 Thou canst not touch Nisami's soul with fear ; 
 No, not with all thy might, wreck-dashing sea ! — 
 
 THE TANNER AND HIS RAID 
 
 In years forgotten, by Kenmare river, 
 
 That widely seeks the sea. 
 There lived a crafty master tanner; 
 
 A wily man was he. 
 
 He bore the doughty name, Fitz-Dermod, 
 The tanner of Kenmare-town ; 
 
 And every Munster hovel and hamlet, 
 Named breathless his renown. 
 
 1G6 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 For none drew surer his hefty cross-bow ; 
 
 He never missed aim his life; 
 And in all the glorious land of Erin, 
 
 He mastered the dance, and the fife. 
 
 *** 
 
 And the morning peeped over the hills with his 
 promise, 
 
 And the year was given spring; 
 But the eye of the master had long been waking, 
 
 His ventures long on their wing. 
 
 Where the Dermod met, rolling, the waters of 
 Kenmare, 
 
 'Twas there his work-shop was laid ; 
 'Neath strong blockade and rough-hewn roofing, 
 
 A hundred pits were made. 
 
 With a piercing glance of skill and knowledge, 
 
 He sounded his menials' work, 
 And deftly shifted his fearful presence, 
 
 Where sluggard fingers lurk. 
 
 And testing with eye and hand their product, 
 
 "Aha !" with a jolly laugh 
 Cried he, " 'Tis firm, and tough, and solid, 
 
 Both horse, and cow, and calf! — 
 
 "Well done! — Go, dry 'em. — Must buy us more 
 forage," 
 He added with jesting wink; 
 "The pits are hungry for copse-bark, and skin- 
 pelts, — 
 A month must fill 'em to brink !" — 
 
 167 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And the menials marked that commandment was 
 given, v 
 And nimbler their labors grew, 
 And they lifted the sheets of leather, and washed 
 them, 
 
 And dried them, as tanners do. 
 
 *** 
 
 And when a night like raven's plumage 
 
 On Kerry's landscape fell, 
 Fitz-Dermod's twenty men were mounted, 
 
 And waiting in a dell. 
 
 And clatter of hoofs from the master's manor 
 
 Bade all impatience flee, 
 For the bold Fitz-Dermod came spurring his 
 charger, 
 
 A steed brave, noble, and free! 
 
 "To north — Mount CarntuaTs side!" called the 
 master; — 
 
 Each steed on his pitchy back, 
 Like thunder-cloud of careering blackness. 
 
 Bore onward a figure in black; 
 
 For every rider was loosely mantled 
 
 In jetty cloak and hood; 
 And broad and high on Fitz-Dermod's forehead, 
 
 A twin-pair of ox-horns stood. 
 
 Thus onward the raving galop went bounding, 
 Over moor, and heath, and mead ; 
 
 168 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Over highland and lowland, through fallow and 
 cornland, 
 All careless, without all heed! 
 
 And where 'mong his own a sturdy peasant 
 
 The distant din could mark, 
 With mingled fear and joke he resented, 
 
 "The Deil must be having a lark." — 
 
 And thus in their winged passage, the riders 
 
 Flew on, to hoof-beat chime, 
 Until the steeds in their swiftness slackened, 
 
 With the swelling mountain-climb. 
 
 Fitz-Dermod suddenly haulted his menials, — 
 "The place; dismount!" he laughed; 
 
 "Your horses and self a mickle o' resting," 
 And each from his ale-flask quaffed. 
 
 "Now off to the looming forest yonder, 
 
 For glowing deadwood quick, 
 And smear your horses' flanks and frontals, 
 
 And streak the flame on thick ! 
 
 "Then away to yonder heath, where herders 
 
 Their cattle in grazing keep!" 
 The words bore deeds, and a mass of blackness 
 
 And fire, with bound and leap, 
 
 And whoop, and howl, and maniac's laughter, 
 Swift down on the shepherds they bore, 
 
 169 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And these seized the skirts of flight, from such 
 vision 
 Of goblins never seen before. 
 
 "Aim, cross-bow ! — Fifty head must quiver !" 
 
 And quick as a flash 'twas done ; 
 "Now bowie-knife, skin !" and the sound of the 
 whetting 
 
 Was drowned in the blood it made run. 
 
 "No holes in the pelts !" and the strokes were 
 cunning, 
 
 And few, and the task was swift ; 
 "Now quick, your hides in solid packets, 
 
 And tight to your steed without shift !" 
 
 The message was done. — "And the rest to the 
 ravens !" 
 
 Fitz-Dermod laughed, over the ale. 
 "And now to horse !" and with spur and galop, 
 
 They leaned toward Kenmare vale. 
 
 In silence they followed their flaming leader, 
 
 Ten paces ever ahead ; 
 And faster and faster the mountain receded, 
 
 As onward, homeward they sped. 
 
 And soon, at the cock's first lusty alarum, 
 
 They paused at the manor gate, 
 And their steeds all heaved a whinny of glad- 
 ness, 
 
 And the men sighed, "Luck's our fate!" 
 
 170 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 LIFE'S EXPLORER 
 
 Above the house-tops, blood-red sky ; 
 
 Below me troop morn's workmen by, 
 
 With pick and dinner-pail, 
 
 With happy laugh, and noisy chat. — 
 
 Oh, I shall be as gay as that, 
 
 In my life-work, nor fail ! — 
 
 I know that where my soul can find 
 A way to travel on and up, 
 My body shall not lag behind, 
 To mince, and sip a sluggard's cup ! 
 
 Sweet twilight falls now all around, 
 With silence of all daylight sound, 
 And time for quiet plot: 
 Perhaps my love now longs for me. — 
 Oh, she shall not, when I and she 
 Together build love's cot! — 
 
 I know that where my soul can find 
 A nook of peace upon the earth, 
 My body shall not lag behind, 
 To foster love's regret and dearth ! 
 
 Unhindered by a vapor's bar, 
 Beyond me twinkles star by star, 
 From out the untracked dark: 
 I wonder what can lie beyond ! 
 Oh, what it be, shall yet be conned 
 By my immortal spark! — 
 
 171 
 
THE WO()IN<; OF 
 
 I know that where my soul can find 
 Through undiscovered waste a path, 
 My body shall not lag behind, 
 To reap despair's weak aftermath] 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SEASONS 
 
 You sigh : 'Tis Winter, well-a-day ! 
 
 But you cannot deceive me, 
 
 You must at last believe me, 
 
 That all the circling year's like May. 
 
 You shout: 'Tis Spring, to woods away! 
 
 Rut you've not all the rapture, 
 
 My joyful heart does capture; 
 
 To me the whole round year's like May. 
 
 You gasp: 'Tis Summer, cool me, pray! 
 Your pain is idle seeming, 
 While I am soundly dreaming, 
 That all the changeful year's like May. 
 
 You moan: Oh, Autumn, how you slay! 
 
 But you are sadly losing 
 
 The truth of all my musing, 
 
 That even the dying year's like May. 
 
 You mourn: The Seasons, what a fray! 
 
 But you cannot deceive me, 
 
 You must at least believe me, 
 
 That all the circling year's like May. 
 
 172 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 WOOING SLEEP 
 
 Sleep, sleep, precious sleep, 
 
 Oh, how long 
 
 Must I woo thee, 
 
 Must I sue thee 
 
 In my song; 
 
 Sleep, sleep, priceless sleep! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, priceless sleep! 
 
 Toil is done ; 
 
 Thou come woo me, 
 
 As I sue thee ; 
 
 I'll be won, 
 
 Sleep, sleep, soothing sleep ! 
 
 Sleep, sleep, soothing sleep ! 
 
 Thou art near : 
 
 As I sued thee, 
 
 Thou hast wooed me, — 
 
 Thou art here ; — 
 
 Sleep, sleep, priceless sleep ! 
 
 APHORISMS 
 
 (The Boast of Literature) 
 
 How highly honored is the craft 
 Of literature, when both the shaft 
 Of holy law, and sweet the balm 
 Of freedom from this law, with calm, 
 Are bodied forth so full of might 
 In that same art our bards indite ! 
 
 173 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 (Our Need) 
 
 We need reform, not of the race, 
 Condition, livelihood, disgrace 
 Of man, nor other outward part; 
 We need reform of man's own heart. 
 Then were the foulest vice-fort stormed, 
 And all the man were quite reformed. 
 
 (Will and Obstinacy) 
 
 What man oft calls a noble will, 
 Is naught but obstinacy still. 
 
 (Education) 
 
 Great part of education seems 
 A haze of self-conceited dreams, 
 That vaunts itself to point the path 
 For ignorance, with ancient lath 
 Of much reviling, scourging sharp, 
 And cruelly unrighteous carp ; 
 And letting still the unseen mist 
 Of its own ignorance exist. 
 
 (Disgrace) 
 
 The deepest essence of disgrace 
 
 Does more than gossip tongues embrace. 
 
 (True Peotry) 
 
 True poetry is sunshine gay, 
 And showers, like an April day, 
 Commingled with restrained delight 
 In one spring day, twixt morn and night. 
 
 174 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 (Freedom) 
 
 Alan is not free; 'tis only God 
 
 Who feels not thralldom's painful prod. 
 
 (Reason) 
 
 Man's reason is a searching lamp, 
 The equal pride of saint and scamp, 
 Until the sun from God's own side 
 Bedims both man, and lamp, and pride. 
 
 (Home) 
 
 Home is, whence e'er we strive to roam ; 
 Toward where we strive, when far from home. 
 
 (The Zeal for Truth) 
 
 Our zeal for truth is mostly naught 
 But straining proofs for what we caught 
 Somewhere perchance, and call uncouth 
 The figment thus produced, the Truth. 
 
 (The Modern Man) 
 
 The modern man when analyzed, 
 Is scarce much more than a revised 
 Edition of the ancient tale 
 We once had named Old Adam Frail. 
 
 (True Art) 
 
 True art is life, so runs the phrase; 
 That ushers artists into praise ; 
 
 175 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And yet the life of truest art 
 E'er dwells above, and thrones apart 
 From life we know so sadly well, 
 And are contenl therein to dwell. 
 
 (Sweet Charity) 
 
 Sweet charity no more denies 
 Herself entirely now, but buys 
 ller first, when pleasure-mad, a bit 
 
 ( )l paltry, selfish benefit, 
 With what she honestly would claim, 
 From blameless self-denial came; 
 And next day brings her jaded gift, 
 A sleepy, blear-eyed making-shift. 
 
 (Smoking) 
 
 Smoking! — Ah, yes! 'Tis one of those 
 Queer facts of life, which no one knows 
 How to remove, how to defend; 
 Which no complaining seems to mend, 
 About which hopelessly we can 
 But wonder why it pleases man. 
 
 (Satan) 
 
 We blame him recklessly, and much. 
 Kor deeds of ours that never touch 
 His black responsibility 
 As keen as our own villainy! 
 
 17(i 
 
QUIMRYS DAIKJHTKIIS 
 
 (Virgin Birth) 
 
 The Master chose the humble means 
 Of virgin birth, my fancy weens, 
 To load upon his godly soul 
 Our human flesh with all its toll 
 ( )f death, that contrite lawless birth 
 Be not debarred from Heaven's mirth. 
 
 (Faith) 
 
 The true, divinely saving faith 
 Is not opinion's will-born wraith. 
 But is a creature made of God, 
 And given man, as seed to sod. 
 
 TREASURES OF LIFE 
 
 Why come ye now not near to me, 
 Oh, work of life, and love, and — God? — 
 Engross my soul with kindly might, 
 To make me useful, strong, and good : 
 Treasures of life, so far, so fair — 
 Treasures of life, so fair, so far? 
 
 Then were I not so lonely-bored ; 
 
 So useless, weak, and void of faith; 
 
 If ye were here, with prizes blest 
 
 Of toil, and strength, and hope came forth 
 
 Treasures of life, so fair, so far — 
 
 Treasures of life, so far, but fair! — 
 
 177 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL CHILD 
 
 Only once thy childhood face, 
 In the years far distant now, 
 Met my startled glance with grace, 
 Raven-curls and lily-brow, 
 Child of beauty, only once! 
 
 Only once I saw thee, then ; 
 Now they tell me thou art grown, 
 Art a woman wooed of men. 
 Thou art seen of me alone, 
 Child of beauty, only once ! 
 
 Only once I spied thy soul; 
 Now I hear that thou art gone. 
 Only once thy beauty's bowl 
 Touched my lips and then passed on; 
 Child of beauty, only once ! 
 
 Only once, and not again, 
 Mayhap all my life and death ; 
 Only once I saw thee then, 
 Quickened by thy beauty's breath, — 
 Oh, the pity of only once! — 
 
 THE BLESSED WATER-OUZEL 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel, 
 They have christened thee. 
 How I wonder 
 What thy life may be : 
 
 178 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Could I sunder 
 Thee from mystery, 
 Blessed water-ouzel ! 
 
 Go and search thee out, 
 
 I can never, 
 
 Nor canst thou, I doubt, 
 
 Rudely sever 
 
 From thy whereabout. 
 
 Though I never divine 
 
 All thy being, 
 
 Yet I know that thine 
 
 Is a seeing 
 
 That I pray were mine. 
 
 Though my body pause 
 
 In its going, 
 
 Yet my spirit's laws 
 
 Lift me, showing 
 
 Me to thee — thy cause: — 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel, 
 
 All thy life is song, 
 
 All thy singing, 
 
 All thy bird-life long, 
 
 Is but flinging 
 
 Brook-notes out in throng, 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel ! 
 
 Even before thy birth, 
 Thou didst tremble 
 
 179 
 
THK WOOI NO- OF 
 
 With the rhythmic mirth 
 
 Doth resemble 
 
 Rippling streams on earth. 
 
 In thy mossy nest, 
 Thou heardst numbers 
 Bird-like now expressed, 
 Now in slumbers : 
 Wonderest, which were best. 
 
 Then in fuller youth, 
 
 All the limning 
 
 And the double truth 
 
 Of this hymning 
 
 Thou didst learn in sooth : 
 
 'Twas thy mother's voice 
 
 Now repeated, 
 
 How the brooks rejoice; 
 
 Now retreated, 
 
 For the brook's free choice. 
 
 Then thou, too, didst list 
 
 To the ripple 
 
 Of the waters, twist, 
 
 Double, triple 
 
 Round the stones they missed. 
 
 Perched upon a stone 
 'Mid this welling. 
 Thou didst learn to own, 
 
 180 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 'Mid their telling, 
 All the waters' tone. 
 
 And the water's note 
 
 Drew benignly 
 
 Music from thy throat, 
 
 Tuned so finely 
 
 To its own sweet rote. 
 
 Now thy song is all — 
 All thy passion, 
 How thy rippling call 
 Thou shalt fashion 
 To the waterfall. — 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel, 
 
 Now thy life is told, 
 
 Shapen solely 
 
 In the perfect mold 
 
 Of thy wholly 
 
 Tuneful brook, song-souled, 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel ! 
 
 Blessed water-ouzel, 
 Oh, that my life-lot 
 Thine had mated ; 
 Had been, crib to cot, 
 Song-created, — 
 Fallen where 'tis not, 
 Blessed, blessed ouzel! 
 
 181 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 THE RACE OF THE PLODDERS 
 
 Hark, Plodders, I'm a fellow-plodder; 
 
 We are an ancient race ; 
 We number many famous millions, 
 
 Yet dare not show our face. 
 
 Our portion is to toil and labor, 
 
 And not receive our wage ; 
 To use our strength, and health, and patience,- 
 
 Save nothing for old age. 
 
 And some of us are just discouraged, 
 
 Go round with hanging head, 
 And desperate a greater number, 
 
 And most of us are dead. 
 
 This triple D goes with us faithful 
 
 To drudgery every morn, 
 Does munch with us our frugal luncheon, 
 
 And sleeps with us till dawn. 
 
 Upon the street it is our watchward, 
 
 Our emblem on parade, 
 Our initials on our blistering work-tools, 
 
 Our name when bills are paid. 
 
 Discouraged-Desperate-Deads they call us, 
 
 And that is what we sign ; 
 And these three words they tell us something,- 
 
 Our life and work define: 
 
 182 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Discouraged means, our heart is wasted, 
 Because to naught we've come, — 
 
 Can't get our rights, our fun, our hobby.. 
 Love, service, — chewing gum ! — 
 
 And minus heart means minus courage ; 
 
 For we have tried so long, 
 Until we tried and tried, and trying, 
 
 Found always we were wrong. 
 
 Discouraged means that we are weaklings; 
 
 How can we be but weak, 
 If we must always worry — worry, 
 
 Be desperate, and meek? — 
 
 And Desperate, that speaks us hopeless; 
 
 But heart, and courage gone, 
 A.nd strength and grit and cunning plodders, 
 
 What's hope to feed upon? 
 
 We hoped for the thrill of airship tumbles, 
 For the magnate's workless ease, 
 
 The luxury of auto crashes, 
 But never gained one of these. 
 
 And hopeless means with us, we're lifeless, 
 
 And that means surely, dead ; 
 And that is the end of all our story, 
 
 A tale that has lost its head. 
 
 183 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 'Tis a tale that makes us ask with wonder, — 
 
 Of heart, strength, grit bereft; 
 Without all hope, and life, and backbone, 
 
 What have we Plodders left? — 
 
 We Plodders, plodding, give our answer, — 
 
 It is not hard to bring, — 
 If everything is taken from us, 
 
 We surely have — nothing. 
 
 THE PINE TORCH 
 
 Dedicated to Laurence C. Jones, Principal of 
 Piney Woods Country Life School, Braxton, 
 Mississippi. 
 
 Oh, long neglected race indeed ; 
 Enslaved, too, by a race of pelf; 
 Then left to grow as rank as weed ; 
 Thou criest now: I'll help myself! 
 
 But ah ! how few and poor thy goods ! 
 A spare, and dreaming boyish wight, 
 A lonely cabin in the woods, 
 A piney torch his only light ! 
 
 Oh, Pine Torch, what a prophecy 
 Thou art, of things as yet undone ! 
 I know thy struggling race will see 
 The wonder of the rising sun ; 
 And even the race once made thee slave 
 Will rise with thee from its old grave ! 
 
 184 
 
QUIMBT'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 THE PENITENT 
 
 I strayed alone one eve, 
 And Mercy at my side. ' 
 "Why is it thou dost grieve?" 
 She asked ; and I replied : 
 "Sweet Hercy, I have sinned.'' 
 Said She, with croon of wind: 
 "Take hope and lift thine eyes! 
 'Twas I put off my crown 
 To rend the wrathful skies, 
 And brought the Savior down." 
 
 I drooped alone one day, 
 Beside me Love divine. 
 "Why waste thyself away?" 
 Her eye sought out of mine. 
 Said I : "I have no hope." — 
 "Look up, and do not grope!" 
 She cried : "Throw off this ban, 
 For I, behold, am She 
 Who brought the Son of Man, 
 And killed the Christ for thee!"- 
 
 I raved alone one night, 
 And saving Faith was near. 
 "Why err about in fright?" 
 She begged with word and ear. 
 "Oh, would I could believe," 
 I groaned. "Come, do not grieve, 
 But learn from me," She prayed ; 
 
 185 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "I wrestle with the Lord, 
 
 Like Jacob, unafraid, 
 
 And break Mis Law and Sword!" — 
 
 Adoration : 
 
 Methinks, I stand beside the sea, 
 Sublimely deep and far and wide, 
 My hands raised up to shelter me 
 From all its swift, onrushing tide; 
 And yet I would not flee and call : — 
 I welcome breakers, flood, and all ! 
 
 MARRIED: 
 
 Oh, what a talisman of joy, 
 When She is yours, and you are He ; 
 Each parting's but a sweet decoy 
 For quick return to Home and "She !" 
 
 But what a silence 'tis of pain, 
 
 When She you left as but a child 
 
 Has made your long-time wait in vain, 
 
 Her Mother spoke that word, and smiled! 
 
 THE GREAT GAP 
 
 Here stands a mountain lone and lofty, 
 A beacon light of God, 
 Built by Himself upon a rock-bed, 
 And clothed with fruiting- sod. 
 
 186 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Yon builds a second Tower of Babel, 
 
 But half the height was planned, 
 
 And yet o'ertops, they boast, that mountain, 
 
 Still gorging brick and sand. 
 
 Between, there lies a wondrous wideness, 
 A great ungainly Gap, 
 That flouts and mocks all bridging, 
 By unforseen mishap. — 
 
 The point? — That Tower is modern Science, 
 And Christianity, 
 
 That Mountain. — But — those lusty bridgers? 
 What dupes those mortals be ! 
 
 THE BEAST-MAN 
 
 God's own Christianity 
 
 A superstitious mass? — 
 Rather ancient, seems to me, 
 
 For a modern ass ! — 
 
 Did I see a thankless beast 
 That now reviles the dugs 
 
 Once so willing bade it feast, 
 Weak, in chucks and glugs? — 
 
 Or was this a thankless man, 
 Who curses now the breast 
 
 That nursed him till he talked and ran, 
 At Godhead's own behest? — 
 
 187 
 
Tlirc WOOING OF 
 
 Ah, that must have been a beast-man, 
 
 Who never paused to think. 
 Such a word belied the priest-man, 
 
 And proved the Missing Link! 
 
 THE WISEACRE 
 He, the great Who-Is-It, 
 
 Somewhere in his laboratory 
 
 1 lath received a visit, 
 Robs old Genesis its glory: — 
 
 Evolution culled us 
 From tlu- great Unknown and Nameless, 
 
 There for eons lulled us 
 Deep in cosmic phlegm, all fiameless, 
 
 Soul-less, jelly-fish-like, 
 Cold as snake and toad and lizard ; 
 
 Made us bird-like, wish-like; 
 Robbed us soon of wing and gizzard; 
 
 Shaped us gifted mammals. 
 Next to us in brutal being — 
 
 What? — Am 1 in trammels? — 
 What! A gap in all my seeing? — 
 
 All before was brutal, 
 Here 'tis all so strange and man-like. 
 
 Sudden, and so futile, 
 Welling upward — flame-like — fan-like : 
 
 INN 
 
QUIMBY'K DAUGHTERS 
 
 Wha-wha — wha-what's that now — 
 Surely not the soul's reflection? — 
 
 No! — My mind, stand pat now: — 
 We have simply lost connection. — 
 
 But that great Who-Is-It, 
 Yonder in his laboratory, 
 
 Had another visit, 
 Saved old Genesis her glory. 
 
 I SEEM LIKE ADAM 
 
 I seem like Adam to myself, 
 Where, in the Book of Books, 
 He sits upon a grassy shelf, 
 And watches, weighs, and looks, 
 How every beast and bird moves by, 
 And takes its name with friendly eye. 
 
 So I, with all the songs that come ; 
 
 The lays that walk the earth, 
 
 The ditties light that buzz and hum, 
 
 Those which the slime gave birth, 
 
 The rhymes that hiss, and sting, and crawl; 
 
 The lines that soar, and jump, and bawl. 
 
 Lord God, is this thy poetry? — 
 
 Then I strike foul of goal : 
 
 I find no help quite meet for me, 
 
 In all that beast-like whole : 
 
 Oh, help me from my songless self, 
 
 Here on Thy lonely greensward shelf! 
 
 189 
 
TMIC WOOINC OK 
 
 IMPATIENCE 
 
 November fog — 
 The town a cold, and wet, 
 
 Unlovely bog; 
 Clouds close as they can get 
 
 To dayless earth. 
 
 And torrent-birth ! — 
 
 Chill, yellow fog — 
 Oh, that a lightning-bolt 
 
 Of June would jog 
 In two, with crackling jolt, 
 
 Your moody dream, 
 
 Before I scream ! — 
 
 SALEMA AT THE SAVIOR'S TOMB 
 
 And many other signs truly did Jesus in the 
 presence of his disciples, which are not written in 
 this book : But these are written that ye might be- 
 lieve that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God; and 
 that believing ye might have life through his name. 
 
 John 20. 30. 31. 
 
 "This is the garden — this the rock wherein 
 They bedded Him," Salema sighed and paused 
 Beneath an ancient cedar tree, among 
 The lillies, jessamines and roses, peered 
 Through the grove's dusk, and moved again, and 
 
 sighed : 
 "Oh, heart, be still ! — The sun burst full upon 
 
 100 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 The tomb — ah! His cold tomb!— and He, the 
 Lord, 
 
 Cold, too, within. Oh, my people, what have 
 
 Ye done? 
 
 "But I must steal around this hill, 
 
 And find the door. — Oh, God, make thou me 
 pure, 
 
 That I may look upon my Saviour's face : 
 
 Turn not Thy face from me ; deny me not 
 
 This boon ! He healed me once from grievous 
 ills— 
 
 I could not see; I followed Mini loiio days 
 
 And nights, and heard and prayed; and I be- 
 lieved 
 
 He was thine only Son. But now He's dead, 
 
 And we did need Him so. 
 
