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 CiJEMSIGHT DEPOSm 
 
RESURGENCE 
 
RESURGENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 LESLIE G. SHAW 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
RESURGENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 LESLIE G. SHAW 
 
 NEW YORK 
 MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 

 Copyright, 1922, 
 
 by 
 
 Moffat, Yard and Company 
 
 Printed by 
 
 The Barnes Printing Co., Inc. 
 
 229 W. 28th St.. N. Y. 
 
 DEC 2C 1922 
 ©C1A692580 
 
To 
 JOAN 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Resurgence 11 
 
 A Legend 13 
 
 Adventurer 14 
 
 In a Storage House 15 
 
 The Purple Decadence of 1890 18 
 
 Antiphony 20 
 
 Ivory Tower 22 
 
 Annunciation 23 
 
 A Companion 24 
 
 The Crickets 25 
 
 Two Friends 26 
 
 Fra Lippi's Nun 27 
 
 To A Poet 28 
 
 Mediaeval Wanderer's Song 29 
 
 A Giver of Good Gifts 30 
 
 Love and Death 32 
 
 Failure 33 
 
 Da Vinci's Head of Christ 34 
 
 Subconscious 35 
 
 Supplication 36 
 
 Against Death Pomp 37 
 
 The Alchemist 38 
 
 Beatrice D'Este To a Lover 39 
 
 The Suicide 41 
 
 To A Seaman 42 
 
 Neuroses 44 
 
 The Undying 45 
 
Symbolic 47 
 
 The Mother 48 
 
 The Living Dead 49 
 
 Rest 50 
 
 Waste 51 
 
 To 52 
 
 Lisa Gioconda 54 
 
 To A Wood Thrush 56 
 
 Challenge 57 
 
 A Mediaeval Portrait 58 
 
 To 69 
 
 Forgiveness 60 
 
 Nocturne After Chopin 61 
 
 The Isles of the Blest 62 
 
RESURGENCE 
 
RESURGENCE 
 
 THERE was a time when ever gloriously 
 Unto my heart a music, as in prophecy, 
 Sang down the years — A magic golden horn. 
 Heralding a valiant pageantry at morn. 
 When yellow banners rose in gallant praise 
 Of the mighty forward march of conquering days. 
 And then, as brief and brilliant as a dying 
 
 sun. 
 Bronze tones and blazoned banners faded and 
 
 were done. 
 Then others said to me, Be now mature, 
 Pass by the myths of childhood, find the lure 
 Of adolescence but illusions mask. 
 And measure to the stature of an adult task. 
 I spoke in scorn, It was a voice of truth 
 I heard ; Not one, as yours, in error spoke to soothe 
 Me into lethargy, and so be brought 
 Into your stuffy chambers of sick thought. 
 
 And denying ever its alloy 
 
 Still was I forsaken of old joy. — 
 Now fled the virgin rapture of sweet Spring, 
 And Autumn's fragrant mellowness — The sting 
 Of keen response to earth that one-time surged 
 Like April sap in maples, upward — urged. 
 Had passed, as fleeting as a bird on wing. 
 Something was gone, and it was everything. 
 
 As if I swam and sank in oily waves, 
 I knew only oblivion that laves 
 The weary mind with peace and murmuring 
 sound, 
 
 [11] 
 
And visions swift; And in soft treachery bound, 
 
 I could not free myself, until at length, — 
 
 And years it may have been that passed — ^the 
 
 strength 
 Of great extremity arose in me. 
 
 1 heard afar a rustling melody, 
 
 A living symphony of hidden things. 
 
 Of crickets chirping near green leaves. Of wings 
 
 That swiftly beat the perfumed air in flight, 
 
 And little buds singing their way to light. 
 
 It trembled in my ear as the muted roar 
 
 Of waves on a dear and long-forgotten shore. 
 
 I wept with joy, and then I surely rose 
 
 As by a miracle; And where I chose, 
 
 I walked upon the languorous waves, whose power 
 
 Had grown, mist-like, illusion in that hour; 
 
 I cried. Now have I wakened from a dream. 
 
 Have seen the falsehood in its lambent gleam. 
 
 And even as I spoke, the conquering song. 
 
 Trumpeted in golden horn so long, 
 
 Swelled to diapason, and glowing, hung 
 
 Like clouds of fire upon the air, and flung 
 
 A rhythmic challenge to the listening sea. 
 
 And sent forth tidings, not of victory 
 
 That was to be, but victory that was, 
 
 Over death, and sleep more dark, and ills that 
 
 pass. 
 And it confirmed the steady faith that wills. 
 The everlasting stars, the little hills. 
 "Beauty for ashes," it sang; a long re-birth; 
 Joy renewed at the mother-breast of earth. 
 
 [12] 
 
A LEGEND 
 
 SHE was a lover of beauty, 
 And she wanted to write of beautiful things — 
 "Of old, unhappy far-off things," 
 She called them. 
 