 "I came to pray 
 To Thee on the Passover Feast, and heard, 
 He died upon the cross! Oh, why the cross?— 
 But let me see His face: It must be kind, 
 Benign, and beautiful, even in death ! — 
 And now I must put off my sandals here, 
 For this is holy ground. — But I must put 
 A lily on Thy breast : Thou wilt not scorn 
 This humble token of my love, I know! — 
 The stone is rolled away ! — Be strong, my soul ! — 
 My prayer fulfils itself: I see His shroud: 
 Oh, world's great Need, I cannot think Thee 
 dead !— 
 
 191 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Ah, me! — He is not here — All naught? — my 
 
 prayer — 
 'Tis not fulfilled? — Oh, leave me not in doubt, 
 In darkness, God ! Oh, let the Sun my soul 
 Seeks for, arise in me, as nature's sun 
 This morn arose ! — Be Thou my strength, my 
 
 hope, 
 For they have borne away my Lord, and I 
 Know not where they have laid Him. — 
 
 Thou canst not 
 Forsake Thy maid ! — They took away my Lord, 
 And I know not where they have laid Him, — 
 
 God !" 
 
 Thus stood Salema weeping at the couch 
 Of Death, and said her little sentence over 
 And over, in cadence dolorous, 'mid sobs. — 
 "Oh, weep not so, Salema : Peace !" — 
 
 She knew 
 Not who it was that spake. — " 'Tis I, for whom 
 You weep !" 
 
 She looked and knew the face which first 
 Had dawned upon her sightless life. 
 
 Joy made 
 Her heart leap. She faltered : "Hast made my 
 
 soul 
 To see, also, Gracious Redeemer — mine !" 
 
 And lo ! Salema made the cross she feared 
 Before, with her own hands upon her breast, 
 
 192 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Her eyes in beatific vision rapt 
 Upon the Risen Lord before her ! — 
 
 "Peace 
 Be with you, Salema!" spake He, the Lord, 
 To her, the simple maiden, and His words 
 Dripped balmy peace divine into her heart, 
 From His uplifted, nail-pierced hands. 
 
 And still 
 Salema gazed, in prayerful attitude, 
 Until He turned away, and vanished quite 
 Within that Easter garden of the Tomb. 
 And when all gone, she took the vision blest 
 With her, to her sandals profane, and out 
 Into the peaceless world, and home again. 
 
 THE SEASONS IN RHYME 
 
 The rose has fled, 
 
 The daisies died, 
 The leaf is shed, 
 
 The birds have hied 
 With summer's sun : 
 The year is done. 
 
 Daisies dying — 
 
 Roses falling — 
 Leaves a-flying — 
 
 Birds a-calling 
 Numb, and dumber, 
 After summer, 
 
 193 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Till the frost has won, 
 And the year is done. 
 
 Oh, the spring's but the daisies' sweet death, 
 And the summer dishevels the rose, 
 
 While old autumn dispels with his breath 
 All the leaves and the birds as his foes, 
 
 Till the beautiful creatures are fled, 
 
 And the year with his pleasures is dead. 
 
 Oh, how the daises' sweet season is failing; 
 
 Yes, and the rose-time is come to its eve. 
 Why are the leaves and flowers all ailing; 
 
 Yes, and the birds all so happy to leave? 
 Ab, 'tis the wintery blight that they fear, 
 All the sad end of the year that is here! 
 
 THE INDIAN GRAVE 
 
 Why best thou, bold Indian brave, 
 
 On such exalted burial bed, 
 Where prairie grass beneath thee wave, 
 
 And sun and storm beat round thy head? 
 Why sleep on high in blanket's dearth, 
 And scorn the company of earth? 
 
 Methinks, 1 read thy answer plain: 
 Thou art a seeker, even though dead ; 
 
 Though blanket, couch and pyre prove vain, 
 Thou seekest the Manitou to wed ; 
 
 Thou offerest thee to all the sky, 
 
 And dreamest, groping, "Here am I." 
 
 194 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTBBS 
 
 THE ONE NIGHT 
 
 Of all the summer moon-lit nights, 
 
 That God has given me, 
 There's one of such becalmed delights, 
 
 My heart like yonder tree 
 Sleeps peaceful in the moon, 
 Just trembling in its swoon 
 At moments only, hushed and rare, 
 
 With the night winds, when they woo; 
 "lis the night so singled out and fair, 
 
 The night that gave me You! — 
 
 THE SEA 
 
 Oh, once I deemed thee only calm, 
 
 A deep-blue, white-cap laughing scene; 
 
 But soon thy lyric brayed a psalm 
 
 Of wrath; thy blue was whipped to green; 
 
 Thy white-caps lashed to much cold foam, 
 
 Heaved up clear from the great whale's home; 
 Thy smile a monstrous roar! 
 
 Oh, oft thou only wert to me 
 
 A grayish, aged, wide expanse, 
 Lost all in fog, far out to lee, 
 
 Devoid of any smiling glance. 
 But now I know thee whole and true: 
 Thy roar, thy white-caps on the blue, 
 Thy many-twinkling eye. 
 
 195 
 
Til HI WOOING OF 
 
 RHYMES AND STANZAS 
 (Rhyme Royal) 
 
 Let Greek and Roman weave the charmed length 
 Of smooth hexameters; let Pindar build 
 
 His stately odes of majesty ;ind strength, 
 To sing' what kings and courts have deemed 
 
 and willed; 
 We, of mild Chaucer's rhyming ilk and guild, 
 
 Make bold to tell the selfsame kingly bout 
 
 In free-restrained Rhyme Royal hale and stout! 
 
 (In Gentle Spenser's Land) 
 
 As stalks the hunter stolidly his deer, 
 
 So 1 pursue the fitting word and rhyme, 
 The measure that shall mirror deep and clear 
 
 The vision and the thought I deemed sublime, 
 The melody that marks a dulcet chime 
 
 With all the music waking in my soul, 
 And searching for a teeming spring-tide clime: 
 
 1 found it on the low Parnassan knowl, 
 lu gentle Spenser's Land, and in his stanza's roll. 
 
 (The Tail-Rhyme Stanza) 
 
 What an ugly, unjust name 
 For a measure that may claim 
 
 Graceful lilt ; 
 Rhyme that in the fairy realm 
 Where sits Ariel at the helm. 
 
 May be built. 
 
 196 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 (Highlanders Homeward Bound) 
 
 To oars, men, to oar-locks, 
 
 And push ye out to sea ; 
 Mind now your bonny bairns and flocks, 
 
 Steer to your own countree! 
 
 (Summer Night) 
 
 Oh, let the charmed, sadly beauteous moon, 
 To distant katydid's, and cricket's croon, 
 Waft me upon the heavenly river soon ! 
 
 (The Thought of Man) 
 The thought of man is like a winged seed: 
 Scarce free o' the pod, it's caught among the 
 weed. 
 
 (Witchery) 
 
 I thought: Oh, weary winter-time! 
 More snow and ice and ashen rime 
 
 Than southland air and sun ; 
 When clear a blue-bird's bonny trill 
 Trailed through the town, and with a thrill 
 
 Witched gloom and fret to fun! 
 
 MILTON'S SELF 
 
 I low like Milton's very Self 
 Stands his bright "L'Allergro" still, 
 
 And his dark, pretending elf, 
 "Penseroso," with his fill 
 
 Of the joyful pomp and pelf ! 
 
 197 
 
THE WOOING OP 
 
 This is his own way to write, 
 
 As we mortals eall the task, 
 But it seems to be a sprite 
 
 That from God's own throne we ask 
 That has bidden him indite. 
 
 We have named them poems quick, 
 
 While, as rose's attar rare, 
 They excel the perfume sick, 
 
 Which we often deem so fair, 
 When it shams so neat a trick. 
 
 Like the spring in festive pelf, 
 
 He strewed through his lines rich hints 
 
 From the lands of imp and elf, 
 That from all these opal-glints, 
 
 Each may make a poem himself! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE BEARTH-SMOKE 
 
 Safe within the chimney's hollow 
 
 I sleep soundly and unseen, 
 
 Like the timid fledgeling swallow, 
 
 In the quiet summer-sheen. 
 
 But in winter I keep busy 
 
 All the day and half the night, 
 
 Leaping, streaming, whirling dizzy, 
 Rising straight in pillared bight. 
 
 Now I belch a sooty blackness; 
 Now I trail a gauzy blue; 
 
 198 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Now I wave in lazy slackness 
 Over the chimney, scarce in view: 
 
 I keep bright the hearth and ingle, 
 Keep a chimney corner warm, 
 
 For the family to mingle, 
 
 For the sparrow in the storm. 
 
 Then, through all the night-time lonely, 
 While the folks forget my keep, 
 
 Ghostlike I watch over them only. 
 Till I, too, must fall asleep; 
 
 But when in the morning solemn, 
 Frost-white, they wake me anew, 
 
 I rise like the cloudy column 
 
 That the Folk of God once knew ; 
 
 For while I arise in splendor 
 
 Folk will prosper on apace, 
 And the Lord, my sure Defender, 
 
 Keeps them warm within His grace. 
 
 MY HOME 
 
 "The country round my Home?" you ask — 
 
 Well, now 
 That surely is a question never came 
 Into my mind before! — How shall I say? 
 How shall I find the winning, fitting words, 
 The vivid thought that gives all in a flash? — 
 I have the trick in hand already ! — 
 
 199 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Why, 
 The country near my Home is like a wave 
 Of ocean, gray, gigantic, seized and stilled, 
 Solidified to fruitful soil, and caught 
 Up just when its high crest would break and 
 
 fall 
 Again, and now must hover as it is 
 Forever. This sharp crest draws itself up 
 Beneath our northern star; then falls, long- 
 drawn, 
 In pasture-slopes, marked off with hedge-row 
 
 lines, 
 And dim fence-tracings, to the rising sun, 
 And far to set of sun; then hollows out 
 A cradle, toward the noonday sun, and breaks 
 Into unnumbered billows far beyond. 
 
 Within this five-mile cradle now, there lies, 
 Scarce half the distance south, my native town, 
 And to the skirts of this clings close my Home, 
 With view to east, and wide outlook to west, 
 And dim perception of that distant hill: 
 This is the bird-seen country of my Home! 
 
 A BALLAD OF NINETEEN-NOW 
 
 With Apologies to Crittenden Marriott, and 
 his story, "The Making of a Man," in Woman's 
 Magazine, April, 1914. 
 
 The knights and ladies of old are forgot, 
 And their wooing and chivalrous vow; 
 
 200 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And the cavalier, with his seranacle, 
 Seems foolish in nineteen-now. 
 
 'Tis an afternoon in mighty New York, 
 
 And two are courting at tea ; 
 A pretty and rich Miss Kenton, the one; 
 
 A Mister Newton, he. 
 
 (For there is neither knight nor lady here, 
 
 Nor wooing with serenade, 
 But simply a man and a girl at tea, 
 
 Where a marriage-proposal was made.) 
 
 "And so you want me to marry you" 
 
 She replied; "indeed, I won't!" 
 "When every gossip expects you to," 
 
 Mister Newton started, "you don't?" 
 
 "Oh, Will— Will— Will, why don't you be 
 
 A really, truly Man?" 
 Miss Kenton put him as light as she might 
 
 With her voice beneath her ban. 
 
 But didn't he see the quivering hand 
 
 That tinkled the egg-shell cup 
 Against its mate on the taboret, 
 
 And quickly her head propped up? 
 
 "What sort of a chap is your Man, my Dear? 
 
 Am I not as good as the rest?" 
 "Why, surely, as good as the rest : That's it ! 
 
 But I never can call you best!" 
 
 201 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "Pray, what do you call your best, true man; 
 
 Why cannot I be the one?" 
 "You're wasting- your money, your time, your 
 life, 
 
 And call it one round of fun !" 
 
 "I — I must have offended you — what can I do 
 To right it?" — He wanted her hand, 
 
 But she snatched it back, and retorted, "Do?" 
 "Go, do what a Man might have planned!" 
 
 Oh, the knights and ladies of old are forgot, 
 And their wooing, and tender vow; 
 
 And the cavalier and his serenade 
 Seem weakly in nineteen-now ! 
 
 So Newton dashed out, with a sting in his heart, 
 
 A twit from the tongue of a girl, 
 To become — to become what he thought he was, 
 
 A Man ! — in life's mad whirl. 
 
 But ere young Newton had fled the house, 
 
 In hurried the maid with grace, 
 And announced his friend Wilkes, at the tele- 
 phone : 
 
 'Twas a very important case. 
 
 And Newton begged leave, and attended the 
 call, 
 
 And returned with a promising dash : 
 "I have it ! — the gift of poverty — 
 
 Amalgamate Steel went to smash !" 
 
 202 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And they offered him tips on the stocks galore, 
 
 And many a sinecure, 
 Both crony, and chum, and clubman, and girl, 
 
 But he chose him a far-away tour: 
 
 He thought of a half-forgotten course 
 
 In the technics of iron and steel, 
 And of Pittsburgh, the Smoky City, who nursed 
 
 Such failures, as he, to weal. 
 
 And Oh, he was seized with a madness for work, 
 And calloused his hands in the mills, 
 
 Where the steel was hammered, and pounded, 
 and drilled, 
 And his pay was near-gulped by his bills ! 
 
 But still in the din, with his scant-earned wage, 
 
 His fancy turned to Her, 
 To Her he could never yet prove his worth, 
 
 Nor truly his love aver. 
 
 And still, like passenger pigeons fleet, 
 
 The letters sped to and fro, 
 And she cheered him on in his work, when he 
 told 
 
 Her often the gains he could show; 
 
 Till once, when his captain was hurt in the 
 shops, 
 
 Young Newton was given his place. — 
 And what is this he finds in the files? 
 
 A letter from his — Grace : 
 
 203 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "The mill you are running, today changed hands, 
 And the shops and machines are mine; 
 
 But mark you well young Newton there, 
 And promote him up the line. 1 ' — 
 
 And who is it darkens the door, on the spot? 
 
 "Miss Kenton — sure, as I live!" 
 And he offered his moneyed mistress his chair, 
 
 And gasped — "All I can give !" 
 
 "I can only thank — thank — thank you, girl ; 
 
 It's 'most too sudden for me; 
 Rut I remember — thank the Lord ! 
 
 I have it to show you — See? 
 
 "The Atlas Steel Works want me now ! 
 
 Or — Grace ! — Grace, did you do 
 This, too?" and he flashed her the sheet in 
 despair. 
 
 "No! No!" she cried; and he drew 
 
 His chair to hers, and pleaded with her: 
 
 "I have shown you all I can ; 
 Here's my hands, and the Atlas letter proves 
 
 That 1 have become a Man !" 
 
 "And now, my darling, can't you love 
 
 Me just a little? — Say" — 
 And she : "I loved you all my life, 
 
 And most when I sent you away !" 
 
 204 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Yes, the knights and ladies of old are forgot, 
 And their wooing, and marriage-vow ; 
 
 And the young cavalier and his serenade 
 Are needless in nineteen-now ! 
 
 THE WOODEN HORSE 
 
 'Tis dawnlight on the walls of Troy, 
 
 And the watchmen are changing their beat; 
 
 They are peering down the tents of the Greeks, 
 Spread far and wide at their feet. 
 
 Oh, the farther lights are quiet and dim, 
 But why do the nearer lights start, 
 
 And trail, and stand, and scurry about, 
 Below, round the campfire's heart? 
 
 Full soon enough the answer came, 
 When the longed-for sun looked down 
 
 On man-high trucks, with man-high wheels, 
 Four trucks on the road to town. 
 
 And axes were spitting chips all round, 
 
 And four gigantic beams 
 Heaved up, and swayed in place, on the trucks, 
 
 As the slave-gang strains and screams. 
 
 So the weeks dragged by, and the watchmen 
 saw 
 
 A monstrous body form, 
 On those four gigantic upright beams, 
 
 Could weather any storm ! 
 
 205 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And the watchman cried : "Can no one tell 
 What the four-legged beast might be? 
 
 Is it pastime — engine — tower — or hoax? 
 Or is it a mystery?" 
 
 But the weeks crept on, and the wonder teased, 
 
 And doubled its torturing force, 
 As the beast grew a tail, and erected a head, 
 
 And the watchmen marveled: "A horse!" 
 
 Next morn, when the sun rolled up again, 
 
 There stood the monster alone, — 
 Not a Greek on the plain, not a ship on the 
 shore, — 
 
 And they sent to the King on his throne. 
 
 But who is he that comes running so fast, 
 
 And aims for the city gate? 
 "King Priam! King Priam, give ear!" he cried, 
 
 "I bring you a trick of fate!" 
 
 "Oh, Troy, my beloved, trust him not !" 
 
 Cried Laocoon, the priest ; 
 But King Priam nodded: "I hear his tale; 
 
 Acquaint me with yonder beast." 
 
 "Most noble King Priam, 'tis Sinon that speaks," 
 
 The messenger bowed to earth ; 
 "My countrymen left me, the faithless lot, 
 
 Like a beggar that's nothing worth ; 
 
 206 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "They left me here with that wooden horse, — 
 
 A stranger alone to starve, 
 And I ask you for shelter and bed and board, 
 
 And with you my fortune to carve. 
 
 "I can drop you a hint that avenges me sweet: 
 You can steal this wooden horse — 
 
 'Tis an offering made for Athena's sake, — 
 And garner its sacred force : 
 
 "You can heighten the gates, and wheel it in, 
 
 And pull it up to your fane, 
 And foil the crafty Ulysses whole, 
 
 And rob his people their gain." 
 
 So the gates were cut higher, amid shouts and 
 song, 
 
 And the Horse wheeled in with cheers, 
 And they pulled it with prayer to the citadel, 
 
 And caroused through the night without fears. 
 
 But what are the thousand lights round Troy? 
 
 The Greeks ! — the Greeks are back ! — 
 And what is the din in the streets? — The 
 Greeks ! ! 
 
 They're in the city, alack ! 
 
 Oh, well for the crafty Ulysses' plan, 
 For that Wooden Horse, and the men 
 
 Within its maw, who opened the gates 
 For those who turned again ! 
 
 207 
 
tii lo wiiiiim; OF 
 
 Bui alas I foi the city I he i i 1 j oi Ti oy, 
 
 Thai i ould nol fall by foi i e ' 
 A la< I I foi the W indy ( il y now, 
 
 Thai fell by a Wooden I [01 se I 
 
 THE SUN 
 
 Wii.ii art thou, Bailing 1 hei e on high, 
 
 So neai the 1 1 iune I hrone ? 
 Ari limn bul flaming gas, a lie 
 
 I nanimate, and alone 
 
 < >i art thou :i true a n< ienl god, 
 
 Bui lii H< - lowei plai ed, 
 Than the Unknown, Who bids thee plod 
 
 I ).iii v 1 he hea venl v wasl e ? 
 
 Ah, no! I sense ;• unci n 1 a !<• 
 
 M y soul has given bii th ! 
 Thi m 1 amesl fi i »m [ehi ivah I Hail, 
 
 An ii angel i >i oui eai th I 
 
 MY FIRST A I- Ri (PLANE 
 
 1 see ]| yet, mj firsi seen aei oplane 
 
 The bird man whom no dangei could deter, 
 
 The hushed expectanl crowd thai brooked no 
 
 Btii . 
 Thru eyes all fixed with nervous hope and strain 
 Upon the hangai where bo long had lain 
 Thai Btrange New Thing unmoved ; and then the 
 
 pui 1 
 Thai hi all eyes with firej the wildei whin ; 
 The rise ; the flighl thai eyes pui sued In vain ! 
 
 208 
 
QUIMBY'H DAUOHTBBH 
 
 The aeroplane I I saw, and heard, and fell 
 
 1 1 powei , a tid i was a pai I ol all 
 
 I tensed: Thus is ii wln-n oui dreams come 
 
 i rue, 
 AikI .-ill i heii '. '•'!," uem dim al lasl must mcll 
 A w;iy befoi e realit y , and i all 
 ( > 1 1 1 spii its to i he highei I febo view, 
 
 E( H< >ES F R< '.vi ( >LD GREE( E 
 
 I ilTil i i 
 
 ( )rpheus lifted his eyes to the M uses, 
 
 and softened his pla ^ing, 
 Wholly winnowed the harsher cadences oul ol 
 
 his harp strings, 
 Holding lion, and wolf, and mouse spell bound 
 
 on i heii ha hes , 
 
 ( harming, by his loveliei musi< , the green wood 
 
 around him , 
 
 i him, above him, the myriad lea ves thai 
 
 quivei ed befoi e I his 
 Now they too were listening, pausing in won 
 
 del ini silen< e, 
 Motionh pa ing theii 1 1 ibute to ( h pheus' 
 
 masterful musi< 
 
 TO SAPPHO 
 Still, Oh sweel lipped Lady oi Song, we heai 
 
 thee 
 j ling i he wooing i ad< n< ea you intoned us , 
 W<- become thy lovers by thousands, bring thee 
 
 Many for one lost ' 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 CHORIAMBICS 
 
 Choriambics, awake, tread me a tune full of the 
 life of life! 
 
 Soft, slow, sample your steps first in the calm 
 start of the sweet review ; 
 
 Then rush, dart in the mood bright that the sun- 
 beams may reveal in haste ; 
 
 Calm down, flow to the plane where in the dance 
 all comes to peace and rest. 
 
 APPLE-PLUCKING TIME 
 
 Rejoice! 'Tis apple-plucking time! 
 Ripe Autumn's come into the West, 
 And Indian Summer hums her rhyme. 
 
 With pail and hook your ladders climb, 
 And deft the drooping boughs divest : 
 Rejoice ! 'Tis apple-plucking time ! 
 
 Oh, spice the feast with laughter's chime, 
 If wordless, sombre grows your quest, 
 And Indian Summer hums her rhyme! 
 
 And marry, nay, 'tis not a crime 
 To sprinkle in a tale or jest: 
 Rejoice ! 'Tis apple-plucking time ! 
 
 And leave not love to pantomime, 
 If he comes now, a welcome guest, 
 And Indian Summer hums her rhyme! 
 
 210 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Then mingle sweetly age and prime; 
 Of age his rest, of youth her zest: 
 Rejoice! Tis apple-plucking time, 
 And Indian Summer hums her rhyme! 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SPRING WIND 
 There's a rollicking sound in the sky, 
 There's a welcoming call out-o'-doors, 
 And a bellowing shout of good-bye 
 To the snow-spitting clouds, as it roars : 
 'Tis the young, clean wind of spring, 
 That can whistle and thunder and sing! 
 
 What a jerk and a tug at my coat, 
 What a two-edged tune at my ear, 
 That I think me a vessel afloat 
 That is dashed, and is lifted, in fear! 
 'Tis the young, clean wind of spring, 
 That can whistle and thunder and sing! 
 
 When the leaves are yet nestled away 
 In their cradles in every tree, 
 What is it that sounds like the bray 
 Of a dragon from over the sea? 
 'Tis the young, clean wind of spring, 
 That can whistle and thunder and sing! 
 
 There's music so wondrously sweet 
 Out-o'-doors in the sun, in the air, 
 That can woo, and can win, and retreat, 
 And can linger beyond compare: 
 'Tis the young, clean wind of spring, 
 That can whistle and thunder and sing! 
 
 211 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 RHYME PLAY 
 
 Dawn in Greece 
 
 The day is dimly advancing", 
 
 And Phoebus' steeds arc prancing, 
 
 Their silky flanks all glancing 
 
 With blue and pink and gold. 
 His fiery cart is starting, 
 And over the sky-line darting, 
 And Night, and Sleep, are departing 
 
 From cave and mountain-hold. 
 
 Thy Bitter-Sweet, Sweet Smile 
 
 Thy bitter-sweet, sweet smile 
 
 Is buried in my heart 
 For all my afterwhile, 
 
 And never will depart. 
 
 Sometimes it slumbers there, 
 Calm as a sleeping child ; 
 
 Then, like a breath of air, 
 It rouses quick and wild. 
 
 That breath, Oh, let it be 
 My seeing of thy smile ; 
 
 That sleeping child, to me 
 The long, dear afterwhile. 
 
 Question and Answer 
 
 The Lady Moon descends so soon 
 To her lake-bath this eve, 
 
 212 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And we complain, and ask in vain, 
 
 Why she might haste to leave. 
 Or — if she tried — could she have spied 
 Us sitting here so out of season, 
 And guess the reason for our trysting treason? 
 
 Birthday-Rime 
 
 Only the tenderest 
 
 Wishes have I, 
 Hoping, thou renderest 
 
 Meetest reply ! 
 Nor is it selfishly 
 
 Much that I ask, 
 Just that thou elfishly 
 
 Smile on my task! 
 
 Clear Weather 
 
 He has driven the torn clouds out of the sky ; 
 
 He bids them hie and scud ; — 
 The great ones roll as the surging seas, 
 
 Tn the heavens of blue and blood ; 
 The small ones fly like a dolphin school 
 
 Over the real, dark-blue wave. 
 And the Sun, how he laughs at their scudding 
 fear — 
 
 How bonny they behave! 
 
 The Realist 
 
 The mountain ash is rarer 
 
 Than the pine-tree on the uplands, 
 The edelweis is fairer 
 
 213 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Than violets in cup-lands ; 
 But him that's not a lover, 
 
 What boots the distant treasure? 
 The pine-tree give me cover, 
 
 The violet be my pleasure. 
 
 Growth 
 
 Oh, lily-bulb, how slow thou breakest thy hull, 
 And weeks, and weeks but bring thy pale green 
 
 leaf; 
 And months, and months but scarce thy budlets 
 
 cull; 
 But now I thank thee for thy flower-sheaf! 
 
 Chief Eagle Eye 
 
 Eagle-Eye, Eagle-Eye, 
 
 Come to your eyrie ; 
 Come on your pony now, 
 
 Over the prairie ! 
 Eagle-Eye, Eagle-Eye, — 
 
 Sad was his falling; 
 He, on the battle-grounds, 
 
 Hears not our calling. 
 
 Back to Iowa 
 
 On the banks of the winding Iowa, there lies a 
 
 classic town, 
 And the temples, gray with learning, and with 
 
 ivy green and brown, 
 
 214 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 That arise like some high-castled city high 
 
 above the stream, 
 Call me still, "Oh, turn again !" — resistless as a 
 dream : 
 
 Turn again to Iowa, 
 Drink again her learned Spa, 
 It is not as far as clear from here to distant 
 Panama ! 
 
 Oh, no, no, Old Iowa, 
 Just beyond Atalissa, — 
 'Tis not far and I shall turn again ere long to 
 Iowa ! 
 
 Rhyme and Reason 
 
 (With apologies to Amanda B. Hall, whose 
 verses, "Piscatorial Philosophy," in Munsey's 
 for April, 1914, suggested these lines.) 
 
 I marveled that he would sit at his desk 
 From sunrise to on-creep of night, 
 
 And seemed quite as happy to rhyme with no 
 luck 
 As he was when he did make a flight. 
 
 I asked him to tell me the why of it all 
 (And now for his humor I'm climbing) 
 
 He said : "While it's fun to catch the great song, 
 The best fun of all is just here rhyming!" 
 
 215 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 The Limerick 
 
 I longed to perform the neat trick 
 Of loading a strong limerick, 
 
 But the thing proved a gun 
 
 With a keen eye for fun. 
 And went off with a terrible kick! 
 
 SUMMER MAGIC 
 I 
 
 Oh, sweet is the call of a lark at noon, 
 When N the day is torrid and dusty-brown, 
 And man and beast in sultry swoon, 
 In the Middle West, at the edge of a town! 
 
 With a flash I am back in the midst of May, 
 And the heat, and the swoon, is fresh and cool, 
 As though it were spring, and the making of hay, 
 And I had a plunge in the swimming pool. 
 
 II 
 
 I here at the town's near edge, 
 
 I am neighbor to the grass : 
 Timothy, and reed, and sedge ; 
 
 Hung at morn with beads of glass, 
 Limp at noon with summer's pang, 
 Perfumed cool at eve with tang. 
 
 Deep and careless here I lie 
 While my fancy dances whirls, 
 
 216 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 'Mid the grass, and in the sky, 
 
 Till the beads of glass are pearls, 
 Sky and clouds are silk and fleece, 
 And the tang is spice and peace ! 
 
 I am richer than it seems, 
 
 But my city brother pines : 
 "Wanted — Grass !" he often dreams, 
 
 'Mid his train, and trolley lines, 
 'Till I grieve as though I sinned, 
 Buried here in wealth of Ind. 
 
 THE PLAINT OF WORLD-PEACE 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, 
 
 Who rulest War and Peace, 
 
 Oh, give us, give peace-troth, 
 And bid all World- War cease; 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth ! 
 
 I dare not pray to Thee, 
 All-wise and Righteous One, 
 
 For final victory, 
 
 When all the crime is done, 
 
 That Thou wouldst give it me. 
 
 Oh. I am humbled low! 
 
 My lips have bitten dust ! 
 I — I am my own foe ; 
 
 I let the sickle rust — 
 Fed wife and babe to woe ! 
 
 217 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Ah, what is Honor now, 
 And Death on Battlefield, 
 
 And Patriotic Vow, 
 
 And all Great Words they wield- 
 
 The Cause — the Laureled Brow? 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, 
 Who rulest War and Peace, 
 
 Oh, give us soon peace-troth, 
 And bid all World-War cease ; 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth ! 
 
 Oh, now I see my sins ! 
 
 I have un-made the world : 
 The clouds to Zeppelins, 
 
 The rain to bombs they hurled 
 Upon the world's bread-bins! 
 
 For cornfields, I have sown 
 The millioned gun-spears all ; 
 
 The grain that they have grown, 
 It is the dum-dum ball, 
 
 With which the corn is mown. 
 
 And my own dove I fledged, 
 The peace-born aeroplane, 
 
 With thunderbolts I edged — 
 Oh, I have toiled in vain. 
 
 And lost the troth I pledged ! 
 
 Lord God of Sabaoth, 
 Who rulest War and Peace, 
 
 218 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Oh, give us now Thy troth, 
 
 That all World-War shall cease; 
 Lord God of Sabaoth ! 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF THE MIDDLE WEST 
 
 Soul of the great Mid-West, arise! 
 
 The cultured East, it knows thee not; 
 
 The robust West has long forgot ; 
 Reveal thyself unto their eyes! 
 
 Become a living, throbbing flesh, 
 And show thy being as thou art, 
 Thy shining deeds in every part, 
 
 And catch them in thy charmed mesh. 
 
 Then mold them thus enmeshed secure 
 Within thy charms until the day 
 When they shall fainly plead and say: 
 
 "Oh, great Mid-West, we see thy lure!" 
 
 Then call aloud unto the East: 
 
 "Hail, Mornland, by thy learned grace, 
 Lo! mine is not the Indian's face; 
 
 My soul not that of savage beast !" 
 
 Shout, too, unto the self-made West : 
 "Oh, Eveningland, I am not changed 
 An academic, far estranged 
 
 From thee, and thy beloved quest! 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 "I am not Eve nor am I Morn; 
 
 I am the glorious Noon between ; 
 
 A part of each, and yet when seen 
 Complete, a re-birth newly born ! 
 
 "I grasp within my right the toll 
 
 Of Eastern learning, westward turned ; 
 Within my left the brawn that yearned 
 
 For light, and shape them one great soul !" 
 
 Soul of the great Mid-West, arise ! 
 
 The cultured East, it knows thee not; 
 
 The robust West has long forgot ; 
 Oh, manifest thee to their eyes! 
 
 LINES ON HEARING THE POET ALFRED 
 
 NOYES READ FROM HIS WORKS, AT 
 
 IOWA CITY, IOWA, JAN. 22, 1914. 
 
 Athens of Iowa, 
 
 Kind Mother to me, 
 Oh, how delighted 
 
 I hastened to thee ; 
 
 Hastened to thee, 
 
 Out of my work ; 
 How I approved it, 
 
 To pause and to shirk ; 
 
 To welcome a herald 
 Poetic of Peace, 
 
 220 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 Bid him enliven 
 
 England and Greece ! 
 
 And then I sat in halls unreal, 
 
 So festive and so fair they seemed, 
 
 A mansion of the deathless Muses, 
 
 Amidst our Western prairies dreamed! 
 
 And soon the unassuming- Reader, 
 
 The youthful Poet entered in, 
 With one whose toil was teaching beauty, 
 
 Who tersely called him our kin. 
 
 And then upon the wings of language, 
 
 Upon his own poetic tongue, 
 The Poet set his dead books throbbing 
 
 With songs that he alone had sung. 
 
 His living voice took me to London, 
 
 To London-town in lilac-time, 
 Showed me the symphony of faces 
 
 Swayed by the Barrel-Organ's rhyme. 
 
 I was there when the morning wakened 
 
 In "Sherwood," when Robin and his thieves 
 
 Upon his shivering bugle-summons, 
 
 Rose from the dead and mouldering leaves. 
 
 I went with the "Forty Singing Seamen," 
 Upon their wild, bejeweled trance, 
 
 And saw the proud and uppish moderns 
 Invited to the drunken dance. 
 
 221 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 I heard and saw from Putney's heather, 
 "The Highwayman" come riding wild; 
 
 His tlot-tlot-tlot ! it pierced my being, 
 His love for Bess, the landlord's child ! 
 
 Then came I back to him before me : 
 How earnestly his soul tramped out 
 
 "The Wine Press," with its tale of slaughter, 
 And cry for peace in battle-bout. 
 
 Then sank the Reader's voice and message 
 
 Into the low, soft tone of song, 
 How "In the Cool Sweet Eve He Cometh," 
 
 Who bringeth peace for which we long. 
 
 Oh, welcome, thou herald 
 
 Poetic of Peace, 
 Thou hast enlivened 
 England and Greece ! 
 
 Thus I found thee, 
 
 Out of my work, 
 When I approved it, 
 
 To pause and to shirk ; 
 
 When, Oh, how delighted, 
 
 I hastened to thee, 
 Athens of Iowa, 
 
 Kind Mother to me ! 
 
 THE TRAINS OF DAY AND NIGHT 
 
 The trains that pass by day 
 
 Are not the trains that pass by night. 
 
 222 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 The trains of day, the cars of everyday, 
 
 They creep slowly, like caterpillars, 
 
 Across the prairies of our Middle West labori- 
 ously ; 
 
 Or they glide with smoothness from town to 
 town, 
 
 Fretted only by the stops 
 
 That come and halt, 
 
 Much too frequently; 
 
 Or they fly across the continent, 
 
 As birds on long swoops near the ground. 
 
 But the trains of day 
 
 Are not the trains of the night. 
 
 The creeping cars of day, 
 
 The passenger cars that glide so easily on, 
 
 The swiftly flying trains, 
 
 Are all too much in the common day. 
 
 They are barn-red ; 
 
 They are coal-stained ; 
 
 They are dead gray, 
 
 In the light of the undimmed sun ; 
 
 Or dead black, 
 
 Beneath the low-hung tent-roof 
 
 Of the slow rain ; 
 
 Beneath the wide-flung cloak 
 
 Of the tempest. 
 
 The trains of day are halt, are lame; 
 They must spit and hiss and fume; 
 
 223 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 They are slaves to the business of day ; 
 
 Their law is Eternity's ; 
 
 Their speed is Time's ; 
 
 But their duty is to stop at stations, to unload, 
 
 to load ; 
 And then only to obey the higher law of passing 
 
 on — 
 Only to stop again soon. 
 
 No, the trains of day 
 
 Can never be the trains of night. 
 
 I THE TRAINS OF DAY 
 
 The trains of day, 
 
 The cars of the day-time, 
 
 The plain-seen trains of the noontide, 
 
 Are all — are all unreal. 
 
 The Freight 
 
 The lumbering, bumping freight, 
 
 The passenger train that bears men glidingly on, 
 
 In its homy cushions. 
 
 The passing flyer that spits gravel bits in my 
 
 face, 
 And drives dust into my eyes : — 
 These are all untrue ! 
 
 I hear the freight bump, creak, and scream ; 
 
 I hear the bell ring everlastingly, monotonously; 
 
 I hear the engine snort, and grate its steely 
 
 teeth, 
 And groan with the pain of giants. 
 
 224 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 I smell its carrion-breath ; 
 
 I smell the cesspools 
 
 Of the low places of the earth ; 
 
 I smell the breath of human tombs : — 
 
 Awk !— I taste it all ! 
 
 I see its mogul body — 
 
 It is stumpy, and sorely begrimed — monstrous! 
 
 I feel its hot anger stinging my face, 
 
 Its steamy spirit-arms reaching out to clutch me, 
 
 And hurl me into the cesspools 
 
 Of the low places of the earth ! 
 
 The trains of day, 
 The cars of everyday, 
 Are all untrue. 
 
 The Passenger Train 
 
 The train of day, 
 
 The passenger train, 
 
 Rolls into the station. 
 
 The letter of its onward law is broken. 
 
 The glory of its speed is dying; 
 
 Its choked breath 
 
 Shrills away in a swan's song. 
 
 Its business begins. 
 
 The people alight from the porches 
 Of their brief, wheeled home. 
 Some must leave their home town, 
 And ascend the steps to a home 
 
 225 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Forever on wheels, 
 
 Forever transitory. 
 
 The crowd must gape, 
 
 Rude, cruel, unmoved ; 
 
 The folks must watch, 
 
 And long 
 
 For him who missed his train of day, 
 
 For her who did not come. 
 
 All kinds of passengers are swung out 
 By the black-faced porter, 
 And alight from this train of day: 
 She of the embattled colors, — 
 He, the white-washed sepulcher; 
 She, the shirt-waisted saleslady; 
 lie, the groomed, ponderous salesman; 
 She, the capable mother and housewife; 
 lie, the fit head of a family; 
 Tiny she with lacy dress 
 Like a folded, drooping lily; 
 And mite like Baby Who, 
 Flower-heart, 
 
 Still huddled in motherly petals of infant's 
 clothes. 
 
 Ah, if the train of day 
 Had not been throttled, 
 And its law not broken, 
 Its speed not killed, 
 These homeless people, 
 These strangers of the road, 
 
 226 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Had not been forsaken 
 
 By the passenger train of day ! 
 
 The Flyer 
 
 Oh, the flyer of day goes by, 
 
 And it wails its warning, 
 
 Like a maniac 
 
 Who may not stay himself; 
 
 And it purrs and whirrs, 
 
 And throbs and vibrates, 
 
 And whizzes past me, 
 
 With a farewell gravel-twit 
 
 On my cheek 
 
 And whisk of dust in my eyes, — 
 
 And is gone ! 
 
 And I have seen nothing but dead gray and dead 
 
 black. 
 A gigantic, mechanical mole, 
 That shot onward, 
 Like a hawk in its swoop near the ground ! 
 
 The trains of day — of day, 
 Are all unfaithful. 
 
 II THE TRAINS OF NIGHT 
 
 The trains of the night, of the night — 
 
 The trains of the night-time, 
 
 They are true : 
 
 The trains of the night are real. 
 
 227 
 
Tlirc WOOING OF 
 
 It is night in my town, 
 
 Dark night, 
 
 And work is rest, 
 
 And business is pleasure, 
 
 And the din of day 
 
 Is quiet — 
 
 Is peace. 
 
 The Night Freight 
 
 It is time for the trains of night 
 To go by. 
 
 The freight of night is coming on. 
 
 Its one great eye is awake, 
 
 And makes a great white way 
 
 In the black darkness. 
 
 A trumpet-peal 
 
 Warns me to stay my steps. 
 
 The rails purr, 
 
 The wheels make harmony 
 
 In the hymn of motion, 
 
 And the clank of machinery chimes in with it, 
 
 And the thousand little clicks 
 
 Are tinkling of fairy bells 
 
 In tune with the great bell. 
 
 And the black day-smoke 
 
 Is a pillar of fire 
 
 (I think by myself) 
 
 That guides the freight aright. 
 
 The barn-red cars 
 
 Move on in a mystical, magical haze, 
 
 228 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 And the freight of the night is past, 
 
 And bids its red adieu. 
 
 So passes the freight of night through my town. 
 
 It needs no loading, for the freight is all aboard; 
 
 It needs no tiresome unloading, for its precious 
 
 freight goes on ; 
 Its sugar, coffee, and flour ; 
 Its caraway, myrrh, and dill ; 
 Its wood, and iron, and steel ; 
 Its silver, and gold, and platinum ; 
 Its glassware, and queen's ware, and cut-glass, 
 Like diamonds and costly stone. 
 
 The freights of the night 
 Are real ; 
 
 They come from far Cathay, 
 And pass to Arcady. 
 
 The Passenger Train of Night 
 The passenger train of night 
 Is bearing down on me. 
 Like a far, sweet horn, 
 It warns my feet from danger 
 Of stopping it. 
 
 The ribands of steel its feet skim over, 
 Gleam in the moon, 
 
 This train of the night throws on before as its own; 
 They ring for joy. 
 The bell is a cymbal, 
 And the clangor of the running 
 Is the noise of happy castenets, 
 
 229 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And the clicking of the iron and steel 
 
 Is the laughter of tiny bells 
 
 On the skirts of dancers. 
 
 And the black day-smoke 
 
 Is a pillar of fire 
 
 (I dream by myself) 
 
 That leads all the passengers aright. 
 
 And the dead gray wagons of the day 
 
 Are festival halls gliding on, 
 
 Through vapors of rose, 
 
 With all the revelers in them. 
 
 I know them all — I have seen them all 
 
 Man, woman, and child, and baby : 
 
 They are all there — I have seen them — 
 
 They are gone. 
 
 The passenger train of night 
 
 Is past, 
 
 And waves me its red adieu. 
 
 It had no need of stopping; 
 Its people were all aboard. 
 They knew their goals, 
 And I knew them too. 
 None needed to board it, 
 For all were on it. 
 They came from everyday, 
 And were bound for Arcady. 
 
 The passenger trains of night 
 Are true. 
 
 230 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 The Flyer of the Night 
 
 The flyer of the night 
 
 Is speeding apace ! 
 
 I see his torch : 
 
 It quivers in his hand. 
 
 I hear his lusty trump 
 
 Echo, and re-echo. 
 
 His steely causey is singing with exultation. 
 
 All the rattle is music of motion, full-blended; 
 
 And the click, 
 
 And the clank, 
 
 Are dim harp-notes, 
 
 Far echoes 
 
 Of the triangle bells, 
 
 In all the great symphony 
 
 Of the night flyer, 
 
 In his rejoicing speed. 
 
 The black day-smoke 
 
 Is a pillar of flame. 
 
 It flashes up, 
 
 Blood red. 
 
 And I see 
 
 It is gone. 
 
 'Twas a pillar of flame 
 
 (I know — I know) 
 
 To point the flyer of the night, 
 
 In his terrible speed, 
 
 On his perilous way. 
 
 231 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 The coaches he pulled in his wake 
 
 Were chariots from Faerieland, 
 
 And his garments were gossamer 
 
 That fluttered, 
 
 And whipped, 
 
 In the speed-wind, 
 
 Alongside and behind him. 
 
 And he waved adieu with his hand, 
 
 And I glimpsed his ruby ring. 
 
 And his cloak touched my cheek, 
 
 And blinded my eyes ! 
 
 I was with him, 
 
 In his golden jubilee 
 
 Of earthly speed, 
 
 In that brief space, 
 
 Eternity's law was mine ; 
 
 Mine was the speed of Time ; 
 
 The business of day was vanished. 
 
 I came from Olympia, in far, old Greece; 
 
 I was bound for the Happy Isles, 
 
 By way of the Pillars of Hercules ! 
 
 Oh, the flyer of the night 
 Is faithful — is faithful. 
 
 The freights of the night are real ; 
 
 The passenger trains of the night-time are true 
 
 But the passing flyer 
 
 Of the night-tide 
 
 Was faithful to me. 
 
 232 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 The True Trains of Day and Night 
 
 And yet, my restless heart, 
 
 Why are the trains of day so false? 
 
 Oh, my tossing heart, 
 
 When are the trains of the night-time faithful? 
 
 I had almost lamented : 
 Ah, neither the trains of day, 
 Nor yet the trains of the night, 
 Are true, and real, and faithful ! 
 
 The fitful trains of my thought, 
 
 That rise from my toiling heart, 
 
 Like incense from the much-swung censer — 
 
 They are the trains of the day ; 
 
 They are unreal, and untrue, and unfaithful ! 
 
 But the long, long trains of my dreams, 
 
 That arise from my resting heart, 
 
 Like perfume from roses in quiet nights, — 
 
 They are the trains of the night: 
 
 And they are real, and true, and faithful to me ! 
 
 THE AGE AND THE ARTIST 
 
 (This is the modern age for the Artist, 
 The new age for the Builder, 
 Everywhere.) 
 
 I 
 Here is raw iron ; 
 New-quarried rock; 
 
 Blasted granite-veins, heaped up like mere 
 wreckage ; 
 
 233 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Meaningless marble-wealth, rugged, jagged, and 
 
 sharp-edged, 
 Just broken from where the Creator first put it, 
 The cleavage glistening like satin. 
 What riches for the eager hands 
 Of the human maker of buildings ! 
 
 Oh, what shall the building be? 
 
 Shall it be a Greek temple, 
 
 A plain Roman bath, or great Coliseum, 
 
 An Italian villa of the golden days, 
 
 A Gothic cathedral rearing its prayer-arches to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Or a hybrid, mongrel edifice born of all these, 
 Meaning nothing? 
 
 No; it shall be a skyscraper in a mother-city of 
 
 the New World ! 
 Its feet shall stand on the foundations of the 
 
 earth. 
 The raw iron shall be steel, 
 For the bones and ribs and limbs, 
 Of this creature of today. 
 Granite blocks shall be its garments, 
 Chiseled and shaped to comely lines, 
 Concrete of milled rock shall be its footstool, 
 And glassy marble slabs its finery, and laces, 
 
 and braiding. 
 
 There it stands, 
 
 An old fairy tower come true, after ages of 
 dreaming; 
 
 234 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Its feet in the earth-rock, 
 Its brow in the clouds, 
 Lithely swaying 
 In tune with Time's pendulum ! 
 
 II 
 
 This is the dawning-age for the maker, 
 The new-made age for the sculptor, 
 In the New World. 
 
 Choose what you will : 
 
 Here is satin-cleaved marble ; 
 
 Here is granite in the homely block; 
 
 Here is red copper and dirty tin; 
 
 Everywhere lies clay in the plastic mass ! 
 
 Oh, the hands of the maker of statues, 
 
 How eager to play in the mass of the earth ; 
 
 How eager to grasp and hold 
 
 The forms of the street, and mart, and home ! 
 
 The gleam in the face flitting by, 
 
 The strain on the stoker's body, in the factory 
 
 bays, 
 The pain of the life of the slum-child: 
 These are the clay of the modern sculptor ! 
 
 But the gleam is his marble, 
 
 And the strain is his granite, 
 
 And the pain his copper and tin, 
 
 That becomes the difficult, stubborn bronze. 
 
 235 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And the bronze of today is an ill-mixed fusion 
 Of the gleam, and the strain, and the pain 
 Of the life of the times. 
 
 Oh, what, then, shall the ugly chaos, 
 The stubborn mass, become? 
 
 The image must be Youth, 
 
 Fresh come from the day's hard moil, 
 
 And the plain, the rough-spun working-clothes ; 
 
 And the strain, the veins and muscle-bands 
 
 distended 
 On the spare-fleshed arms, and the pillared 
 
 throat ; 
 And the gleam be the soul in the face that shall 
 
 say: 
 This day also is mine ! 
 
 And the pain must be rough. 
 
 In the bronze ; 
 
 And the strain must be burnished smooth ; 
 
 But the gleam must be silkened, 
 
 Till it glow, and burn, and flame, 
 
 Like the purest polished gold 
 
 In the cloudless sun ! 
 
 There he stands, the sculptor's Youth, 
 Who is the great Complexity, 
 Dreamed of long ages ago, 
 Found only in the modern world ! 
 
 236 
 
QUIMBYS DAUGHTERS 
 
 III 
 
 This is the new-come age for the Artist, 
 The modern age for the painter, 
 In America. 
 
 Here is rough canvas a-plenty ; 
 Before us is much bright paint ; 
 Near at hand lie great brushes ; 
 Freedom is unfettered ! 
 
 Wield the great brush, 
 With the bright paint, 
 Upon the rough grey canvas, 
 And fear not : 
 
 Even a checkered daub of color may have a 
 meaning ! 
 
 But the canvas is spare and angular, 
 
 A dead surface void of interest ; 
 
 The colors are living, and real, and primal, 
 
 For there is red, and blue, and yellow, 
 
 With purest white and deepest black ; 
 
 But the great brush is a bear's paw ; 
 
 The freedom is an outlaw's gun ; 
 
 The daub is a laugh — scream — a guffaw; 
 
 The meaning, a mob-riot! 
 
 How shall my country arise — 
 Arise from the canvas 
 Of her lifeless self? 
 
 237 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Shall the picture-painter use all the gay and 
 
 sober colors? 
 Shall he make the shades and tints innumerable, 
 He knows so deftly how to mix? 
 Ah, I fear me. . .1 fear. . . 
 The canvas could not hold the treasure ! 
 Let him choose the red, the plain red ; 
 Let him select the white, the plain white ; 
 Let him elect the blue, the simple blue! 
 
 Let him lead forth Red, and her daughters, 
 Orange, and Pink, and Rose; 
 Let him show us White, and her children, 
 Pale Yellow, and Airy Grey, and Pearly Lustre ; 
 Let him body forth Blue, and her sturdier Sons, 
 Deep Blue, and Purple, and Ultra-Marine; 
 And call the new creation, Dawn ! 
 
 And lo ! The checkered daub on my country's 
 
 canvas 
 Hath become a bald eagle, 
 Striving upward toward the sun ! 
 
 Thus he soars, that Eagle, 
 
 Not the double-eagle, of Old-World heraldry, 
 
 But the body of the Spirit 
 
 The Old World sought for so long in vainl 
 
 'Tis the soul of my country, 
 
 Ever seeking the dawn ! 
 
 238 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 IV 
 
 This is the long-coming age for the Artist, 
 The American age for the molder of music, 
 Throughout the world. 
 
 But what shall satisfy my country's soul, 
 
 As she lifts herself to the dawn, 
 
 And wings her flight to the coming sun? 
 
 Oh, it must now be sprite-like, ethereal, airy ! 
 It must now be the red, and the white, and the 
 
 blue, in the dawn ! 
 And the fairies of my country's spirit 
 Are the shades and the tints of her morn, 
 And her ethereal goal is the home of the rising 
 
 wind, 
 And her airy delight is the music of the birds of 
 
 the morning! 
 
 Oh, the free, pure heights of the dawn ! 
 
 How good it is to be here ! 
 
 Let us set up tabernacles here, 
 
 And build our homes and be at rest. 
 
 Here are the gates of hope ; 
 
 We shall dwell here till they open, 
 
 And enter in and be in our glory. 
 
 Be gone ! I do not hear you ! 
 You foreign measures from Italy : 
 Allegro, and Largo, and Adagio ! 
 Cease, I have put you out of mind, 
 
 239 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 You furor Teutonic of Liszt, and Beethoven, 
 
 and Wagner ! 
 Pause awhile, I have no need of you now, 
 You yipping, screaming, crashing ragtime tune ! 
 A bit softer ; I cannot hear you now, 
 Oh, Southern Mammy's plaintive croon : 
 For my theme now is hope, and my song is joy! 
 
 But where is my vision of morning? 
 
 It is gone. . .it is gone. . . 
 
 And I am alone, and lonely, 
 
 High up here on the heights of dawn ! 
 
 I shall go down again, 
 
 Back to the valleys of man ! 
 
 Oh, what a motley symphony 
 
 Rises to me from the valleys of man ! 
 
 The day is come, and man has gone to work : 
 
 I hear the yip, the scream, the crash, 
 
 Skipping through the medley of sounds ; 
 
 I hear the plaintive Negro croon 
 
 Stealing through the racket of toil ; 
 
 I hear the half-forgotten, savage clack of the 
 
 Indian ; 
 And far, and only faint, 
 You furor Teutonic of Liszt, and Beethoven, and 
 
 Wagner ! 
 And the Allegro, Largo, and Adiago 
 Of Italy across the seas ! 
 
 Thus it was playing — that feast of music, 
 As I came down to the valleys of man ; 
 
 240 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 It was that great, grand symphony 
 That Italia, and Germania sought; 
 Found by the new-age molder of music, 
 Fused by him into deathless shape. 
 
 V 
 
 This is the longed-for age of the Artist, 
 The proper age for the dramatist, 
 Among the nations. 
 
 Oh, thou grasper of life, 
 
 After human life, the ever-elusive ; 
 
 Thou exposer of Man, and of Woman; 
 
 Thou mingler with mankind ; 
 
 Thou fierce exponent of humanity ! 
 
 Thou irrepressible shaper of Drama ! 
 
 The ruck and run of the mere He-man, 
 
 The mere Female of the race in the nether 
 
 world, 
 The revolting mingling of these, 
 Their mixing with Innocence, the child on the 
 
 threshold of love : 
 Thou deemest all thy theme ! 
 
 The muck, the smut, the slime of sex ; 
 
 The great She, the Diana, She of the Janus-head 
 
 of passion and virtue ; 
 The everlasting non-commital Woman; 
 The love that is not love, but lust ; 
 The truth that is not truth ; 
 
 241 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 The life that is not life's All ; 
 The God that may be anything — 
 Their story is thine own ! 
 
 The man of big business, 
 Who sins against God and man, 
 And perishing at last, blessing his just God; 
 The wage-starved toiler at his machine, 
 Who knows and hears the injustice of his task- 
 master 
 And keeps the faith with him, 
 But will not cease his prayer until he wins; 
 The woman who foils the shadowy beast 
 She meets in the serpent-form of manhood, 
 Redeeming fallen Eve through Christ ; 
 The multitudinous nameless She, 
 Who suffers and endures, 
 Who bears her children, and rears them in the 
 
 sight of the Lord, 
 And wins her victories in silence and peace ; 
 He, and She, who must go through life alone, 
 Set aside as bachelor, and bachelor maid, 
 Whose sorrows no man sees revealed in flesh 
 
 and blood : 
 Such as these are thy Drama ! 
 
 But the man, the woman, themselves fallen, 
 
 Or mysteriously charmed by the swamp-lands of 
 
 mankind. 
 Drawn, like the mosquito, to the muck, smut, 
 
 and slime lakes, 
 And spawning a pest that poisons the flesh; 
 
 242 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 He who conjures up, not the eternal Womanly, 
 
 But the everlasting mere Female; 
 
 He who pictures the fall of girlhood seductively ; 
 
 He who hides God behind the scenes : 
 
 These are thy true Comedy, 
 
 Oh, tiresome maker of Tragedy! 
 
 This is the living story of man ; 
 This is the lifelike tale of mankind; 
 This, the drama of humanity, 
 Played on the heights of the future, 
 In the sight of the nations of the world. 
 
 VI 
 
 This is the yearned-for age of the Artist, 
 The present age of the teller of tales, 
 Throughout the earth. 
 
 Come, Oh, seeker after the precious seed that 
 
 fructifies the fancy; 
 Come, striver after the big theme that shall 
 
 capture thy fancy, 
 And bring her back home ; 
 Come, straggler for the great, desirable plot 
 
 that builds a tale of the ages; 
 Come, tell us thy magical secret ! 
 
 Ah, Friend, believest thou I should give thee 
 my secret away? 
 
 Would I yield up my good substance for never 
 so much as a penny? 
 
 Hearken to me, and I shall show you the stone- 
 break I toil and sweat in ! 
 
 243 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 There are seven pits in the stone-break of my 
 
 stuff for tales. 
 Pit One is but plain rock, and lies open to the 
 
 weather, 
 And the sun of facts beats down on you hot; 
 These facts are bald and stubborn, and I hide 
 
 them away in the foundation, 
 And touch them up with my fancy outside. 
 
 Pit Two is the deepest of all in the great stone- 
 break ; 
 
 It is a pool reaching down to Hell, 
 
 And yet, if you look up, 
 
 You may sight a star of Heaven above you. 
 
 To the plain-spoken, it is the saffron-colored 
 sheet of the daily press ; 
 
 It is the humble white and black of all the good 
 works of the printing press. 
 
 Pit Three is full of the small sharp stones 
 
 The busy paragrapher has obligingly dumped 
 
 there for me ; 
 They are excellent for keystones, 
 To stop up chinks in my fancy, 
 Or to make turrets and minarets. 
 
 Pit Four is rich in the odd-shaped, weird- 
 colored, delicately tinted pebbles 
 
 Of the living phrase the poet dropped there in 
 his wanderings. 
 
 244 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 I pet them, and fondle, and coax, and caress 
 
 them a bit : 
 They often spring into life, 
 Into beings of wonderful beauty ! 
 
 «ii 
 
 Pit Five is heaped with the carvings, the studies, 
 the essays, and the effusions of all good 
 artists — 
 
 I take what I list, 
 
 What my fancy craves, 
 
 And — leave the rest as useless. 
 
 Pit Six is a gravel-pit, 
 
 And I work it like a pearl-diver, 
 
 For the rare stones that can create a pattern for 
 
 my fancy ; 
 They are the sparks struck from the fire of 
 
 genius in many books ; 
 I find them convenient for ready titles to my 
 
 tales, 
 Full-fledged for my fancy to soar on high with. 
 
 Pit Seven teems with many a morsel of finished 
 
 art 
 In stones of the rainbow's hues ; 
 It is the life that I see, that you see, that we all 
 
 see; 
 It is very life; we see it, hear it, smell it, taste 
 
 it, and touch it, all about us. 
 I use it, and shape it, and mold it ; 
 And then — and then I use — my magical secret, — 
 
 245 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And my tale is done, 
 
 And I seek the bitter-sweet joy of making a new 
 one! 
 
 Like a tale that is told — 
 
 Like a tale that is told — 
 
 You have sped me the time, Oh, teller of tales ! 
 
 You lured me from rung to rung on your ladder 
 
 of fancy, 
 And you dropped me 
 
 Remorselessly down from the topmost rung, 
 And you did it with joy for you, 
 And regret for me ! 
 
 But the teller of tales has told his tale; 
 The great mosaic is finished. 
 Long was it tried, and now it is done, 
 The great Dream-come-true of all good work- 
 men — 
 Of toiler, mechanic, and artisan, 
 Who has joy in the work he is doing, 
 Who glories in the work that is done. 
 And is keen for the task to come ! 
 
 VII 
 
 This is the prayed-for age of the Artist, 
 The home-coming age of the poet, 
 To the hearts of men ! 
 
 Oh, I am the heir of all the ages ! 
 I am the heir of all the artists ! 
 
 246 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Mine is the soul of the builder, 
 Mine is the hand of the maker of statues, 
 Mine is the brush of the makers of pictures ; 
 The gift of the molder of music is mine, 
 The power of the fashioner of drama is mine, 
 The skill of the builder of tales is mine! 
 I give to all men heart's-ease for their pain, 
 I fill their cups with rest after toil, 
 I cover them over, and tuck them in, when life 
 is done. 
 
 The old-time masters 
 
 Are asleep in their tombs, 
 
 But their works are with us yet; 
 
 And when I wish to sing a lay 
 
 In the time of the one or the other, 
 
 I speak in the voice of the age of each. 
 
 But now the times are modern, 
 
 And the song to be sung is new, 
 
 And the air that I breathe is free. 
 
 The times, and their song will not stop at the 
 
 rhymes, — 
 Will not reach to the old, old rhyme ; 
 My new song will not march in the stately 
 
 metre ; 
 And my lay of freedom will not stay in the 
 
 bonds of verse or stanza! 
 My new-world song is a stream 
 That skips, and glides, and gurgles, 
 And ripples, and eddies, and whirls, 
 In turbulent commotion, 
 
 247 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 To lapsing easy flow, 
 
 And finds at last the sea of peace. 
 
 My stuff is the sway of the summer bough, 
 
 When a little wind sighs in the sun; 
 
 My words are the fragments of a quarry 
 
 That longed for ages to become a skyscraper; 
 
 My cadences are the swingings and the bound- 
 ings 
 
 Of the hammers that shape my word-stones; 
 
 My lines are the cranes, and derricks, and hoists, 
 
 That help the stones to aspire to their high 
 resting places; 
 
 My stanzas are the finished stories 
 
 In this tower of the cloudland; 
 
 My poem is the terraced, juttied, pinnacled sky- 
 scraper 
 
 That reaches for the sun, and moon, and stars! 
 
 And that reach of my poem 
 
 Is the rest for the toiler; 
 
 And the finished building of my poem 
 
 Is the heart's-ease in the pain of a fragment-life; 
 
 And the endurance of my poor poem 
 
 Is peace of imortality 
 
 From Him Who gave my poem to me! 
 
 And he who reads my poem aright, shall find 
 
 in it — 
 The Youth of the maker of statues, 
 The Eagle's Flight of the painter, 
 The high Art Symphony of the molder of music, 
 
 248 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 The Tale of Humanity by the maker of drama, 
 The Mosaic of Labor of the teller of tales, 
 And the Heart's-ease Lay of the singer of songs. 
 
 And my story endeth as it began : 
 This is the modern age for the Artist, 
 The new age for the builder, 
 Everywhere — everywhere. 
 
 THE STREETS OF PROGRESS 
 
 I am in the big town, 
 
 Just come from the small town. 
 
 The grey, wide, raised streets taper on and off 
 
 before me endlessly. 
 The oblong-checkered pavement 
 Dims off in the distance to the grey of the 
 
 walks. 
 Pencil-marked only by the tracks of the trolley 
 
 lines, and the shadows thrown by the 
 
 curbing. 
 The drab, plain-windowed, oriel-windowed stone 
 
 office buildings, 
 They become misty mansions or towers or 
 
 castles, 
 Far up the streets of progress. 
 
 Men — men — men go by me; 
 
 And I know them not ; 
 
 Women — women — women meet me, 
 
 But they have no greeting for me, 
 
 Children — children — children march by me, 
 
 249 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 But they have the sober faces of grown-up 
 
 people ; 
 Babies — babies — babies are whisked by me, 
 But they wear the thin look of older children; 
 Faces — faces — faces blur by me, 
 With the romance gone out of them : 
 All in the streets of progress — 
 In the streets of progress. 
 
 Automobiles, trucks, runabouts, busses, motor- 
 cycles and jitneys purr by me; 
 
 The trolley goes moaning by, clanging its gong 
 excitedly ; 
 
 Carts, and top-buggies, and wagons creep 
 through, and crawl through, wherever they 
 can ; 
 
 The past and the present, the country and the 
 city; 
 
 The big town and the small town, and the vil- 
 lage and the hamlet; 
 
 They come, and they go ; 
 
 They crowd together, and they linger behind; 
 
 In the streets of progress. 
 
 I cross the streets of progress, 
 
 The busy streets of progress, 
 
 Where the traffic spreads a bit, and the street is 
 
 seen again, 
 And the mansions and towers and castles loom 
 
 up from afar. 
 My foot is set on the streets of progress, 
 
 •J50 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 On the streets of distance unbounded, 
 
 On the streets of romance, 
 
 On the streets of enchantment beyond likeness ! 
 
 The country lane, the highway, the small-town 
 street ; 
 
 The pavement, the asphalt, the boulevard of 
 gardenland ; 
 
 The trolley line, the subway, the elevated road; 
 
 The railway, the steelway, the steamship lines; 
 
 They are one and the same in the great unbreak- 
 able chain ! 
 
 Oh, let me stand, and feel, and think — 
 
 I am setting foot on the streets of progress, 
 
 On the blessed streets of progress ! 
 
 I am crossing the streets of progress, 
 
 The blessed streets of progress, 
 
 With leisure— 
 
 But a honk at the left 
 
 Affrights me! 
 
 And a dragon-clack 
 
 At the right 
 
 Is upon — is upon me ! 
 
 Like a demon. . .grey. . .round-eyed — 
 
 Ghoul-jawed — ready to swallow me up — 
 
 Like— like Death!— 
 
 I see it . . . I see it . . . 
 
 I must not stand, and feel, and think. 
 
 The cars of Time do not see 
 
 251 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 The distance, the castles, and towers, and man- 
 sions, 
 Far up the streets of progress, 
 The blessed streets of progress 1 
 
 THE DESCENT OF THE EAGLES 
 
 I was seated one day in the eating-room 
 Of a small home-like hotel, 
 
 Awaiting a luncheon that should give me fresh- 
 ness, 
 And zest for my study. 
 The pleasant place was filled 
 With buzz of contented, restful talk, 
 And the soft click and chip 
 
 Of knives, and forks, and spoons, against dishes, 
 Sounds that are music to hunger. 
 
 The black-haired, brown-eyed salesman at my 
 side, and I, 
 
 We were talking of the spring out-doors, 
 
 For spring, and Easter were once more knock- 
 ing 
 
 At the doors of the hearts of all men. 
 
 He was sleek, well-tailored, and of blessed 
 digestion, 
 
 And, though he spoke of asparagus, soon to be 
 served, 
 
 He was glad, he told me, that spring was near, 
 
 And he remembered and cherished one spring, 
 of many, 
 
 That gave him a rare adventure 
 
 Of strength, and beauty, and power! 
 
 252 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "That spring," he said, "we swung one day, — 
 
 A day just like this, — 
 
 Into the city of La Crosse, 
 
 From the viaduct that bends around it, 
 
 Before you reach the station. 
 
 I was looking upon the Mississippi below, 
 
 And the dirty ice was just going out of it, 
 
 In round cakes, with high edges around them, 
 
 Looking like yellowish water-lilies in the dis- 
 tance ; 
 
 And on one of these I saw the prettiest sight 
 
 I believe I have ever seen : 
 
 I saw a golden eagle, and his mate, 
 
 Floating down the big river on one of those ice- 
 floes. 
 
 He stood erect, fierce, peering southward, 
 (You know), 
 
 And his mate looked up to him as to a captain, — 
 
 The able captain of their drifting water-lily rest- 
 raft !" 
 
 Oh, why did he sketch that beautiful picture 
 for me, 
 
 Only to haunt me with its wonderful strength- 
 giving appeal, 
 
 To lift me ever since, 
 
 Whenever I see it before me, 
 
 By its unseen hand of power, 
 
 High above the commonplace about me? 
 
 Perhaps that salesman saw in my eye 
 A hunger transcendant, 
 
 253 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 A hunger greater than the waiter, 
 Who now came smiling with our luncheon, 
 Could ever appease with the victuals he brought 
 us. 
 
 Perhaps he saw what 1 needed, 
 
 And gave me that beautiful picture, 
 
 For he glanced at the wordless thrill in my 
 
 eyes, 
 And I saw it flash up in his own, 
 And neither said ever a word more about it, 
 But we seemed to know, and to feel, and to un- 
 derstand ! 
 
 WHO AM I? 
 
 Who am T ? 
 
 A ship with compass gone, 
 That drifts all aimless on 
 Upon a stormless sea 
 To port unknown to me: 
 That am I! 
 
 Who am 1 ? 
 
 A barge upon the deep, 
 Without her load to keep, 
 Her purpose to fulfill, 
 
 A pilot for her will : 
 That am 1 ! 
 
 Who am I ? 
 
 A bark upon the foam, 
 
 254 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 That knows not why from home 
 It ventured, and with blame 
 Now broods upon its shame: 
 That am I ! 
 
 Who am I ? 
 
 A vessel filled with grace, 
 Whose pilot is the Word, 
 Whose port His unseen face, 
 Whose shame that hope deferred 
 That am I ! 
 
 CAN YOU GUESS? 
 
 Oh, pray, how will it be, 
 When I shall dwell with you, 
 My own, not just to-be, 
 And pledge me fondly to? 
 Vision of loveliness, 
 Pray, can you guess? 
 
 Oh, will it be a peace 
 Not felt by us before, 
 In which all searching cease, 
 As on one's native shore? 
 Vision of gentleness, 
 Pray, can you guess? 
 
 Oh, will it be a calm 
 God sent upon the storm ; 
 A great and joyful psalm 
 But heart and soul perform? 
 
 255 
 
THE WOOING OP 
 
 Vision of happiness, 
 Pray, can you guess? 
 
 Oh, it will prove a rock 
 Beyond the reef and foam, 
 Beyond the wreck and shock, 
 Our own and real Home ! 
 Oh, Love, let us confess, 
 And pledge our — Yes ! 
 
 IF I SHOULD COME 
 
 If I should come today, my Love, 
 
 What would it be ? 
 And say that I were clean and shrove 
 
 Of misery? 
 
 You say, you are unclean and foul, 
 
 My Lordly Love? 
 Oh, then repair to cell and cowl, 
 
 To get thee shrove! 
 
 Forgive ; you must not overlook — 
 
 My misery — 
 If I wash clean in thy love's brook, — 
 
 What shall it be? 
 
 Oh, Love, if you would come today, 
 
 You could not be 
 But shrove in pity's holy ray, 
 
 Of misery ! 
 
 256 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 LAND O' LEAL 
 
 Oh, what will life be like, 
 
 When this is done 
 
 And that begun, 
 When I have crossed the dike 
 
 To Land O' Leal, 
 
 Where sense must reel, 
 My soul her wings may strike? 
 
 Will it be only this: 
 
 To eat and sleep, 
 
 To laugh and weep, 
 To feel the praise and hiss, 
 
 To aim for goals 
 
 That end in shoals, 
 And only hope for bliss? 
 
 Or — shall I rather be 
 
 One who rests well 
 
 At eve, to tell 
 What all day was to me, 
 
 And cannot come 
 
 To all the sun 
 Of my biography? 
 
 Like one who writes his tale 
 
 Of life at last, 
 
 When all is past, 
 And writing much, must fail 
 
 To tell it quite 
 
 257 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 In that fair light 
 That lies beyond the veil? 
 
 No; then I shall have time 
 
 To tell a deal 
 
 My Lord O' Leal 
 In that eternal clime, 
 
 Of life that's done, 
 
 Of life begun, 
 And make my tale sublime. 
 
 TO THE SUICIDE 
 
 Oh, heart, sore heart, if I might say 
 A word wherewith the world to sway, 
 I would say it to the suicide, 
 Before he flings his life away : 
 
 Oh, do not call the righteous Lord, 
 And ask Him for His great reward, 
 To set you free, to grant you sleep, 
 When you offend His holy Sword. 
 
 You cast away to certain loss 
 What is not yours, as one would toss 
 A pearl into the nether deep, 
 And wake to find your God a joss. 
 
 Oh, choose, dear heart, the harder start, 
 
 And rather pray for that sweet art, 
 
 That bids you fight, endure, abide, 
 
 And makes you take a man's, a woman's part. 
 
 258 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 THE SONNETEER 
 
 The Note 
 
 Oh, love, 
 Bear me 
 Above 
 The sea 
 I am of, 
 To flee, 
 A dove, 
 To thee ! 
 
 Then might 
 I bring 
 This Note, 
 Alight, 
 And cling 
 To thy throat. 
 
 The Message 
 
 'Twas yesternight 
 
 Your Sonneteer 
 Sent you in fright 
 
 A love-note queer; 
 And though daylight 
 
 And night appear 
 An age of height 
 
 And depth of fear 
 
 And joy, my note 
 Has not come back. 
 
 209 
 
THE! WOOING OP 
 
 Oh, Love, I wrote, 
 
 As on a rack, 
 
 The while to you 
 This Message true. 
 
 The Missive 
 
 The farmer strews the seed 
 
 Upon the longing loam ; 
 A million kernels, freed, 
 
 He scatters like a foam. 
 And part is raven's feed, 
 
 Part finds a stony home, 
 And part is choked by weed, 
 
 Part blooms for honeycomb. 
 
 And as that part so sweet 
 Requires so great a waste, 
 
 Oh, Love, I deem it meet 
 To be not all too chaste 
 
 With missive notes, and fling 
 This Missive you a-wing. 
 
 The Epistle 
 To One I Love : 
 
 I know a bit 
 Of simple news I must unfurl, 
 
 And trust that you will cherish it. 
 I know a certain beauteous girl 
 
 Who dwells aloft where swallows flit; 
 I know not, is her lip a-curl, 
 
 Or is her sea-deep eye love-lit, 
 At me; and yet both knave and earl 
 
 260 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Within my bosom looks to her 
 
 As to his shrine the worshipper. 
 And now, my Love, I write to you 
 
 This plain Epistle of delights 
 To learn your most respected view ; 
 
 How that girl loves the 
 
 One-Who-Writes. 
 
 The Letter 
 Sweet Love ! — 
 
 Oh, let me plead my case awhile. 
 You wrote at last. You say that beauteous girl 
 
 Of my Epistle I misnamed so vile, 
 One "of delights," could never love a churl 
 
 In any manly bosom, nor an earl. 
 Oh, Message, Note, Epistle, Missive, pile 
 
 Mount Pelion on Ossa's height, and hurl 
 The ruin down ! — that I chose such a style ! 
 
 But — Love, I will be calm again. You must 
 
 Divine, with woman's heart, that She I meant 
 Could not be any one but Whom I trust 
 Will treasure sacredly each word I sent, 
 And cherish that the most, which caused my Girl 
 To say, "that Girl" loved not, 
 
 Your Sonneteer, 
 Merle. 
 
 PHILLIPPA 
 
 (A Tale of the First Century of Our Era.) 
 'Twas once in fair Corinth, upon the neck 
 Of land that like the merest thread conducts 
 
 201 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 From upper unto nether Greece, that once 
 There lived a pagan maid, Phillippa named, 
 The child of well-provisioned parents, she 
 The only offspring. Near her home there lived 
 Young Paullus, even as a boy, a stern 
 Patrician, dark, and sharply featured, straight, 
 And earnest-mannered. But Phillippa was 
 Fair-haired and violet-eyed, plump-shaped, and 
 
 gay, 
 And when she walked, 'twas grace and harmony 
 In one. And still they were but children now. 
 They played together in the garden's realm 
 As innocent as children can, and built 
 Their home together, lived in phantasy 
 Enshrined as parents of Phillippa's dolls. 
 
 So passed the years before the boy grows strange 
 And quite absents himself from girlish mate 
 For undefined shame. And Paullus grew 
 Close-knit to Phillippa, and she to him. 
 Then came the parting that took him to Rome, 
 That distant city he must make his school 
 To shape himself an orator, and make 
 The law his own, as his father decreed. 
 And sweet Phillippa promised him to wait 
 Until he came again, so great and wise, 
 And kissed, as warm as any child can kiss 
 Affection on her brother's cheek. And then 
 She turned again to her dear dolls alone, 
 Caressing them to slumber, till the day 
 When Papa Paullus should come home again. 
 
 262 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 So lapsed the years again, when one bright morn 
 There came one Paul from overseas, and 
 
 preached 
 A strange new life, of believing in the Christ 
 On earth, and of a Heaven after life, 
 And showed them who that great Unknown One 
 
 was, 
 Whom they had built an altar to. He won 
 Phillippa and her parents to his faith, 
 And she grew happy in the Christ and praised 
 Him for his precious boon, and grace, and trust. 
 
 Not long after, came Paullus home again, 
 Great, slender, learned, tall, and aquiline 
 In feature. And how fair, how sweet did he 
 Find Phillippa grown up ! He met her close 
 Beside the stone-bench of the garden, where 
 They kissed, and wept their childhood farewell- 
 troth. 
 He sat, and drew her down beside him there, 
 Recalling how they parted here that hour, 
 And telling her, so lovely now abashed, 
 How he had come to claim her, now to take 
 Her far to Rome, to his own villa there, — 
 When hark, within the oleander bush 
 
 Behind them broke a twig with startling snap ! 
 And Paullus quailed for fear, but, laying soft 
 Her hand upon his arm, Phillippa calmed 
 Him low in Jesus' name, how he keeps us 
 From any danger, and we need not fear! 
 263 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Then Paullus suddenly flew into rage, 
 
 And seized her hands, and pressed them to the 
 
 blood, 
 And cursed her that she was a Christian now, 
 Until she screamed aloud. Then sprang a form 
 Up from behind the bench on Paullus quick, 
 A slender woman, gowned snake-like, and he 
 Sprang up, and cried: "Oh, Hoti, Hoti, you?" 
 And Hoti flew at him, and they embraced, 
 And Hoti mumbled : "No, you cannot get 
 Away from me : Your promise still is good. 
 I caught the ship that followed you, and bribed 
 The crew to keep me, by my wiles and songs. 
 Paullus, you shall be mine, and stay mine!" 
 
 There ! — 
 A something bright flashed out at Paullus' 
 
 breast, 
 And he reeled backward, and Phillippa swooned ; 
 But Hoti kissed Phillippa back to life ; 
 And went rejoicing on her way, avenged. 
 
 But Oh, the joy ! Phillippa kissed a light 
 
 Of life back to the eyes of Paullus ; low 
 
 He groaned, and writhed, when he deemed Hoti 
 
 gone. 
 "Phillippa, I still live — I turned the dirk 
 Away — from my heart — Dear — when I saw her 
 Plunge it." — "Oh, Paullus, Paullus, Jesus heard 
 The cry my soul made to Him when I saw 
 You fall !" rejoiced Phillippa. And no rage 
 Came into Paullus' face and hands again. 
 
 264 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 RADIUM 
 
 From Madame Currie's, and old Frankish land, 
 There came a stirring, marvelous report ; 
 A subtle essence trembled in her hand, 
 Man had not known, and beamed in her retort. 
 Its glow, unchecked, proved mighty unto death, 
 But guarded, wooed to health ; a fabled sum 
 Only could buy it ; and its two-fold breath 
 Could never waste this giant, Radium. 
 
 The age of miracles is done ; we live 
 Now in the brighter-splendored one of faith. 
 We hear now one by one the words that give 
 It footing; and we find in them the wraith 
 Of one who slays and heals with awful ease; 
 And Radium is one faith-word of these! 
 
 KITTY AND DOGGIE 
 
 Said a doggie-doggie-doggie-dog 
 
 To a kitty-kitty-kitty cat : 
 "What makes you sleep there like a log, 
 
 So pert, and plump, and round, and fat ?" 
 
 Said the kitty-kitty-kitty-cat 
 
 To the doggie-doggie-doggie-dog: 
 "If you are looking for a spat, 
 
 You'll jump around here like a frog!" 
 
 And then — it was doggie and kitty and doggie, 
 In a whirl all misty and dizzy and foggie ; 
 
 265 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 'Twas doggie and kitty, and doggie and kitty, 
 In a medley of music most hideous and witty: 
 
 In a whirl of kitty-doggie, 
 
 Misty — foggie ; 
 
 Doggie-kitty, 
 
 Howling, fitty ; 
 
 Kitty-kitty, doggie-doggie — 
 
 Witty, spitty— foggy, loggy— 
 
 Kitty, gritty — Doggie, hoggy : 
 
 dog 
 
 fog 
 
 cat 
 
 bat ! 
 
 run ! 
 
 fun 
 
 done ! * 
 
 THE TALE OF THE AWFUL OOZLE 
 
 In the night 
 
 When the bright 
 
 And the glorious, 
 
 Florious 
 
 Sun 
 
 Has run 
 
 Its course 
 
 Back again to its source, 
 
 My Mother tucks my head 
 
 Deep down in my pillow-bed, 
 
 And leaves me all alone, 
 
 And says in a cuddling tone : 
 
 266 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 "Now sonny, 
 May milk and honey 
 Of Heavenly promise and blessings 
 Send down upon you caressings 
 And guessings 
 Of the love 
 Above 
 
 In answer to your prayers,. 
 And pay me for my cares. 
 And now go right to sleep, 
 Without a wink or peep 
 Or else — the awful oozle, 
 My little toozle, 
 Will get you ! 
 Yes — bet you." 
 
 That awful Oozle my Mama said, 
 It almost squuntched me to death ; 
 
 I swiped the covers over my head, 
 
 And squimped my eyes like — Old Cheth. 
 
 But I squimped my eyes so tight they hurt 
 
 And two blood-rings came out. 
 Right out the big black midnight-dirt, 
 
 And I gumbled down a shout. 
 
 And then the awful Oozle glitched, 
 
 Like night with bloody eyes, 
 And worgled around, and mumped, and spitched, 
 
 And twirred like a thing that flies. 
 
 267 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 And it squatched and squalched in the swull like 
 a goose, 
 
 And all at once it glumped, 
 With spoof, and poof, and woof, and zoose, 
 
 That I thought my head was clumped ! 
 
 But I balled my fist and smocked away. 
 
 And one blood eye glitched up. 
 And the other swipped like a match in the bay, 
 
 And the awful Oozle was — wup ! 
 
 And to pieces, in the midnight dirt, and whee-ed ! 
 
 In the air, and the sky split wide, 
 And the covers were pummed, and the Oozle 
 squee-ed ! 
 
 And the Moon dragged away his hide 1 
 
 And so I poomed, 
 
 And spoomed, 
 
 My Mama's awful Oozle, 
 
 The bloody, dirty moozle, 
 
 And he won't ever get me, 
 
 Either — 
 
 Neither, 
 
 If he ever met me 
 
 Again, 
 
 With his awful snoozle, 
 
 And then 
 
 Come at me like a woozle. 
 
 Oo, — boys and girls, 
 
 In dresses and curls, 
 
 268 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Don't you ever put covers over your heads, 
 And squimp your eyes too tight in your beds! 
 
 If you do — 
 
 Then— Oo ! 
 
 The awful Oozle 
 
 Will get my little toozle ; 
 
 Will get you — 
 
 Yes — ' bet you ! 
 
 But — whee ! 
 
 He can't get me ! 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE RHYMERS 
 
 Once in the far-off golden age, 
 
 Made famous both by bard and sage, 
 
 There was a battle red with gore 
 
 As any in the great World-War, 
 
 The Battle of the Rhymers named, 
 
 Two Rhymers, great, full brave and famed, 
 
 Of whom the one was christened Dirk, 
 
 The other — similarly — Kirk. 
 
 It was a battle as of old, 
 
 W'here all the heroes strong and bold 
 
 Were gathered in an open field, 
 
 Round two they chose the spears to wield. 
 
 These heroes were the Rhymers, called 
 
 From all the region, green or bald, 
 
 Who practiced in the art sublime 
 
 That speaks to human heart in rhyme ; 
 
 And Dirk and Kirk were singled out, 
 
 269 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 Each other's art to put to rout, 
 To stand within the circle's charms 
 In gilded trappings, folded arms ; 
 And Dirk was learned in foreign lore, 
 While Kirk but knew his native shore. 
 
 The battle had been raging long 
 
 In sun and meadow full of song, 
 
 The rhymes had flown as swift as darts 
 
 From Dirk to Kirk, and pierced the hearts 
 
 With joy of all the heroes round, 
 
 Who cheered and made approving sound. 
 
 And one stepped forth to offer lots 
 
 These Rhymers two, — forget-me-nots 
 
 And Dirk drew long, while Kirk drew short, 
 
 And cheering broke from all the court ; 
 
 Then silence fell for to begin 
 
 That battle no one knew would win. 
 
 And Dirk he folded arms and heaved 
 
 His spangled chest like one believed 
 
 In as the victor by the crowd, 
 
 And gave his calm opponent loud 
 
 The rhyme on "Kirk'' — and then the lyre 
 
 Of song was thrummed in rapid fire : 
 
 "Dirk," "work," Mike a "Turk," ' 'with "jerk." ' 
 
 'And "quirk," 'and "yerk," ' 'and do not "irk," ' 
 
 'Nor "lurk," 'nor "smirk" ' 'nor either "perk" ' 
 
 'Like uppish "clerk," 'nor yearling "stirk," ' 
 
 'When Dirk is in the "mirk," ' grinned Kirk 
 
 At last — 'and knows — knows how to "firk" 
 
 270 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 It off of him,' recovered Dirk, 
 
 On count the fifth the lotsman doled 
 
 Out second-wise, and passing bold, 
 
 Another rhyme was formed by Kirk : 
 
 ''And Dirk knows how to "firk" the "mirk," 
 
 But he must never — never "shirk" !' 
 
 The lotsman counted five — eight — ten — 
 
 But Dirk found not a rhyme again 
 
 Upon the single syllable, 
 
 And — of the cheers I need not tell. 
 
 The double syllable might win — 
 Both masculine and feminine — 
 This bloody battle yet for Dirk, 
 But — he fell on a luckless "murk" 
 Again, yet rose once more on strength 
 Of foreign lore, when cheers at length 
 Subsided for the words of three, 
 Four, five, and many parts. With glee 
 Dirk then suggested, "Etiquette" — 
 Kirk answered quickly, "Betty met" — 
 And Dirk strove earnestly to fell 
 The growing story Kirk would tell — 
 And Dirk proposed, "Excrutiate" — 
 ("Etiquette — Excrutiate") 
 And — "Betty met — Rex to flee Nate" — 
 Came from the close-watched lips of him 
 Who coaxed approval from the rim. 
 Then Dirk cried, "Unauspiciously" — 
 (Oh, "Etiquette — ette, — ex-cru-ci- 
 Ate, — un-aus-pi-ciously-ciously") — 
 271 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 But — "Betty met — met Rex to flee 
 
 Nate Dunn — Paw's wish, you see." laughed 
 
 Kirk. 
 And — "Superannuated !" — Dirk 
 Yelled out above the cheers about, 
 But Kirk's voice laid again the shout : 
 ("Eti-) 
 
 (quette, ex'-cru-ci'-ate-un'-ate-un' 
 aus-pi'-cious-ly,' su-per'-an-nu'- 
 at-ed'-su-per, an-nu'-at-ed,' " 
 ("Betty")— 
 
 "Met Rex to flee Nate Dunn — Nate Dunn — 
 Paw's wish. You see, Sue, Par, and you 
 'Ate Ned." And so Dirk could not pit 
 A rhyme that Kirk with motherwit 
 Could not weave into all his tale, 
 And cause Dirk's foreign lore to fail. 
 All heroes shouted, "He's the clown ! 
 To Kirk — to Kirk belongs the crown ! ! " 
 
 THE GATE OF THE MIDDLE WEST 
 
 Sons of the Mornland, westward bound, 
 I am the Gate to the great Mid-West! 
 
 Halt, and consider the prairies around, 
 
 Pause in your eagerness, bating your quest! 
 
 Pause, and I give you my matchless gold, 
 Lying here everywhere at your feet, 
 
 For it resides in the homeliest mould 
 
 Black, but creative of bread and of meat! 
 
 272 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Home of the Windy City am I ; 
 
 She, the queen of our commerce and trade, 
 Ruling her country with trumpet-cry: 
 
 "Mid-West, I will !" and comoelling its aid. 
 
 I am the mother of Lincoln by fame, 
 Vain might I vaunt myself to boast, 
 
 Sharing humbly his tomb and his name, — 
 Giving to you what moulded him most. 
 
 Prairies of gold and of glory are mine, 
 Made by the Lord into gardens of maize, 
 
 Portioned to those who by labor divine 
 Bid them to bring their harvest of praise. 
 
 I am the Gate of the great Mid-West, 
 Halt, and consider my prairies aroimd, 
 
 Pause in your eagerness, bating your quest, 
 Sons of the Mornland, westward bound! 
 
 273 
 
THE WOOING OF 
 
 MY LINES 
 
 My lines, my lines have meaning, 
 
 For I put it there. 
 My lines are long past weaning 
 
 From earth and air, 
 For they have bent and leaning 
 
 That you may share. 
 
 For my lines are like the threading 
 
 Of gossamer weave, 
 When leaves of grass are shedding 
 
 Their dews of eve, 
 And these the threads go treading 
 
 Till night bids leave. 
 
 Then in the morning hours 
 
 They catch the gleam, 
 And light the grassy bowers 
 
 With misty beam, 
 Take wing in elfin showers 
 
 To build my dream. 
 
 My lines are gossamer garlands 
 
 That hung on grass; 
 My words are pearls from far lands, 
 
 Or only glass ; 
 My rhymes are glints from star-lands, 
 
 Or shining brass. 
 
 274 
 
QUIMBY'S DAUGHTERS 
 
 Then be not always mending, 
 
 When you run and read. 
 Their odd and rule-proof wending, 
 
 Across the meed, 
 And of their un-hoped ending, 
 
 In pearl — or bead. 
 
 Then cease, my Love, your fixing 
 
 Of my queer lines, 
 Or you will miss my mixing 
 
 Of bitters and wines, 
 That make the well and the sick sing 
 
 Of jeweled shrines! 
 
 275 
 
Notes 
 
 My Smithy — January 26, 1917 — When I wrote 
 these lines, I was possessed by the idea of com- 
 mercializing the verses I might thenceforth 
 compose. I hoped that this would give a poeti- 
 cally expressed clew to all that might follow. 
 But fate played havoc with such a visionary 
 scheme, and I have now resolved to place this 
 little poem as a memorial tablet here at the 
 entrance to a volume of almost one hundred 
 different poems. Like one continous wreath or 
 festoon of Nosegays, arranged, as the four winds, 
 in Four Sprays of distinctive characteristics, it 
 represents the story of a life-work of now exactly 
 twenty years. And if the work deserved such 
 dignified designation, My Smithy expresses the 
 mood in which I have endeavored to perform it, 
 the mood in which I hope it will be accepted by 
 those who enter here and view the results. 1 
 am therefore always poetically at work ; nothing 
 happens to me that I do not consciously or uncon- 
 sciously associate with poetry. 
 
 27G 
 
NOTES 
 
 I sit and work in my smithy all day ; 
 
 ***** 
 
 And as I work and beat and twist, 
 I often stumble on beauty's tryst; 
 And often when I squirm and plod, 
 I find the word that comes from God ! 
 May He prosper it further! 
 The Wooing of Quimby's Daughters — The first 
 draft of this poem was made between May 30th 
 and June 2nd, 191 1. I variously called it, "Maud 
 and Madge and Millie," "Quarryford," and "The 
 Triple Courtship ;" finally deciding upon the 
 present title. The general story-germ' lay dor- 
 mant in my mind for several years. It was 
 nurtured by the Sunday afternoon visits to the 
 old quarries on the Iowa, opposite Iowa City, 
 and the Old Lime Kiln, known to every alumnus 
 of Iowa of those days and before; by newspaper 
 articles on pioneer days in Iowa and Illinois, 
 appearing at that time, many of which I still 
 preserve ; and by the stories told by the old 
 settlers here at home. At last, on Decoration 
 Day, with its potent suggestion of all that is 
 patriotic and historical, the mood seized me to 
 distil this subject-matter I had turned to honey 
 within me, and I wrote down the poem as 
 rapidly as possible in parts of four days. This 
 I did in an upper room to the southeast in North 
 Hill house, my bed-room, where I had a humble 
 stand, and whither I often retired when writing. 
 
 277 
 
NOTES 
 
 When My Fancy Spoke — This severely meter- 
 ized poem was composed November 18, 1909, at 
 Summit house. I again had dreams of publishing 
 these thirty-odd poems in the form of a poetic 
 journal. I had received my Master's degree in 
 June, but was unable to obtain a position. To 
 occupy my mind I then consoled myself with my 
 old songs, reading them over, revising, recalling 
 the circumstances of their composition, and en- 
 joying them. My state of mind was one of 
 elevated conscious destiny. Out of this came 
 meter, style, rhyme, and word-choice. The poem is 
 at once the story of my thoughts and the descrip- 
 tion of this second division of my poems. This 
 poem belongs really in a sort of poetic epoch with 
 Master Franz Hemsterhuis. 
 
 "The spring from three impulses" — The little 
 poetic springs, streams or rills from the birth of 
 the spring where the rock first broke. 
 
 "Boyish longings" — The Whisperings of 
 Night. 
 
 "Spark — bout" — Poetic varied interest Life lent 
 to my encounter with the world. — "Fire," the 
 resulting poetry. 
 
 "Abyss between Life and Art" — My endeavors 
 to define the relations between the facts of life 
 and poetry. 
 
 The different periods of years, based on the 
 dated first drafts of the pieces run as follows: 
 
 278 
 
NOTES 
 
 Whisperings in the Night, 1901-1903; Whis- 
 perings at Dawn, 1903-1905; and Whisperings at 
 Sunrise, 1907-1909. 
 
 These dates may be verified from the facts 
 given in the succeeding Notes. 
 
 A Boy's Chant to the Flowers — It was on June 
 13, 1901, while I was reading in Goethe's "Aus 
 meinem Leben," that I wrote this essay on 
 flowers, originally called "Ode to the Flowers." 
 I was just reading in that famous autobiography 
 that the great Goethe, at the age of sixteen, 
 while at a social gathering of young people, 
 absented himself from his group, outlined and 
 wrote down in almost its present form, his 
 "Christ's Descent into Hell," celebrating Him as 
 Lord and conqueror over the thrones of Satan's 
 dominions on holy Saturday. The poem seemed 
 a masterpiece to me. I quit my reading and 
 began to think. Here I was, a lad older than 
 Goethe then, — a lad as much in love with beauty 
 as the great seer, and I had not written a single 
 poem ! I then and there resolved to make a 
 beginning at least. I chose the first subject at 
 hand, and literally hammered out — See My 
 Smithy again — my first poem in English. I 
 have called it a Chant, in order to suggest and 
 cover its peculiar meter and phraseology. The 
 sub-title is merely to help out this suggestion. 
 There are significant things in it that impel me 
 to incorporate it in this collection of verse. 
 
 279 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Poplar-tree" — Confusion between this and 
 the cottonwood, — which is, however, rather pro- 
 saic. The oak seemed kingly for its strength, — 
 the poplar, queenly for its tallness, and slender 
 form. 
 
 "Spell" — Under an inspiration ; for lack of 
 space and time. 
 
 Lacinda — Drafted December 14, 1902. Stanzas 
 one to three are based on an actual inspiration ; 
 the remainder being a boyish effort to gain free- 
 dom from a torturing, new-born passion. 
 
 "Prussian" — Mother came from Holstein — 
 the beauty of her countrymen being present to 
 me here. "Greek" — I was studying the beautiful 
 nistory of these people in High Scriool at the time. 
 
 "Lair — nipped — stripped" — Has German La- 
 ger as its suggestive basis, a bed made miserable 
 by suffering. The remaining words, my crude 
 efforts at realism at that stage of development. 
 But even so, quite modern! 
 
 The title had perhaps better been Lucinda, 
 but I leave it as my childhood fancy dictated. 
 
 Old Year's Eve — Written December 31, 1903. 
 Inspired by the local custom of ringing the bell 
 of Zion Church by my brothers and their play- 
 mates ; a ceremony by which I was always 
 deeply affected. This ode gives some of its 
 meaning to me. 
 
 "Spells" — Charms, as well as suggestions, or 
 stories told by or of the bells. 
 
 280 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Ring lowly" — The tolling — ringing the year 
 by the tolling-clapper, as I — 9 — o — 3. 
 
 "Linens white — gay, — sad" — Worn as festive 
 garments as well as shrouds. 
 
 "God's mercy looms" — In Christ, of course — 
 "His," three lines further. 
 
 Leon and Helen — The date of the birth of this 
 inspiration from the study of Greek life is Jan- 
 uary 2, 1904. 1904 is the year in which I first 
 worked consciously as a poet, and this year has 
 given me many memorable pleasures, unforget- 
 table to this day. 
 
 "Flute-like" — Perhaps no other instrument is 
 such an incorporation of the wonderful bird of 
 love as the flute, according to record. 
 
 "Fee" — Possessions — as in "Fee Simple." 
 
 "Demand" — The sealing kiss. 
 
 Whatever Is, Is Best — January 31, 1904, is 
 the birthday of this bit of higher pessimism. The 
 original title was "The Monk's Remonstrance," 
 which later seemed too far-fetched ; and in cast- 
 ing about for a new title, I quoted this phrase 
 frorri the poem. 
 
 Greatness — June 6, 1904 — There is no particu- 
 lar inspiration behind this poem except the dep- 
 recation of genius so often heard in my school 
 days from my religious instructor, and my im- 
 pulse to defend true greatness. 
 
 My Country — June 30, 1904 — The impulse 
 behind this, and the following patriotic song, 
 
 281 
 
NOTES 
 
 was my ambition to write a volume entitled, 
 The Songs of the States. This poem, My Na- 
 tive Land, and Iowa, are the only units so far 
 composed. 
 
 The immediate inspiration of My Country is 
 the continual annoying disparagement of 
 America by my mother's kin, and my religious 
 teachers. 
 
 My Native Land — A Hymn — July 19, 1904 — 
 An effort to celebrate my country so that the 
 result should be a distinctly American ode of 
 religious connotation. 
 
 The Lark of Fearingdale — Morning of July 20, 
 1904 — An attempt to construct an allegorical 
 legend with a moral attached. Somewhere I had 
 seen that the lark signified hope. I wanted to 
 get at the life-story of hope through this image 
 of the lark, living her life in the Fearingdale of 
 this world. Perhaps the frequent phrase in my 
 Pastor's sermons — Jammertal— Sorrowdale — of 
 this world, had a bit to do with the whole poem 
 and its germination ; in fact, I had at one time 
 thought of calling the City, Sorrowdale. 
 
 T also recall that a pompous literary agent in 
 New York, a woman, to whom I once sent this 
 masterpiece of mine, returned it with the sug- 
 gestion that I compare it with Wordsworth's, 
 and Shelley's poems on the English sky-lark, 
 and that there is a vast difference between mere 
 rhyming and true poetry. The point was not 
 
 282 
 
NOTES 
 
 well taken, for my lark was a common Iowa 
 meadow lark, idealized with Heavenward as- 
 cending propensities, and my poem was not in 
 the same literary class as those of the masters 
 named. Ichabod ! — Ichabod ! — — — 
 
 Iowa — Evening of July 20, 1904 — "Prizing 
 their liberties" — The State motto, "Our liberties 
 we prize and our rights we will maintain." This 
 was intended as one of the distinguishing marks 
 of a song of Iowa. 
 
 An Elegy on My Old Home — July 21, 1904 — 
 This was written at what I choose to call Sum- 
 mit house, as were in fact all other poems dated 
 between the years 1903-1910, from where I 
 could daily see my old home and birthplace, for 
 over a year, just as we left it, across a forty-acre 
 field. 1 used to feel that something ought to 
 have been done to photograph the old house 
 Outside and inside before its tearing down, but 
 no one seemed to care enough about it to get a 
 camera or have it done, and I could have given 
 no valid reason for wanting it done. I was then 
 so destitute of means that I could not afford 
 even this small expenditure. The only alterna- 
 tive was a poetic picture of the dear old home- 
 stead, as best I could write it. This then was the 
 inspiration of the poem, and the elements are 
 actual family events. 
 
 A Child's Sweet Call — July 23, 1904 — At Sum- 
 mit house there was a cherry tree, under whose 
 
 283 
 
NOTES 
 
 spreading afternoon shade I was wont to do my 
 vacation reading. From here I had a good view 
 across a small lot of a large family of boys and 
 girls, of whose play and work I saw much, great- 
 ly to my secret joy and amusement. This is the 
 basis of the poem, and the incident is one that 
 happened a few weeks before the writing. 
 
 "Death-bell" — It was a custom in the South, — 
 transplanted there from Germany, to ring the 
 parish church-bell upon a death in the congre- 
 gation, tolling out the age of the deceased mem- 
 ber at the end : — thirty-eight for my mother. 
 
 The Dandelion — July 24, 1904 — A poem of 
 Lowell's had perhops a bit to do with the sug- 
 gestion of the theme of this piece. The details, 
 plan, and form are original with me. It happens 
 that most of the poem was composed mornings 
 in the big blackberry and raspberry patch at 
 Summit house — to me a loved spot at that time. 
 The divisions indicate the comparison, which is 
 based on nature and the interpretation of this 
 phase of her. To one who first learned to know 
 poetry through hymns, such an interpretation 
 could not help but be spiritual. 
 
 The River of Music — August 13, 1904 — Ob- 
 serving the over-emphasis — as it seemed to me — 
 of music in the promotion of culture and as a 
 means of public enjoyment, I conceived the idea 
 of writing a symphony in verse. It seemed to 
 be a perfectly legitimate question to me : Why 
 
 284 
 
NOTES 
 
 go to such comparatively enormous expense to 
 study music privately and become a poor practi- 
 tioner of the art, or to maintain community 
 musical organizations, when music is only a sug- 
 gestive, rather than a clearly expressive art? 
 Why not spend the same energy and gold on 
 poetry — its study and presentation — and satisfy 
 the mind as well as the heart? The solution 
 would be to fuse the form of music with the 
 content of poetry,^ unifying both in a pastoral 
 union in some such imagery as a River of 
 Music. 
 
 I took great pleasure and comfort in this 
 theme, and for several days wrote it out as rap- 
 idly as I could, injecting into the work all the 
 warmth, beauty, and artistry of meter and rhyme 
 and varying cadence that I could muster. In 
 the first draft the meter is rather irregular, and 
 I later revised the whole poem so that the 
 trochaic is the prevailing measure. Rarely have 
 I experienced such keen creative pleasure as in 
 writing this poem. 
 
 "Ruth in Israel's land" — Music is really a 
 stranger to us and our earth, but she has a 
 definite mission to perform with us, as Ruth of 
 old, who left her home to go with her mother-in- 
 law, Naomi, humanity, to Bethlehem. Most 
 pregnant is the suggestion in this image. The 
 following are merely suggestions to help enjoy- 
 ment. 
 
 285 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Accents" — Lyric and martial music con- 
 trasted. 
 
 "Sounds" — Wind, string and percussion, as in 
 chamber, and serenade music. 
 
 "Notes" — Band, orchestral, operatic and ora- 
 torial music, as in the descriptive species of 
 music. 
 
 "Bare, dead, lifeless" — Musical instruments 
 when not in use. 
 
 "Quaint, queer, rugged" — Old-fashioned, odd- 
 shaped, highly ornamented instruments. 
 
 "Rent, and splintered" — Descriptive of magni- 
 ficent organs or even entire orchestras, as the 
 Home of Music, the Rock from which the 
 stream of music is to spring. — This double im- 
 agery must be kept in the imagination con- 
 stantly. 
 
 "Now arisest" — Music as evoked from the in- 
 strument by the player. 
 
 "This, Oh, Music," etc. — Light, sprightly intro- 
 duction to the entire symphony. 
 
 "Onward," etc. — Statement of the movement 
 and its dominant characteristic. 
 
 "With its little crystal feet" — The movement 
 deepens with a greater wealth of imagery. 
 
 "But over rock," etc. — Forecasting the follow- 
 ing movement. 
 
 — This is the order followed, in general, in all the 
 movements : Statement of its nature, prevailing 
 characteristics, and some forecast of the succeed- 
 ing movement. 
 
 286 
 
NOTES 
 
 "But thou gentle," etc. — Rondo-like resume of 
 previous movements. 
 
 "Daughters — brothers — sisters" — By images 
 like these I sought to introduce what seemed to 
 me an indispensable personal or human element. 
 
 "Even as one might deem," etc. — The sugges- 
 tion of the Prelude must be borne in mind — the 
 phases of instrumental music which the stages 
 of the river image. 
 
 "Thou, the hope and life-blood of the plain" — 
 The material benefit is indicated. 
 
 "Making music through Life's sylvan solitude" 
 — A suggestion of the spiritual benefits of music. 
 
 In VII, the varying meter indicates the dis- 
 turbance caused by the meeting of river and 
 ocean. 
 
 "Ruth — among our sorrows" — Ruth gleaned 
 among the Bethlehem of her sorrows ; it was sor- 
 row to her to have been compelled to leave her 
 home to come to the strange fields of Boas. But 
 we know the outcome, and Ruth, as Music, has 
 vowed to dwell with us until the final dissolution 
 of even this Breadhouse or Bethlehem, and the 
 grand re-union — "At the Lord's right hand, 
 where a thousand harpist-angels stand, where 
 Music's mellifluous strains jubilantly flow, and 
 with sweetness come and go !" — 
 
 A Day of Delight — August 22, 1904 — These 
 lines were composed under "my cherry tree," as 
 my sister now began to call it, out in the garden 
 at Summit house. It had been a hot summer, 
 
 287 
 
NOTES 
 
 but rain had come at last, and the result was 
 a day incomparable in its blending of May and 
 August. The tercets and couplets combined in 
 the stanzas seemed to have a charm most ap- 
 propriate to the day, which had lured me away 
 from my summer reading. 
 
 "Farewell" — August 29, 1904 — I had been read- 
 ing or thinking of something I no longer remem- 
 ber that caused a train of thought in me on the 
 poetry of leave-taking. Most poets seemed to 
 have written, emphasizing the sadness of part- 
 ing and leaving this depressing thought with 
 their readers. I proposed to show the over- 
 coming of this pessimism, converting it into a 
 higher pessimism, bitter-sweetened by the 
 charms of poesy. 
 
 The Wonderful Land of Dreams — Late Sum- 
 mer, 1904; — probably about September 14, as it 
 runs in my mind ; I have lost the first draft, but 
 may some day come upon it again in my "hope 
 box." At any rate, I was sitting on the porch in 
 a September moonlit night at Summit house, 
 when the lines, "Oh, how sweet 'tis to dream in 
 the moon's silvery beam," came to me. I had 
 heard something about the "papa-girl," but do 
 not remember having a definite little girl in mind. 
 For two weeks I worked upon the poem at that 
 time, which has, however, undergone many re- 
 visions since, and so finally evolved this nature- 
 song of childhood, in which the little girl speaks 
 the stanzas and sings the chorus, at the end fall- 
 ing asleep, singing. 
 
 288 
 
NOTES 
 
 An experimental strain of poetic music seems 
 to lurk in the unison-rhyme, with its accompany- 
 ing varied phraseology, in every third and fifth 
 line of the main stanzas. 'Tis most radical now- 
 a-days, but — let it pass ! 
 
 An Epicure's Ode to an Orange — February 10, 
 1905 — Written in my second year in college at 
 Iowa, in a house at 105 North Capitol, where 
 Old Science Hall now stands. The incident is 
 true to the facts. It occurred to me while eating 
 an orange to the accompaniment of a snow-storm 
 and its roar outside, what a deliciously quiet 
 humor might be produced by making believe I 
 were an Epicure, and the orange, the citron-in- 
 carnation — if there be such a thing — of the spirit 
 of the South, offering me a brimful cup of that rar- 
 est of vintages ! The result is herewith offered 
 for approval. 
 
 Passing over to the third sub-division of 
 Whisperings, I might drop the remark that al- 
 though there is an entire year or over between 
 those of Dawnlight and those of Sunrise, I was 
 not idle during that time. I have also been writ- 
 ing verses off and on in the German, my mother- 
 tongue, since the age of fourteen, when I had al- 
 ready composed over a hundred variations on 
 church hymns, and bound some of them into a 
 neat little volume, hand-written, hand-painted in 
 oil, and decorated. This volume I still possess. 
 Some day it may repose in a museum as a mir- 
 acle-working relic, to be sold, if at all, only at a 
 
 289 
 
NOTES 
 
 great price. Oh, the presumption of these 
 mortals ! 
 
 But in 1906 I was still composing- in German 
 some of the lyrics which I later incorporated in 
 my big lyrical epic, Reumund — Ruemond or 
 Rueman — now about to be transcribed into 
 English by my own hand. 
 
 In 1 906- 1 907 I was also serving my first formal 
 apprenticeship in poetics at college, under Edwin 
 Ford Piper, an Iowa poet, who has published 
 "Barbwire and Other Poems." As a result of 
 his tutelage a few bits of verse have fallen by the 
 way, and I have picked them up again to intro- 
 duce and usher in these Whisperings at Sunrise. 
 
 The Better Day — Late Winter, 1907 — This bit 
 of terza-rima caused me much trouble. I was 
 long unable to find a suitable ending, and more 
 than that, my guide urged me to make these 
 verses smoother, that is, eliminate the break in 
 the seventh line, and elsewhere ; but I differed 
 with him to the extent that I believed in adapt- 
 ing the old Italian and French forms to a more 
 robust modern half-cacophonous realism, if the 
 mood so seized me. The ending here seemed to 
 me the best of any I had at first found, inasmuch 
 as the appeal to sympathy and emulation is the 
 strongest in persuasion and encouragement. 
 
 Winter and Spring — Early Spring, 1907 — An 
 exercise in tercets, written, with "Twilight-Tide," 
 "The Poet's Vesper Song," "To A Belated 
 Katydid," and "Peace, Why Tarriest Thou?" at 
 
 290 
 
NOTES 
 
 203 South Madison, Iowa City, at good old blind 
 Mother Bolton's, my landlady for two years, — 
 part of my apprenticeship in poetics. 
 
 Twilight-Tide — Maytime, 1907 — A rondel. My 
 purpose was not so much to produce a French 
 lyric, which many another had done with more 
 grace, as to tell a more or less dramatic story in 
 this lyric form. 
 
 The Poet's Vesper Song — May 15. 1908 — Like 
 Scott, in the composition of his novels, when he 
 dictated them amidst excruciating pain, I sweet- 
 ened the torture a boil on my lame limb caused 
 me by completing these solemn vespers. I was 
 confined to my room, waited upon by my faith- 
 ful room-mate, Carl E. Downing, who carried 
 my meals from the restaurant where he worked 
 for his board. One evening, thoroughly tired 
 of study, and ready to seek sleep, I threw my- 
 self across the bed, pillowing mv throbbing head 
 upon my arms. Presently I repeated to my 
 studying friend over at the table, the first few 
 stanzas. I wrote them down and kept them for 
 future elaboration. In less than a month I had 
 the required, but enforced, leisure to do this. I 
 had won Phi Beta Kappa honors, but was un- 
 able to attend the initiation ceremonies, and it 
 was only with the greatest bodily inconvenience 
 that I threaded my steps through the customary 
 evolutions attendant upon a university gradua- 
 tion. In such a mood I worked out The Poet's 
 Vesper Song. 
 
 291 
 
NOTES 
 
 To a Belated Katydid — October 20, 1908 — An 
 actual incident of the above date on the campus 
 at Iowa. I believe, however, it was a locust of 
 one species or another, judging from appear- 
 ances. And yet it sang like a katydid, to me at 
 least, and katydid I let it be. Singing there in 
 the cold grass, it attracted my attention and 
 moved me to make the interpretation contained 
 in the little poem. 
 
 Peace, Why Tarriest Thou? — December 9, 
 1908 — The phrase was a spontaneous inspira- 
 tion, as far as I can recall now. I then employed 
 it, after many alterations and revisions, as a 
 dramatic subject-matter to express a woman's 
 love for her lover, as opposed to the customary 
 love songs from the masculine standpoint. 
 
 To The Evening Star — December 30, 1908 — 
 Suggested by the lines. 
 
 — "bid haste the evening star 
 
 On his hill-top to light the bridal lamp." — 
 
 in Book VIII, Paradise Lost. This is another 
 poem that has undergone many revisions. I 
 wrote while reading Milton during Christmas 
 vacation at Summit house. 
 
 Love In A Cottage — New Year's Tide 1909 — 
 The primal suggestion was a desire on my part 
 to give in a song the evils of divorce, but finally 
 revised it into its present form, with the poig- 
 nant climax in the last line. 
 
 292 
 
NOTES 
 
 The Lover's Prayer — January 14, 1909 — This 
 personal heart-throb at first consisted only of 
 the first four lines of stanzas one and two, and 
 the last four lines of the last stanza, the last 
 lines of these quatrains reading, respectively, 
 "Over me," "Through my soul," and "In God's 
 care." 
 
 The inspiraton of this poem was one often 
 seen by me while at Towa ; scarcely more than 
 a child, it is true ; but whose peculiar beauty of 
 face, smile and character was of the kind to the 
 charms of which I found myself helplessly sus- 
 ceptible. 
 
 "In my garden lane" — The lane pointing to 
 the West, running between the garden with my 
 cherry tree, and the berry and apple orchard, at 
 Summit house. 
 
 The mere incidents here portrayed are not 
 actual, but written out of the fervor of my feel- 
 ing, and attributed to the imaginary lover; they 
 are true only as far as my feelings are con- 
 cerned. To free myself, I projected my feelings 
 into the imaginary love story of another. 
 
 Life and I — Youth, January 20, 1908— Mood 
 First, April 29, 1909 — Mood Second to Fifth, in- 
 clusive, August 5, 1908 — Manhood. March 19, 
 1909 — Mood Sixth, August 5, 1908 — Mood 
 Seventh, except lines one and two, August 6, 
 1908 — Epilog, December 20, 1908. 
 
 This cycle of dramatic lyrical balladry is then 
 a work of years. Its actual inspiration was a 
 
 293 
 
NOTES 
 
 mood of discouragement, primarily concerning 
 the fate of my poetic efforts, a mood recurring 
 again and again, and as often inspiring a work 
 of art in me. I knew 7 could not live on poetry 
 alone. Then, which calling — materialistic calling 
 — ought I to choose? And yet that constant 
 strife between this modern Leah, and Rachel, in 
 my house ! It was distracting, to say the least. 
 
 Well, after the "Oracle's Response" had been 
 drafted, it served as the keystone to the entire 
 cycle. 
 
 "Mother-sphere — Dead gleaming mass — lone- 
 ly stone" — A meteor, from which burning pieces 
 fly and fall, cooling upon the earth. Man, as to 
 his knowledge of previous existence. 
 
 "Then win" — See that you win. 
 
 "The second thought of love" — The vicarious 
 experience of love. 
 
 "The good that's thine" — Artistic truth. 
 
 "Required" — Asked again, the original ety- 
 mological meaning of the word. 
 
 "Repeat what failed" — Try over that in which 
 you tried to reach your aim. 
 
 Early Spring — March 24, 1909 — The basis of 
 this little lyric was certain impressions of the ear- 
 liest signs of the coming spring. While at Iowa, 
 down on Madison, I could hear the cuckoo, upon 
 my first awaking in the morning, either out in 
 the trees near the house, or even on the heights 
 across the nearby river. The figure in the last 
 stanza has always appealed to me, but I have 
 
 294 
 
NOTES 
 
 never been able to capture it in an entirely satis- 
 factory expression. 
 
 Trysting Sighs — July II, 1909. These out- 
 bursts of passion — of the passion of love — as I 
 intended them to be, owe their origin to the 
 same lovely being who inspired the Lover's 
 Prayer. 
 
 The first poem of the three describes a true 
 incident. It is a record of my feelings, as I saw 
 my little friend pass down the street and disap- 
 pear in her home. The second lvric is a me- 
 morial to the many happy visits I paid her in- 
 directly, for she was hardly more than a child, 
 and passed the time with her, and in her pres- 
 ence at some simple game, in the privacy of her 
 family. The last of these Trysts is a poetic 
 impersonalization of a dream in which I saw 
 the living presence before me, giving me such 
 exquisite pleasure that I tried to symbolize it 
 by the images employed. The bitter-sweet ex- 
 pression of the face, the incomparable smile, and 
 the laughter of her whole being ; vanished at 
 dawn with the dream, left me nothing but the 
 memory of the final wistful question. To find re- 
 lief I again consoled myself that I still had Poesy, 
 in spite of all losses of another kind. 
 
 When My Fancy Commanded — November 30, 
 1909 — This poetic Tail-piece belongs in a class 
 with "When My Fancy Spoke," and "Master 
 Franz Hemsterhuis." Tt is needless to mention 
 the inspiration of this rigidly regular narrative 
 
 295 
 
NOTES 
 
 poem. The first stanza, and its similarity to its 
 earlier companion-piece, tell the story. 
 
 "Like fervent organ peal" — That full, deep, 
 rich warmth, often piercing in its quality, one 
 finds in the voices of some women ; like a peal 
 in its effect. 
 
 "Answerfall" — Analogous to foot-fall, — no 
 sound came in answer. 
 
 Master Franz Hemsterhuis 
 
 This poem was composed between December, 
 15, 1909 and January 6, 1910. At first drafted as 
 a continuous long poem, but on or about July 30, 
 1915, I divided it into Idyls with appropriate in- 
 serts between them. But the entire work is of the 
 same period as "When My Fancy Spoke," and 
 "When My Fancy Commanded," by reason of the 
 time of composition and general style. 
 
 The facts that cluster about the immediate 
 inspiration of this rather ambitious character- 
 study, as far as I can now recall them, are 
 briefly as follows: In the summer of 1908, 
 I chanced to be reading in my little second-hand 
 Britannica the article on Aesthetics. In this 
 article there occurred a passage which immedi- 
 ately absorbed my attention. The passage was 
 this: 
 
 "There are a few writers on aesthetic subjects 
 to be found in Italian and Dutch literature, but 
 they have little of original speculation. One 
 Dutch writer, Franz Hemsterhuis (f rants hem 
 
 296 
 
NOTES 
 
 ster hois) (18th century) is worth mentioning. 
 His philosophic views are an attempt at recon- 
 ciliation between the sensational and the intui- 
 tive system of knowledge. The only faculty of 
 true knowledge is an internal sense, neverthe- 
 less all true knowledge comes through the senses. 
 The soul, desiring immediate and complete 
 knowledge, and being limited by the union with 
 the senses, which are incapable of perfectly sim- 
 ultaneous action, strives to gain the greatest 
 number of the elements of cognition or ideas in 
 the shortest possible time. In proportion as this 
 effort is successful, the knowledge is attended 
 with enjoyment. The highest measure of this de- 
 light is given by beauty, wherefore it may be 
 defined as that which affords the largest num- 
 ber of ideas in the shortest time." 
 
 Under the first partial copy I made cf this pas- 
 sage, I straightway jotted down this note: 
 
 "Theme for poem on this principle and the 
 possible character of the author of same.'' 
 
 Nothing urged me to do anything further 
 about the gathering of material, until December 
 10, 1909, when, possibly on the strength of the 
 recital of my poems before the German society 
 of my Alma Mater, and the kindly auspices of 
 Professor Charles Bundy Wilson, I gathered 
 notes on the life of Franz and Tiberius Hem- 
 sterhuis, the latter the father of the former. 
 Subsequently I also made other studies relative 
 to the whole general subject. It was about this 
 
 297 
 
NOTES 
 
 time that the poem took shape in my mind, but 
 I could not make any headway beyond the first 
 line. 
 
 After spending another week in vain efforts 
 to get myself into the mood of writing", I at last 
 succeeded on the 15th, when I hammered out 
 fifteen lines. From then onward the spirit was 
 upon me and I completed the first draft as 
 carefully as possible, within the thirty-one days 
 following. Of these, however, only twenty-three 
 days were actually fortunate, the remaining ten 
 comprising Sundays and holidays. The number 
 of lines per day ranged from five, on December 
 1 6th, to one hundred twenty lines, on January 
 5th ! It was an all-day session sometimes, border- 
 ing on mental exhaustion, when the mood was 
 upon me. 
 
 The problem I had made up my mind to solve 
 was, briefly, the vitalization and visualization 
 of the man behind the encyclopedia passage 
 quoted above. How could I cause him to reveal 
 himself in human form? Well, here was a cer- 
 tain man, a native of the Netherlands, who was 
 educated at Leyden, was Secretary of the Coun- 
 cil of the United Provinces, wrote letters in 
 French on moral philosophy and aesthetics or 
 the origin of the appreciation of beauty. That 
 was as good as all I had to begin with. As for 
 the rest, this philosophical principle apparently 
 had to be uttered by a man who had lived it out 
 in his own life. Such a man had to be a finished 
 
 298 
 
NOTES 
 
 product at the time of presentation ; a man in 
 his prime, who possessed a wife and family, had 
 his home paid for, had a slightly more than suffi- 
 cient livelihood, and the necessary leisure and 
 inclination for private study and the pursuit of 
 cultural and refining studies of human life and 
 history. He had to be a man thoroughly Dutch 
 in character and sympathies, independent in his 
 beliefs and convictions ; a lover of extreme or- 
 derliness and cleanliness ; fond of his family ; 
 drawn at all times toward the beautiful in life, and 
 feeling a keen enjoyment in the study and con- 
 templation and achievement of it ; revealing 
 himself to the fullest extent only to those whom 
 he instinctively 'felt justified in honoring with 
 such revelation and trusting implicitly in the 
 providence of God and the saving grace of 
 the Christ. 
 
 The historical Franz Hemsterhuis lived be- 
 tween 1720 and 1790. He was a man of the 
 eighteenth century. He then had to have this 
 eventful century as a historical background. He 
 was therefore in his prime at about 1766, — at a 
 time when the impulses that we^e to flower out 
 in the nineteenth century were still in bud. A 
 man of this type, living in Holland in 1766. could 
 not help but show some sign of a mental wave 
 which at this time was taking rather violent 
 hold of Germany — the "storm and stress" move- 
 ment — which had as one of its dominant motives 
 the acquiring of superhuman knowledge. This 
 
 299 
 
NOTES 
 
 requirement Hemsterhuis met amply through his 
 theory of beauty. He was also a man of his times, 
 in that he possessed a strong sense of identity with 
 his own state. He was a man of his past, 
 in that he still shows faith in the religious princi- 
 ples of the Reformation. But above all he simply 
 speaks to us across the centuries in his masterly 
 exposition of the political peace and its at- 
 tendant blessings. 
 
 This man, it seemed to me, had to be 
 presented in a colloquy with a young man who 
 would at once be his willing pupil and his inti- 
 mate friend. Only to such a one would Hem- 
 sterhuis be glad to reveal himself, and tell him all 
 his thoughts and express his feelings with- 
 out reserve. It had to be a certain Piet Staat- 
 ward (peet stoat woard), who had been in 
 the dilemma in which Hemsterhuis once upon a 
 time found himself also. Then Hemsterhuis would 
 be driven to tell his own life-story in order to help 
 Piet see the solution of his problem; to employ 
 every resource at his command to restore 
 courage to the faint-hearted Piet ; to philosophize 
 for him ; unsuccessful in this, to lecture him, and 
 point morals for him ; failing in philosophy and 
 moralizing, to fall back upon his favorite theme — 
 the exposition of his theory of the beautiful, his 
 doctrine of the ideal, of failure in life, and of sal- 
 vation from all defect in the end. Then behold my 
 Franz Hemsterhuis, the ideal philosopher, moralist, 
 and lover of beauty ; all blended into one consistent, 
 
 300 
 
NOTES 
 
 harmonious man standing Janus-like at the parting 
 of the ways in the eighteenth century! 
 
 Having mapped out this rather involved plan, 
 I looked about for a suitable form into which to 
 cast it. To hew as near as possible to everyday 
 speech, simplicity and directness of tone, and yet 
 seem not too far removed from the restrained free- 
 dom of poetry, appeared to be the safest solution. 
 What then should the meter be? After elimating 
 other meters, such as five-beat iambic unrhymed 
 verse, because of its epic and dramatic suggestions, 
 I chose four-stress iambic unrhymed meter as the 
 proper medium, because of its appropriateness for 
 a colloquy such as I had in mind, for its calm and 
 yet quickened upward and forward movement and 
 its greater freedom for unhampered expression of 
 thought, variation of sentence-structure and pauses 
 and the introduction of pleasing irregularities — all 
 in all typifying in artistic guise a poetic conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Among the minor details the most vital was 
 the choice of words for this particular poem. 
 Only strong, pithy and weighty words ; if pos- 
 sible, words which suggest not only their pres- 
 ent meaning, but the often more potent connota- 
 tion they possessed at an earlier period of the 
 language ; words of moderate length, mostly of 
 Anglo-Saxon origin ; only enough of those of 
 Latin or other foreign derivation interspersed 
 to suggest the educated atmosphere of the sur- 
 
 301 
 
NOTES 
 
 roundings of Hemsterhuis and Piet : — these were 
 self-imposed rules I carefully tried to follow dur- 
 ing the process of composition. 
 
 The first draft, and the first few copies of the 
 poem, were cast in an unbroken narrative form. 
 This later appeared to me as being rut of accord 
 with the spirit of our times. I therefore divided 
 the work into main units; into idyls, into edi- 
 torial or journalistic cuttings as it were ; with 
 the present character title, and modernized sub- 
 title. 
 
 "Good even" — Suggestive of the quaintness 
 we are accustomed to associate with Holland ; as 
 in "even-tide." 
 
 "Fare" — Another word of potent suggestion, 
 derived from Germanic "faren," travel on the 
 sea. 
 
 "Master" — Sir, mister, teacher. 
 
 "Did lift" — Simply another suggestion of quaint- 
 ness. 
 
 "Fowling-piece — vermin-spade" — Hands cal- 
 loused with musket and spade to dig out the 
 entrenched enemy. There is a suggestion of hu- 
 mor in the terms Hemsterhuis uses here, as if 
 Piet, in his youth, considered the serious busi- 
 ness of war as being only a killing of vermin and 
 noisome birds. 
 
 "Offices" — Latin, services, duty. 
 
 "Staatwaard" — As if rhymed with "boat- 
 sport," — guarding the State. 
 
 "Another chair" — Of course Hemsterhuis' big 
 302 
 
NOTES 
 
 armchair has its fixed place by the fireside, and 
 none but himself occupies it. 
 
 "Wool-worn" — Sheep-skin, with wool worn 
 off in places by long use. 
 
 "Gueux" — Pronounced with hard g, to rhyme 
 with "noise." The Gueux were a band of brave 
 patriots who carried on a kind of guerilla war- 
 fare against the oppressive Spaniards, both on 
 land and sea. 
 
 "Nassau's Louis" — Louis of Nassau, who 
 helped the Dutch free themselves from Sp?m; he 
 lived about 1550. 
 
 "Spanish Phillip" — Phillip II of Spain, who 
 was sending his armies at this time. 
 
 "Silent Father William"— William the Silent 
 of Orange, known to the Drtch patriots as 
 "Father William." He was the ablest leader of 
 the patriots, and one of the great makers of 
 history. His career lav between the years 1570- 
 1584, when he was assassinated. 
 
 "Maurice'' — Second son of William the Silent 
 who succeeded his father in the leadership of 
 the independent party in the Netherlands, at the 
 age of seventeen. This is simply another form 
 of the name Moritz, in the next line. Probably 
 Moritz Staatwaard was christened after his great 
 namesake. 
 
 "Frederick Henry's balk" — He was the broth- 
 er of Maurice, and came into power upon the 
 latter's death, in 1625. The "balk" refers to the 
 general disappointment which the States felt 
 toward their governor, but particularly to an 
 
 303 
 
NOTES 
 
 alliance with France against Spain which Fred- 
 erick Henry did not support as they expected him 
 to do. He died in 1647. 
 
 "William Second's awkwardness" — His efforts 
 to resume war with Spain, his favoring the Eng- 
 lish royalists in Holland, and his reckless perpe- 
 tration of acts that almost destroyed the Dutch lib- 
 erties. These movements were cut short by his 
 death in 1650. 
 
 "William Third — home-leaning over to 
 France" — He was king of England and Prince 
 of Orange, son of William II, stadtholder of the 
 Netherlands from the latter's death to his death 
 in 1707; from Hemsterhuis', and Piet's stand- 
 point he had more interest in France and Eng- 
 land than in Holland. "Home-leaning" — the old 
 hatred in Holland against the house of Orleans, 
 which sprung up after his death without a suc- 
 cessor. 
 
 "States-General" — The representative govern- 
 ing body of the Provinces of Holland. 
 
 "Muenster" — Capital of the province of West- 
 phalia, in Prussia, scene of the signing of the 
 treaty closing the Thirty Years' War, and the 
 Eighty Years' War, — in 1648. It is a beautiful 
 little city of over 60,000 inhabitants. 
 
 "Council of the Provinces" — The same as the 
 States General. 
 
 "The Hague" — Then, as now, the capital of 
 Holland and her United Provinces. Seat of the 
 sessions of the States of Holland since 1584. 
 
 304 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Well-meaning- William Fourth" — He died in 
 175 1. Dull and quiet by nature, he did his best 
 to develop the commercial and manufacturing 
 interests of his country. He was known to 
 royalty as William Charles Henry Friso, and 
 was chosen by the Orange party as dictator over 
 seven Provinces. 
 
 "William Fifth" — He was declared of age in 
 1766, seven years after the death of his mother, 
 Anne of England, who was not an apt regent. 
 He was weak, irresolute, and entirely under the 
 influence of his tutor. Louis of Brunswick. His 
 reign is insignificant, except for the founding of 
 several important learned societies. 
 
 "Groningen" — A city of considerable fame as 
 a university center. 
 
 "Remonstrance leavings" — What was left of 
 the religious-political party, which, in 1610, pre- 
 sented a "remonstrance" to the stricter Calvin- 
 ists, who answered by a counter-remonstrance. 
 The latter won at the Synod of Dort in 1618. In 
 1630 the former gained liberty to live anywhere 
 in Holland and build churches and schools. 
 Hemsterhuis seems to apply the term to political 
 rather than to religious Remonstrants. 
 
 "Franeker and Friesland paused" — These Prov- 
 inces did not at first belong to the States-Gen- 
 eral and the union of Holland. 
 
 "Culture divine" — The flower of Christian 
 education and civilization. 
 
 "Protocol" — Book of minutes of meetings. 
 
 305 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Leyden's Academe" — The Academy, or uni- 
 versity, with its quiet so loved by the studious. 
 It was a very famous institution of higher learn- 
 ing of the times. 
 
 "Ever-warring" — "Ever" here slurred to 
 "e'er," or "ev'r." 
 
 "Half of the heart-store paid for the whole 
 flesh could give me" — An example of Hemster- 
 huis' philosophizing, and mathematics. If we let 
 "heart-lore" — the intellectual and spiritual val- 
 ues of life — equal x and y, the purely material 
 and necessary life-values, then the proper pro- 
 portioning or balancing of these would be z- 
 plus, thereby showing that nature and life have 
 higher than purely mathematical values. When 
 we give up or "sell?" our selfishness in exchange 
 for the material benefits of life, we gain the half, 
 and more, of all the good things of life. Then 
 the final formula is really this : x plus y plus 
 z-plus equals beauty and perfection. 
 
 "Flesh paid half — for fourth" — The same gen- 
 eral formula as above, but x resolved into halves 
 (i-2x plus i-2x) plus y equals z-plus, one of these 
 i-2x's representing home-life-pride, which is 
 really a part of heart-lore above. 
 
 "Its touch is lost" — Its present touch is 
 meant ; the general bunch or bundle of cencepts 
 it has helped to produce in us is, of course, now 
 an unconscious or sub-conscious part of us. 
 
 "Home's lessons three" — Smell, taste, and 
 touch. 
 
 306 
 
NOTES 
 
 "School-sense twofold" — Sight and hearing-. 
 
 "Behold himself" — Tremble at his own love- 
 words — caress his self — nostrils feel dearest 
 meat — lips taste rarest drink" — The theory here 
 taken for granted is this : We do not really see 
 anything, except what is separated from our ego. 
 Therefore, others really see us in a way that we 
 can never hope to see ourselves, even by such 
 devices as the looking-glass. Our words of love, 
 the greatest passion that moves us, give a pleas- 
 ure to our loved ones we cannot experience. 
 Those who caress us, likewise, have a greater 
 knowledge of us than we can ever hope to gain 
 of ourselves. Even our two most utilitarian 
 senses — taste and smell — deceive us, or keep 
 this experience of self from us, for no 
 matter how v/rapped up our senses, and so 
 our very selves with them, in our "dear- 
 est meat," and "rarest drink," when we have 
 them, they still leave something to be desired. 
 Hemsterhuis here comes very near to perpetrat- 
 ing the one step from the sublime to the ridicu- 
 lous, when he breaks the logical sequence after 
 the "caress of self," but that is his intention, as 
 we see when we follow him closely, — namely, to 
 touch upon the psychological problem above 
 suggested. The grand solution of this entire 
 philosophical problem is the Portrait of Rem- 
 brandt. 
 
 "Give pride — sin and death give rest" — Admit, 
 confess, repent of your sins, from which all 
 
 307 
 
NOTES 
 
 frailty, and its natural consequence, death, come, 
 and you take on, by the agency of God, the man- 
 tle of perfection in Christ. 
 
 Modern Moods and Measures 
 
 The Antiquity of Poetry — The Soul to the Sea 
 — I am not certain of the exact date of these two 
 specimens of the Occidental, and the Oriental 
 sonnet. They are still a part of my apprentice- 
 ship in poetics at Iowa, and were composed un- 
 der this influence some time in May, in 1907. 
 They have been so much revised since, however, 
 that no great violence is done to the sequence, 
 if I place them here as a prolog to the final Spray 
 of my book. 
 
 "Divine — intoned for earth" — An example of 
 each, sacred and profane poetry, is given here. 
 
 This is the first in a sequence of sonnets on 
 this theme, which I had planned, but the inspira- 
 tion has halted here. 
 
 "Hafiz — Nisami" — Persian poets. It was a 
 fashion among these to incorporate your own 
 name in the last lines of your ghazal. 
 
 The Tanner and His Raid — August 7, 1908. 
 The first ballad in a contemplated work, "The Tan- 
 ner of Kenmare." in which the ballad in varying 
 meters was to be brought into relations with 
 the Irish missionary, Saint Columban. I hoped 
 to combine realism, the supernatural, and the 
 ideal into a real unity. I was one day reading 
 the story of Saint Columban in the encyclopedia, 
 
 308 
 
NOTES 
 
 a legend in which a wild Irish raider committed 
 a sacrilege against the sacred oak of Kenmare 
 and was punished forthwith by leprosy. I ought 
 to add that my attention was first called to this 
 tale by a version of it in a "patent-inside" item 
 in a newspaper. 
 
 "Kenmare — Dermod" — Two rivers in the 
 southwestern part of Ireland. Perhaps the Raid- 
 er's family name was derived from this river 
 since ancient days. 
 
 "A hundred pits" — The old-time tanner made 
 his pits in the ground. In these he soaked his 
 hides with copse-bark, oak-bark, and other 
 parts of plants and trees prized for their chemi- 
 cal proprieties useful principally to tanners. The 
 process to which the hides were subjected in the 
 pits lasted for months, and when they were 
 taken up at the end of that time, all hair and ani- 
 mal matter could easily be removed from the re- 
 maining body of the pelt. 
 
 "Kerry's landscape — Mt. Carntual" — The 
 county in which Fitz-Dermod lived, and a moun- 
 tain district to the north of its manor-place. 
 
 Life's Explorer — March g, 1910. This modern 
 ballad, or whatever else it ought to be called, 
 was written under the influence of the Busy-Bee 
 Syndicate of the East, which I had joined. The 
 stationery of this literary agency was water- 
 marked by a bee with out-spread wings, hence 
 the name I have applied to it. The chief occupa- 
 tion of this syndicate seemed to be to collect its 
 
 309 
 
NOTES 
 
 fees from you in advance, faithfully return your 
 manuscripts, and render therewith very brief, 
 non-committal criticisms. Some of the latter were 
 really quite bright, ironically speaking. The only 
 way in which they helped me was that they 
 gave me an impulse to write some verses of 
 which I am still fond. The reason given for 
 rejecting "Life's Explorer" was that it was 
 based on an idea not sufficiently original. This 
 seemed to me beside the point, for the theme is 
 not original ideas, but a presentation of three 
 dominant instincts or motives of human life, 
 brought together in one unified ballad, — life- 
 work, love and destiny beyond life. 
 
 The image of the first stanza is a picture still 
 in my mind with its pristine freshness, dating 
 from my first visit to a city, when I saw hun- 
 dreds of men go to work in the winter dawn- 
 light, away down in the street. 
 
 The Song of the Seasons — May 6, 1910 — Born 
 of the desire to produce a song that would be in 
 season the year around. This little lyric has 
 been set to music by Genevieve Scott and was 
 published by a company in the East. I still have 
 most of the first edition in my "hope box" of 
 manuscripts. 
 
 Wooing Sleep — May 7, 1910 — A lullaby in which 
 anomatapoeia is employed, also economy of sounds 
 and words, just beyond the pale of mere repetition, 
 producing an interlocked unity with a charm of its 
 own. 
 
 310 
 
NOTES 
 
 Aphorisms — May 10, igio — An effort to create 
 semiepigrammatic sayings out of the stray thoughts 
 I could not incorporate in my poems, stories, and 
 articles of this "period." Of course, none of these 
 were ever deemed good enough to be accepted, but 
 they left their blessings in passing. 
 
 Treasures of Life — June 7, 1910 — An after- 
 thought to "Life's Explorer." A blank verse lyric 
 with assonance for rhyme. 
 
 Everything written after June 10, 1910, was 
 dated from what I shall call North Hill house. 
 The above date was the day on which we re- 
 moved from Summit house to this new mansion- 
 like residence, which was to be my home until 
 December 17, 1919. Since then I have called the 
 Commercial House my habitation. 
 
 To a Beautiful Child — August 9, 1910 — The in- 
 spiration of this poem was a little girl, who took 
 part, years before, in a home-talent pageant. My 
 boyish fancy was so impressed by her beauty that 
 long afterwards its memory brought forth this lyric 
 of regret. It was published in the Saint Louis 
 "Saengerbote," an English-German lyric quarterly, 
 which made merry many hearts in the Missouri 
 Synod for five years, and then vanished away for 
 lack of sufficient support. 
 
 The Blessed Water-Ouzel — November 21, 1910 
 — In an old Cosmopolitan of some seven or eight 
 years before, I read this day an article on the Music 
 of Nature, in which I caught the phrase, "the 
 blessed water ouzel," whose song was there beau- 
 
 311 
 
NOTES 
 
 tifully described as imitating- the sound of falling 
 waters, behind which it builds its nest, as a protec- 
 tion against its enemies. It became my inspiration. 
 An ouzel, as here understood, is a thrush of the 
 singing variety. 
 
 "Christened thee"' — Refers to "blessed," — in the 
 Biblical sense. 
 
 "Showing me to thee" — directing me to thee. 
 
 Here end the poems born of the Busy-Bee 
 syndicate fiasco. 
 
 The Race of the Plodders — January 31, 
 191 1 — In one of the largest papers of the neigh- 
 borhood, our family paper, there appeared a 
 poem of a nature similar to this. I quickly 
 penned The Race of the Plodders and sent it in, 
 only to have it returned with thanks, and with 
 the remark from the editor that he had suddenly 
 decided to quit once for all the publication of 
 verse, because people just besieged him if he 
 continued. Perhaps someone else will appreciate 
 my masterpiece, if I place it here in my auto- 
 biography as a mile stone marking this gentle 
 rebuff. 
 
 This is the only English verse extant of this 
 year of 191 1. I was at work on my German- 
 American lyrical epic, "Reumund," or Rueman, 
 as I am transcribing it at present into English 
 free verse. 
 
 The Pine Torch — November 10, 1912 — A 
 slight memorial to my friendship with my col- 
 ored friend, Laurence C. Jones, who had asked 
 
 312 
 
NOTES 
 
 me to revise some verse to be used in a building 
 campaign. He was at that time trying to build 
 an administration hall for at least $10,000, for 
 his Piney Woods Country Life School, down at 
 Braxton, Mississippi, in the widely known 
 "black belt," which he is rapidly converting into 
 a district worthy of a better name, educating his 
 fellowmen to the dignity of intelligent labor, 
 useful knowledge and practical Christianity. My 
 thoughts wandered away from the building cam- 
 paign, and memory turned back to my first 
 thoughts on seeing The Pine Torch, the little 
 paper printed by my friend's charges. The re- 
 sult was the first twelve lines of the little poem, 
 which he was kind enough to publish in the 
 Torch of which it sung. Later I added the last 
 two lines, thus really making a sonnet out of it. 
 It suggests the growth of the school from the 
 cabin-stage to its present condition of being 
 an industrial college. 
 
 The Penitent — August 9, 1913 — Inspired by 
 some thoughts from Bible history, which I was 
 teaching in Zion Parochial School at this time. I 
 was also busying myself with allegorical ideas, 
 as I remember it now ; hence the fusion of these 
 two elements in the sublimity of the mood I 
 strove to express. This was also published in 
 the "Saengerbote." 
 
 Married — October 16, 1913 — The inspiration 
 here is the same as that of "Trysting Sighs," and 
 "The Lover's Prayer." The brief threnody sug- 
 
 313 
 
NOTES 
 
 gests its own story, which agrees literally with 
 the facts. I was engaged in the humble task of 
 building fire at school in the morning when the 
 lines seemed to form themselves on my lips to the 
 tune I was humming. 
 
 The Great Gap — October 30, icji3. — The 
 Beast-Man, October 31 — The Wiseacre, Novem- 
 ber 1. — I Seem Like Adam, November 27. — The 
 origin of this series of controversial and didactic 
 verse was similar to that of "The Penitent;" 
 that is, they were composed under the same in- 
 fluence. They were all submitted to the "Saen- 
 gerbote," but only The Great Gap and the 
 Wiseacre received the honors of publication.. 
 The idea underlying The Great Gap had long 
 occupied me, and I had never heard or read a 
 solution for it that was satisfactory to me. My 
 acquaintance with it dated from college days. 
 The Beast-Man, of course, has to do with the 
 Missing Link theory, or stage, of the great con- 
 troversy of the century ; but the statement that 
 really caused me to write the purposly re- 
 pellent verses ran to the effect that "Christianity 
 was a mass of superstitions," which a so-called 
 Higher Critic had publicly stated at the time. A 
 new one of the apparently periodical attacks on 
 Genesis inspired The Wiseacre, and a discour- 
 agement over the non-acceptance of some of my 
 own work, put me into the ironical and sarcastic 
 mood that is mirrored in I Seem Like Adam. 
 
 Impatience — November 29, 1913 — When I 
 wrote this I was still in the sign of the previous 
 314 
 
NOTES 
 
 poem. A day, the like of which is described in 
 the lyric, was the basis of its inspiration. 
 
 Salema at the Savior's Tomb — December 29, 
 1913 — An aftermath of the poetic course at Iowa. 
 It was originally a task set by the instructor, an 
 assignment to write blank verse. I handed in at 
 that time the first part of the poem ending at 
 the line, "And lo ! Salema made the cross she 
 feared." I completed and revised it as a whole 
 on the date given above. The impetus to choose 
 this particular theme was the Biblical passage 
 in the gospels containing the story of Mary 
 Magdalene, and the expression, "They have 
 taken away my Lord and I know not where they 
 have laid Him." The pathos of this incident 
 urged me to try to tell the story of a little blind 
 girl, who was made to see, and now pays the 
 Master this wondrous compliment. After some 
 arguments with the editor of the "Saengerbote," 
 as to the identity, or confusion of my little her- 
 oine with the Magdalene, I quoted him John 20, 
 30 and 31. My short story in verse was then 
 published without further difficulty. Years be- 
 fore this, my instructor had cautioned me that 
 the writing of a real poem was not the work of 
 a few hours, but often the work of a life-time. 
 I took it as a gentle rebuke for having chosen 
 the theme I did and continued my filing and 
 chiseling unto this day. 
 
 315 
 
NOTES 
 
 "Salema" — The Oriental greeting, "Salaam!" 
 Peace be with you ! — with the feminine ending, 
 — a. 
 
 At about this juncture, in December of 1913, 
 I entered upon another apprenticeship in poetic 
 art and science. I studied under a prominent 
 writer of poetry for the press and the magazines, 
 under the auspices of a Massachusetts corre- 
 spondence school, winning a diploma from them 
 at the conclusion of the course in the summer of 
 1914. This influence marked a fresh flow of 
 water from the Pierian spring for me. But in 
 the hope of converting my art into a little money 
 I have been disappointed unto this present hour. 
 
 The Seasons in Rhyme — January 26, 1914 — 
 Here the task was practice in the four chief 
 meters. To lend fancy's charms to the appointed 
 lesson, I chose the story of the four seasons. In 
 the first stanza I gave the theme in iambics, and 
 then made variations on it in the three remain- 
 ing measures. 
 
 The Indian Grave — January 26, 1914 — In- 
 spired by a picture with this title in the little 
 United States history I taught the children at 
 Zion school. This picture is described in the 
 lyric, — a cot with the dead brave upon it, ele- 
 vated on four man-high poles. As for the task, 
 it was to be an effort to select a form 
 suited to the thought, and to write two stanzas 
 of the utmost regularity. Even from this I tried 
 to wring my best poetry. 
 
 316 
 
NOTES 
 
 The One Night — January 28, 1914 — A study- 
 in the intimacy that may exist between rhythm 
 and the thought suggested. It was to be a selec- 
 tion from the poets, expressing the calm of 
 night, but I evolved my own specimen by giv- 
 ing form to my many studies of moonlit nights 
 on the front porch and my experience of the 
 passion feeding on such nights. 
 
 The Sea — February 26, 1914 — A study in 
 color, tonal, and contrasting effects, embodying 
 Homeric and modern conceptions of the sea, as 
 memory served me in this. 
 
 Rhymes and Stanzas — March 3, 1914 — A 
 manifold effort to give in traditional forms the 
 spirit of the set stanzas and measures of the 
 earlier English poets. My ambition was to tran- 
 scend the formality of the task by new touches 
 here and there. 
 
 Milton's Self — March 3, 1914 — A translation 
 into verse of Macaulay's passage : — In none of 
 the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more 
 happily displayed than in "Allegro" and the 
 "Penseroso." It is impossible to conceiye that 
 the mechanism of language can be brought to a 
 more exquisite degree of perfection. Those 
 forms differ from others as attar of roses differs 
 from ordinary rose water, the close-packed es- 
 sence from the thin diluted mixture. They are 
 indeed not so much poems as collections of 
 hints, from each of which the reader is to make 
 a poem himself. Every epithet is a text for a 
 
 317 
 
NOTES 
 
 stanza." It was my aim to extract the germs of 
 poetry in these sentences and cause them to 
 bloom and grow, as far as this was possible. 
 
 The Song of the Hearth-Smoke — March 4, 
 1914 — Mastery of metrical and stanza forms was 
 the goal set for me here. I made it mostly an 
 exercise in fairly difficult rhymes. Being in the 
 habit of storing any impressive life-facts in my 
 memory for future use, I now recalled one im- 
 age that has always had a peculiar charm for 
 me. It was the sight of smoke rising from 
 the chimneys at twilight in the late fall. This 
 then became the inspiration of my metrical 
 theme. My worthy instructor took exception to 
 several of the statements concerning the things 
 the hearth-smoke is said to do in the poem, but I 
 still maintain every statement made here as 
 truthful enough to let it stand. I emphasize it 
 again, "My lines, my lines have meaning!" 
 Think it over! 
 
 My Home — March 10, 1914 — My cue here 
 was to write a short description in blank verse 
 of the country near my home, which immedi- 
 ately transformed itself into a quoted and re- 
 peated question .and the poem into a monologue. 
 
 A Ballad of Nineteen-Now — March 19, 1914 — 
 My task was to select a short story at random 
 and narrate it in ballad form, being careful to 
 adopt a suitable meter. Out of the material at 
 hand I originated my own problem, namely, to 
 let the meter approach as nearly as possible to 
 
 318 
 
NOTES 
 
 modern idioms of speech and stresses, and still 
 to keep within the limits of the traditional bal- 
 lad measure. The setting also helped to make 
 an almost entirely new tale out of the original, 
 providing atmosphere and the quality of timeli- 
 ness. 
 
 The Wooden Horse — March 20. 1914 — The 
 problem and the inspiration here practically co- 
 incided. It was my task to recast an episode 
 from Homer into ballad form, keeping the meter 
 more conservative as to irregularities than in The 
 Ballad of Nineteen-Now. And what story could 
 be more alluring than the well-known tale of 
 Ulysses' Wooden Horse? I endeavored to vary 
 the version that was to be mine by detailing the 
 building so as to suggest the state of mind of 
 the victimized spectators. 
 
 The Sun — March 21, 1914 — The impulse to 
 write this sixteen-line lyric of the modern type 
 was given by my assignment to write a lyric 
 on a theme of fire — the phase most appealing to 
 me. I was induced to choose the sun by the 
 once prevailing pagan conceptions of this great 
 fire of nature, as I recalled them. I had in mind 
 the words of the psalmist in which he praises 
 God for making His angels winds and His ser- 
 vants flames of fire. I reasoned, if this be true, 
 then this glorious sun must be the arch-angel of 
 our earth ! Hence the climax of the poem as it 
 stands. 
 
 My First Aeroplane — March 24, 1914 — This 
 sonnet upon a modern theme in the Italian pat- 
 319 
 
NOTES 
 
 tern was inspired by my first seeing- an aero- 
 plane ascent at one of our little home country 
 fairs. I had carefully observed every movement 
 of plane and spectators and there was very pres- 
 ent in my mind a feeling of duty, that I ought 
 to celebrate this event in my life, and its mean- 
 ing, even then dawning upon me. My assign- 
 ment in the poetics course was the occasion to 
 use this new material which had reposed for a 
 year or two in the background of my memory. 
 
 Echoes from Old Greece — March 27, 1914 — 
 Here I was left to choose three of the most at- 
 tractive classical forms, and to write a stanza 
 complete in itself in each. In hexameters I tried 
 to do something for my art by the aid of Or- 
 pheus' example, conceiving its modern analogy 
 as the use of the raw material of nature to create 
 a thing of charming beauty. Sapphics seemed 
 most appropriate for a brief statement of the re- 
 lation of this unique, undying character in po- 
 etic history to us modern readers of her few 
 translated verses. And choriambics, these haunt- 
 ing, hesitant, yet onward moving measures of a 
 trochee and an iambus to the phrase or cadence, 
 could be employed in no better way than in de- 
 scribing the dance. Each line begins with a 
 spondee, continues in three choriambics, and 
 ends in an iambus. First we perceive the music; 
 then the "review," the grand march or proces- 
 sion of all the dancers ; following this, the dance 
 itself and finally, the close of the dance. It is 
 
 320 
 
NOTES 
 
 my conviction that there are great possibilities 
 in the use of these classical measures. A study 
 of the different feet, such as the pyrrhic, the 
 choriambic and others of the longer cadences 
 would produce wonderful effects in our free verse 
 of the present. Of course, we must keep to the 
 accentual, instead of trying to imitate the an- 
 cient quantitative stress. But that is the very 
 contention for which this whole volume is in- 
 tended as an object lesson. We may adapt, but 
 we convert what we so adapt into forms appro- 
 priate to the material of our own times. 
 
 Apple-Plucking Time — March 28, 1914 — This 
 villanelle upon a pastoral theme of my own 
 choice was my long-sought opportunity to ex- 
 press in part at least the indefinable pleasure I 
 felt in studying the mellow splendor of an Iowa 
 Indian summer. 
 
 "Of age his rest" — Freedom from the restless- 
 ness and romance of youth. 
 
 The Song of the Spring Wind — March 31, 
 1914 — This rollicking song upon a stirring out- 
 doors theme again served me as an outlet of ex- 
 pression for a peculiar love I have always felt 
 for a windy day in autumn or spring. "Rollick- 
 ing" was the word of inspiration, which loosened 
 the band of my tongue for the remainder of the 
 song, which gave me considerable trouble in the 
 polishing, especially in the refrain, which I 
 changed from a varying wording to an exact 
 repetition, at the suggestion of my instructor. 
 
 321 
 
NOTES 
 
 The object was the achievement of that insipid 
 smoothness of expression, for which I, person- 
 ally, care very little when my thoughts do not 
 happen to be demanding such leveling forms. 
 
 Rhyme Play — About April I, 1914 — All of 
 these stanza forms from the more modern mas- 
 ters of the lyric were first penned under the 
 direction of my New England correspondence 
 course in poetics. They were all written on or 
 about the above date, though their present align- 
 ment was a fancy of a later day. My aim was to 
 make each stanza worthwhile in itself, even 
 though it were imitative work. 
 
 Thy Bitter-Sweet, Sweet Smile — April 2, 
 1914 — It has always seemed extremely irksome, 
 and even uncomfortable to me, that I should be 
 compelled to write according to direction, or in 
 adaptive imitation of the work of others. This 
 little song is a living memorial to this fact. 
 Songs of the good old days, still capable of 
 popular interest, should be supplemented by 
 newer ones of like merit. A song that is to be 
 popular must have a striking first line, in order 
 to catch the attention of the public. Songs of 
 human interest, aiming to please both popular 
 and literary taste, these we want today. Such 
 were my admonitions. The result was the lyric 
 under consideration here, inspired once more by 
 her of "Trysting Sighs" and other memories. 
 
 Summer Magic — June 4, 1914 — At this point 
 in the poem-sequence of the Spray on Modern 
 
 322 
 
NOTES 
 
 Moods and Measures, we have come to the last 
 formal assignments in my poetics course. I forth- 
 with let my muse give me my tasks in poesy. 
 She did not fail me. On the first real summer 
 day of that year, after school work was once 
 more laid aside, a day of sizzling, humid, steam- 
 ing oppression, such as the Mississippi valley 
 only can produce in Iowa, I suddenly heard the 
 call of the lark at noon. The rest of what I felt 
 then is found in Summer Magic I. The second 
 lyric embraces memories of my cherry tree, and 
 of the many summer days I spent under it, at 
 Summit house. This song was set to music, 
 through a New Jersey house, but is still in 
 manuscript and perhaps lost, for I do not know 
 where it is at present. 
 
 The Plaint of World-Peace — Late fall, 1914 — 
 A memoir of the emotions stirred up within me 
 by the terrible World-War. I heard and read 
 much of World-Peace, — in fact, so much that 
 she almost seemed a personification to me, and 
 I conceived her to be a world-mother, then ut- 
 tering a prayer of despair in the most solemn 
 terms at her command. The means of warfare 
 mentioned in this threnody are no reflection on a 
 particular belligerent ; they are simply types for 
 the expression of the spirit of war, and for the 
 more terrible weapons employed by both sides 
 later in the cataclysm. At that time no others of 
 this type were known. 
 
 There is a painful personal memory connected 
 
 323 
 
NOTES 
 
 with this poem. I read it in public in a little 
 Poetry Lyceum, which I gave at Davenport, in 
 January, 191 5. It did not seem to make any im- 
 pression on the two professional men who heard 
 me read it. That two-day Poetry Lyceum of 
 three lectures by myself for the advancement of 
 poetry was attended by just seven persons, 
 among them a poet of considerable fame, who 
 complimented me and expressed surprise at 
 such a unique undertaking. It cost me some 
 fifteen dollars, and the free-will offering at the 
 first lecture reduced these to a little over thir- 
 teen dollars. The second lecture was attended 
 by an audience of two ; the third, by — none. My 
 topics were : A Modern Cinderella, When the 
 Faeries Come Back, and An Hour in Elfland. 
 These discourses dealt exhaustively with the 
 neglect of poetry, the possible return of her 
 public presentation, and appreciative studies of 
 certain typical poems. Just to show how timely 
 my venture was, I must relate how a good lady 
 came up to me after I concluded the reading of 
 my first lecture and told me she had seen a mov- 
 ing picture about Cinderella a night or so before, 
 and she thought she would come to hear me. I 
 am still wondering whether or not she really got 
 the "drift" of my talk. And yet I was not dis- 
 couraged. I felt that I had somehow made a 
 great and epochal beginning, even if I should 
 never be able to follow it up. 
 
 But this Plaint of World-Peace was not 
 324 
 
NOTES 
 
 my only poetic work on the great conflict. I am 
 still wrestling with the problem, insofar as I am 
 at work on what I have called "The Book of the 
 War," the alleged diary of a soldier who passed 
 in the spirit through the entire struggle, from 
 Belgium to Paris. The conclusion of the inva- 
 sion of Belgium is still waiting on my leis- 
 ure to pen it. But my Plaint of World-Peace is 
 still a favorite with me, no matter what others 
 may think of it. 
 
 The Spirit of the Middle West — December 29, 
 19 14 — After the rich year of 1914, I was threat- 
 ened with a creative lull. But this danger soon 
 passed over. If my memory serves me correctly, 
 I spent my Thanksgiving vacation at Iowa uni- 
 versity library. Here my former instructor in 
 poetics happened to find me and introduced me 
 to the editor of a little local literary magazine, 
 who cordially invited me to contribute. I prom- 
 ised to send something soon. When I returned 
 home there were other matters to occupy me, 
 but in a few weeks a new spring of inspiration 
 opened for me. I was really hopeful of having 
 at least occasionally a bit of poetry appearing in 
 this new gateway to public recognition. I cast 
 about for some theme that should be Middle 
 West in character, and timely also. As often be- 
 fore this, and even to this day, my poems came 
 in series, I conceived the composition of a se- 
 quence of poems in common stanzas, but indi- 
 vidual in treatment of subject matter, on the 
 325 
 
NOTES 
 
 states of the Mid-West. The present poem was 
 to be the general prolog to these. For a while 
 then my inspiration was under the spell of this 
 magazine, although it never deemed my work 
 acceptable, no matter what I sent. 
 
 Lines on Hearing Alfred Noyes — January 2, 
 191 5 — This poem was begun immediately after 
 the event it describes. My poetic vein became 
 exhausted after the ninth stanza, and I was un- 
 able to touch it again until the above date. It 
 is really a poetic reproduction of Mr Noyes' 
 program of that evening. In order to attend this 
 to me memorable meeting, I was compelled to 
 dismiss school at an early hour, come back six- 
 teen miles to West Liberty, and wait there until 
 early morning for my train home, fourteen miles 
 further on. This little assembly of elect is also 
 memorable for the fact that Mr Noyes invited a 
 pair of laughers and whisperers, directly opposite 
 him in the gallery, to leave the hall or cease their 
 disturbance. It was an impressive declaration 
 against the noisome Philistine in the presence of 
 poesy. I also recall that I spent my time in the 
 station at West Liberty by reading the Book of 
 Job in English. 
 
 "Enlivened England and Greece" — Personi- 
 fied England and Greece, inasmuch as these both 
 were the homes of poetic art. 
 
 The Trains of Day and Night — July 6, 191 5 — ■ 
 Prompted by the continual rejection of my 
 verse, I resolved to try the free-verse meas- 
 
 326 
 
NOTES 
 
 ures. I made many careful studies of this 
 poetic medium, but never came to a clear, 
 satisfactory understanding of its principles. 
 Nevertheless, I proceeded to compose in what 
 seemed to me to be the same rhythms. For the 
 authorities on this medium did not seem to agree 
 among themselves on the nature and composi- 
 tion of it. How could I then be expected to 
 know something about it? I could follow suit 
 and write for all that, and do what many another 
 had done and was still doing. The result was 
 this, and the three succeeding free-verse poems. 
 
 The Trains of Day and Night is really a sym- 
 phony in three-stress rhythms, varied occasion- 
 ally by those of two beats. The following might 
 be selected as a typical stanza : 
 
 The lum'bering, bump'ing freight' ; 
 
 The pas'senger train' that bears 'man glid'ingly 
 
 on,' 
 In' its hom'y cushions; 
 
 The fly'er that spits' grav'el-bits in my face,' 
 And drives' dust' into my eyes' ; — 
 These 'are all' untrue.' 
 
 These lines are read in suspended rhythm, es- 
 pecially the longer lines, in which may occur 
 almost any number of secondary stresses, lim- 
 ited of course to a certain extent, either by the 
 number of cadences that can be read in one 
 breath, or the nature of the thought, which often 
 
 327 
 
NOTES 
 
 governs the length of the line. The possibilities 
 of new rhythms and cadences, and their almost 
 endless combinations, may produce a medium 
 well-nigh as flexible as any mechanism of ex- 
 pression can be expected to be, and every sub- 
 ject treated may have its own rhythm nuances. 
 
 The theme, as I saw it then, is the triumph 
 of the poetic, creative imagination over the most 
 mechanical phenomenon of our age, the rail- 
 roads. I had always been fond of watching 
 trains come in and pull out. Often, after dark- 
 ness had fallen, I took long walks, invariably 
 stopping at the station, until the freight, pas- 
 senger trains, and flyer had passed. It was dur- 
 ing these studies that I stored away impressions 
 for future use. And I tried to create my oppor- 
 tunity by aiming to write for a certain magazine 
 of modern poetry. It is almost needless to say 
 that I was not deigned admittance to this ex- 
 clusive periodical. But this does not prevent me 
 from enjoying my dream-children when I please. 
 
 The Age and the Artist— July 8, 191 5— The 
 theme and inspiration of this odic poem was 
 something I had read, which ran somewhat sim- 
 ilar to lines one to three of the completed work. 
 I had heard of a magazine called "Seven Arts," 
 and I wondered what the seven arts of America 
 might be. I made my own category. In fact, I 
 may say that I utilized everything of importance 
 that I had ever read on the practice of the fine 
 arts in our country. On the day I drafted this 
 
 328 
 
NOTES 
 
 poem it seemed that all the facts and images 
 came at my bidding. I had only to select the 
 significant and symbolical details related to the 
 general theme. 
 
 The rhythms here resolve themselves into 
 four-stress lines, yielding now and then to three, 
 and two-beat cadences. Each part has its own 
 introduction, descriptive strophes, and interpre- 
 tative conclusion. 
 
 "Furor Teutonic" — That peculiar energetic 
 tempo characteristic of these masters in general. 
 
 "Redeeming fallen Eve through Christ" — 
 There in Paradise, the temptor ; here, the re- 
 peller of temptation ; on the strength of the gos- 
 pel in Genesis 3, 15. 
 
 Part VI concerns itself with the celebration 
 of the distinctively American art of the short 
 story. 
 
 The Seven Pits represent the seven sources of 
 inspiration for the professional story writer. 
 
 The Streets of Progress — July 9, 1915 — This 
 is a magical phrase which occurred to me in the 
 library at Iowa, perhaps inspired by something I 
 had been reading, and aptly descriptive of a 
 vista of one of the streets. Presently the first 
 strophe took shape in my mind, and then upon 
 paper. It was not, however, until the above date 
 that the whole assumed its complete form. It 
 may perhaps be classed as a four-stress ode in 
 free verse. 
 
 The Descent of the Eagles — July 9, 1915 — This 
 
 329 
 
NOTES 
 
 poem T»>A^tscriptive sketch of an actual occur- 
 rence in a small hotel at Iowa. My studies at 
 Iowa were always concerned with poetry, and 
 only incidentally with school work, and other 
 life-facts. Hence the need of encouragement 
 mentioned in the poem. Easy as the final inter- 
 pretation may seem now, I was years in perfect- 
 ing it. 
 
 Who Am I? — September 16, 1915 — The first 
 three stanzas of this lyric have been extant 
 since May 21, 1910. They really belong to the 
 Busy-Bee Syndicate days, but always failed to 
 satisfy me, until I gave them an optimistic turn 
 in the last stanza. The poem sprang from my 
 despair over my own career in life, and gives my 
 feelings at that time almost exactly. 
 
 "Shame" — For having made a failure of life. 
 But there is always one consolation that I can 
 truthfully say I have never lost : The grace of 
 the Word, the hope of seeing His face, even 
 though I have lost sight of it at times, — a hope 
 deferred because of the fall of my race, compared 
 with which the shame of failure in life of an indi- 
 vidual is nothing. 
 
 Can You Guess? — September 26, 1915 — A 
 spontaneous inspiration growing out of the re- 
 frain, which occurred to me first. Perhaps pre- 
 vious inspirations hovered in the background; 
 perhaps a beautiful face seen somewhere at a 
 public gathering gave me the phrase, "vision of 
 loveliness;" I cannot now recall. 
 
 330 
 
NOTES 
 
 If I Should Come — January 27, 1917 — Another 
 spontaneous inspiration. The first stanza grew 
 into perfection quickly, and soon the entire lyric 
 took shape in my mind and I had only to work 
 out the details. It is a conversation between two 
 lovers. He speaking first, and She answering, 
 twice. 
 
 Land O'Leal — January 29, 191 7 — Again a new 
 impulse gave a new turn to my verses. I had 
 read something to the effect that verse-making 
 could be made profitable, after the manner of 
 those who syndicate their work. I soon set to 
 work with the purpose of writing hundreds of 
 poems on all conceivable subjects, planning to 
 keep these passing each other between the edi- 
 tors and myself. But as usual, school-work, dis- 
 tasteful as it has always been to me, dried up 
 my new Parnassan well, and none of my verses 
 ever saw the light of publication. However, such 
 was the time that gave birth to Land O' Leal, a 
 favorite with me ever since. 
 
 To a Suicide — January 29, 1917 — The circum- 
 stances of the origin of this bit of didactic verse 
 were the same as those of the above poem. I 
 strove to develop a style of my own and a kind 
 of poetry distinctively mine, at the same time 
 helpful to those who were supposed to read it. 
 
 The Sonneteer — February 13, 191 7 — This 
 short story in rhyme, with the setting of the 
 sonnet and the professional sonneteer in the 
 background, occupied me in spare moments for 
 
 331 
 
NOTES 
 
 several weeks. I remember that in our poetics 
 at Iowa we had studied sonnet exercises in two- 
 stress meter, and I planned to use the successive 
 increase in the stress in each sonnet-stave as a 
 climactic device to bring up the resolution at the 
 end. It is an excellent object lesson of the fact 
 that a professional poet may use his art even to 
 court his love. 
 
 Phillippa — May 20, 191 7 — This tale of the first 
 century of our era is the first of a series of poetic 
 romances which I planned to call "Tales from 
 History," each dealing with the distinguishing 
 mark of each century as its theme. They were 
 originally supposed to be short stories in prose 
 for the Busy-Bee Syndicate, which, however, 
 shamefully rejected them for one or two to me 
 trivial reasons. Therefore when my correspon- 
 dence instructor called for a specimen of blank 
 verse, I transformed my original Phillippa into 
 poetry of her own, all of which, except the last 
 paragraph, was drafted March 10, 1914. The 
 conclusion was not written until the date given 
 above. My problem was to create a concise, 
 clean-cut, and swiftly told tale that should con- 
 tain all the elements necessary and no more. 
 
 Radium — May 21, 1917 — Really a companion- 
 piece to My First Aeroplane. The inspiration 
 and circumstances of composition are the same 
 as those of the earlier sonnet. The reputed won- 
 derful nature of radium had fascinated me ever 
 since childhood and I often tried to interpret its 
 
 532 
 
NOTES 
 
 meaning in the grand economy of the universe. 
 Now, under the urge of writing on such a theme, 
 I found the opportunity to express myself. There 
 are two versions, the earlier dating from March 
 25, 1914. This sonnet gave me considerable dif- 
 ficulty, for the thought did not at first seem to 
 yield readily to smooth expression. 
 
 Kitty and Doggie — September 4, 191 7 — And 
 hereby, once more, there hangs a tale ! I had ar- 
 ranged all my poems into eight distinct pro- 
 grams for recital reading. Many a time I slipped 
 away to the school house, only a block distant 
 from North Hill house, in the summer vacation, 
 or on Saturdays during the school season, to 
 practice and rehearse them again and again. But 
 for monetary and other reasons I never suc- 
 ceeded in traveling with my verses. All efforts 
 to procure invitations to read also failed. Yet I 
 prepared and kept on preparing. I noticed, how- 
 ever, that I needed some humorous verse, and 
 I did not find it difficult to write some of it, 
 although at this time I was out of a job and half- 
 sick over my prospects for the future. So one 
 day the underlying idea of Kitty and Doggie 
 came to me and I wrote it down in almost its 
 present form. 
 
 The Tale of the Awful Oozle — September i3, 
 1917 — I had been thinking of nonsense verse or 
 words I had read, such as Lewis Carroll's "Jab- 
 berwocky." Supposing we had a little boy to 
 whom this wonderful adventure story had been 
 
 333 
 
NOTES 
 
 read, and that it so possessed his imagination 
 that he proceeded to extemporize himself in this 
 word-originating fashion. Result : The story of 
 the awful oozle ! 
 
 The Battle of the Rhymers — September 15, 
 1917 — Carrying the above idea more specifically 
 into the realm of art, we are confronted with 
 the possibilities of the Rhyming Dictionary. 
 Turning to this trade journal of the poet, we 
 find that about seventeen rhymes exhaust the 
 list on "irk." Converting this into poetry, we 
 may get the beautiful setting here presented, 
 the excitement of the contest, the resourceful- 
 ness of Dirk, and 4 the farcical outwitting at the 
 end. Indeed a test for an elocutionist! 
 
 The Gate to the Middle West — December 29, 
 1917 — The last of the poems intended for the 
 new magazine at Iowa. It celebrates the first of 
 the Mid-West States to be sung under the orig- 
 inal plan. But it now remains a fair paean of 
 the prowess of the entire Middle West. It also 
 has come to be an appropriate epilog for Modern 
 Moods and Measures, because of its racy virility, 
 its idealism so rooted in the very soil, and its 
 precision and inspiring realism. At least that is 
 what I tried to put m it! 
 
 My Lines — January 27, 1917 — This is really 
 one of the firstlings of the poems I tried to com- 
 mercialize. It was intended as an earnest of 
 what was to follow. I had often been provoked 
 at the indifferent reception my lines had enjoyed, 
 
 334 
 
NOTES 
 
 ever since "I lisped in numbers, for the numbers 
 came." My work seemed to be treated as if 
 there were nothing to it, no meat in it, without 
 any meaning, while it almost teemed with con- 
 tent for me. Therefore, the sole reason for writ- 
 ing the Preface, and especially these laboriously 
 compiled Notes, has been to show what all these 
 poems have meant to me, and what they may 
 come to mean to others, if they will but do what 
 they are accustomed to do in any other phase 
 of everyday life — investigate honestly. Hence 
 my insistent assurance in the first line here : 
 
 My lines, my lines have meaning, 
 even if one had not thought of them in that 
 light. The rest of this epilog is easily interpreted. 
 I simply developed my theme up from the foun- 
 dation of my experiences in life, and thus upon 
 the logical chronology of my poems, so that this 
 epilog contains the several main strains of both in- 
 separably welded together. There is then a new 
 individuality here in this unified work, and the 
 reader must help me find and define it. 
 
 And now I shall relax and lean back with 
 a wondering chuckle at what the world may say 
 until it returns its verdict. 
 
 The End 
 
 335 
 
Contents 
 
 Dedication 
 
 Preface 
 
 My Smithy — Poem 
 
 Spray One of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 Contents 
 
 The Wooing of Ouimby's Daughters — A Tale of 
 Pioneer Days of the Lime Kilns on the Iowa 
 River 
 
 I Quarryford Cabin 
 
 II The Newcomers 
 
 III Finding Each Other 
 
 Spray Two of the Poetic Nosegay 
 Whisperings of My Fancy 
 
 Foreplay — When My Fancy Spoke 
 
 I Whisperings in the Night 
 
 A Boy's Chant to the Flowers 
 
 Lacinda 
 
 Old Year's Eve 
 
 II Whisperings in the Dawnlight 
 Leon and Helen 
 
 Whatever Is, Is Right 
 
 Greatness 
 
 My Country 
 
 My Native Land — A Hymn 
 
 336 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Lark of Fearingdale — An Allegorical 
 
 Legend 
 Iowa 
 
 An Elegy on My Old Home 
 A Child's Sweet Call 
 The Dandelion 
 The River of Music 
 
 Prelude 
 
 I The Home of Music 
 
 II The Spring of Music 
 
 III The Rill of Music 
 
 IV The Mountain Stream of Music 
 
 V The Brook of Music 
 
 VI The River of Music Itself 
 
 VII The Ocean of Music 
 Postlude 
 
 A Day of Delight 
 Farewell 
 
 The Wonderful Land of Dreams 
 An Epicure's Ode to An Orange 
 III Whisperings at Sunrise 
 The Better Day 
 Winter and Spring 
 Twilight-Tide 
 The Poet's Vesper Song 
 To a Belated Katydid 
 Peace, Why Tarriest Thou? 
 To The Evening Star 
 Love in a Cottage 
 The Lover's Prayer 
 
 337 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Life and I — A Colloquy in Seven Moods, with 
 Prolog, Interlude and Epilog 
 
 Prolog — Youth 
 
 Mood the First — The Oracle's Response 
 
 Mood the Second — Love and Art 
 
 Mood the Third — Love 
 
 Mood the Fourth — Art 
 
 Mood the Fifth— Strife 
 
 Interlude — Manhood 
 
 Mood the Sixth — Solitude 
 
 Mood the Seventh — Resolve 
 
 Epilogs — Age 
 Early Spring 
 Trysting Sighs — I — III 
 Afterplay — When My Fancy Commanded 
 
 Spray Three of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 Master Franz Hemsterhuis — Being the Lay of 
 the Making of an American as Sung in 
 Eight Idyls from Holland 
 
 Idyl One — The Greeting 
 
 Idyl Two — Piet Staatwaard 
 
 Idyl Three — Fritz Staatwaard 
 
 Idyl Four — A Gentle Parley 
 
 Idyl Five — Master Hemsterhuis 
 
 Idyl Six — The Good Teaching 
 
 Idyl Seven — The Picture on the Wall 
 
 Idvl Eight — The Parting 
 
 Spray Four of the Poetic Nosegay 
 
 Moods and Measures of Today 
 The Antiquity of Poetry 
 
 338 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Soul to the Sea — A Persian Ghazal 
 
 The Tanner and His Raid 
 
 Life's Explorer 
 
 The Song of the Seasons 
 
 Wooing Sleep 
 
 Aphorisms — The Boast of Literature — Our 
 Need — Will and Obstinacy — Education — 
 Disgrace — True Poetry — Freedom — Reason 
 — Home — The Zeal for Truth — The Modern 
 Man — True Art — Sweet Charity — Smoking 
 — Satan — Virgin Birth — Faith 
 
 Treasures of Life 
 
 To a Beautiful Child 
 
 The Blessed Water-Ouzel 
 
 The Race of the Plodders 
 
 The Pine Torch 
 
 The Penitent 
 
 Married ! 
 
 The Great Gap 
 
 The Beast-Man 
 
 The Wiseacre 
 
 I Seem Like Adam 
 
 Impatience 
 
 Salema at the Savior's Tomb 
 
 The Seasons in Rhyme 
 
 The Indian Grave 
 
 The One Night 
 
 The Sea 
 
 339 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Rhymes and Stanzas — Rhyme Royal — In Gen- 
 tle Spenser's Land — The Tail- Rhyme 
 Stanza — Highlander's Homeward Bound — 
 Summer Night — The Thought of Man — 
 Witchery 
 
 Milton's Self 
 
 The Song of the Hearth-Smoke 
 
 My Home 
 
 A Ballad of Nineteen-Now 
 
 The Wooden Horse 
 
 The Sun 
 
 My First Aeroplane 
 
 Echoes From Old Greece — Orpheus — To 
 Sappho — Choriambics 
 
 Apple-Plucking Time 
 
 The Song of the Spring Wind 
 
 Rhyme Play — Dawn in Greece — Question and 
 Answer — Birthday-Rime — Clear Weather — 
 The Realist — Growth — Chief Eagle-Eye — 
 Back to Iowa — Rhyme and Reason — The 
 Limerick 
 
 Thy Bitter-Sweet, Sweet Smile 
 
 Summer Magic — I and II 
 
 The Plaint of World-Peace 
 
 The Spirit of the Middle West 
 
 Lines on Hearing the Poet Alfred Noyes 
 
 The Trains of Day and Night 
 
 I The Trains of Day — The Freight — The 
 Passenger Train — The Flyer 
 
 340 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 II The Trains of Night— The Night Freight 
 — The Passenger Train of Night — The 
 Flyer of the Night 
 
 The True Trains of Day and Night 
 The Age and the Artist 
 
 Prefatory 
 
 I-VII 
 
 Afterword 
 The Streets of Progress 
 The Descent of the Eagles 
 Who Am I? 
 Can You Guess? 
 If I Should Come 
 Land O' Leal 
 To the Suicide 
 The Sonneteer — The Note — The Message — 
 
 The Missive — The Epistle — The Letter 
 Phillipa — A Tale of the First Century of Our 
 
 Era 
 Radium 
 
 Kitty and Doggie 
 The Tale of the Awful Oozle 
 The Battle of the Rhymers 
 The Gate of the Middle West 
 My Lines — Epilog 
 Notes 
 
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