 At any rate they were nowhere near. 
 But the neighbor's player-pianos on the little side 
 
 street 
 Hammered out jazz, or else 
 They played "Burning of Pompeii." 
 And then there were talking machines, of course. 
 And in the summer evenings 
 The tremulous bleating of a cornet 
 Essayed futilely to find "The Lost Chord." 
 The children fought lustily in the streets. 
 And their mothers talked over porch railings of 
 
 sales 
 On georgette crepe and granite ware. . . . 
 And a deadly pall clouded her vision. 
 
 Until one day she remembered 
 
 That the king of men had moved 
 
 Understandingly among all people 
 
 And had spoken to them in parables 
 
 And had shared in immeasurable love 
 
 Their pleasures or their grief. 
 
 And then she thought that many years ago 
 
 The futile cornetist was a shepherd 
 
 Piping to Syrian hills, 
 
 And the shrill-voiced women 
 
 Were the madonnas of many an ancient twilight. 
 
 Painted by old masters. 
 
 [13] 
 
ADVENTURER 
 
 EVER you wooed vicarious romance 
 Wore gallantly and with a royal mien 
 Your robes of poverty as you had been 
 The chosen of some mighty circumstance. 
 And in a bark absurdly frail you rode 
 Triumphantly and sure uncharted seas — 
 Untutored quite, yet with consummate ease 
 You braved high storms, when lordly giants 
 
 strode 
 Across black battling clouds — and asked no rest. 
 With demon courage and a faith sublime 
 You sailed beyond the rocks for some strange 
 
 clime 
 That even you, afar, might not have guessed. 
 Whatever port it may have proved, we knew 
 Who knew your simple craft, that first land-fall 
 Was made with colors flying, spite of squall 
 Or calm, and that romance awaited you. 
 
 [14] 
 
IN A STORAGE HOUSE 
 
 REMARKABLE how clear my mind is, 
 As to detail. — 
 "No, this picture is numbered 38," 
 I tell the skilled packer, appallingly efficient. 
 And I think how I bought the picture. 
 One golden afternoon in Florence, 
 And judged just how it might wonderfully be 
 
 placed 
 Above a little lacquered table. 
 "Yes, that goes to the auction rooms, 
 Along with 35 and 37. 
 That percolator — 0, send it too ; 
 It may bring a beggar's dime or so." 
 "But, lady — I'll give you a dime for it." 
 I attend vaguely to such subtle degradation — 
 "Why, how absurd of you — keep it, of course. 
 And that kitchen ware — and any of those little 
 
 things." 
 I think ironically how cheaply bought 
 Is this new aura of munificence. 
 "And this? Certainly you may have it; 
 Take it to your wife. 
 You have a wife?" 0, yes, he had. 
 Most men had wives, I reflected. 
 Perhaps some even loved them. — 
 I wonder how rapidly and well 
 An infant cynicism grows these days. — 
 These packers, they need any little scrap 
 They can gain from the debris 
 
 [15] 
 
Of shifting or of broken homes. 
 
 It was just as well, no doubt, they didn't know 
 
 How proudly that was bought, how joyfully this. 
 
 Such a dingy and disordered kind of work 
 
 It must be for them. 
 
 Seeing always unbuilding — ^their minds 
 
 Must be crushed under mountains 
 
 Of stray detail — amazingly anomalous 
 
 Are these desk contents, heaped on the floor. 
 
 "And just one thing more — Yes, I've given you 
 
 The address for all these different lots. 
 
 And now that's done, for all of us." 
 
 I tell myself there's nothing left 
 
 And the memory will be cut clean 
 
 Like a most admirable surgical wound. 
 
 Very cordially they take me to the elevator. 
 
 The percolator no doubt did that. 
 
 Somehow even the manager exudes cordiality. 
 
 "Well, we don't usually take checks. 
 
 But we'll take yours." 
 
 And my demon-clear mind 
 
 That works so well when nearest 
 
 The abyss of pain, records, like a camera 
 
 His heavy jowls and kindly eyes. 
 
 He had need for kindness, in this business, 
 
 He who saw so much of wreckage 
 
 And guessed much more, that wasn't there to see. 
 
 And as the demon-camera mind works on. 
 
 Stray flashes come from nowhere, unbidden — 
 
 A puzzled child asking her mother 
 
 [16] 
 
One sultry Sunday afternoon, to explain 
 
 What she had learned that day 
 
 About a house built on the sands — 
 
 And a young girl in a street-car, 
 
 Going to work. 
 
 From whose coral lips came. 
 
 In nasal nonchalance, 
 
 "0, well, the first hundred are the hardest !" 
 
 [17] 
 
THE PURPLE DECADENCE OF 1890 
 {Suggested by Holbrook Jackson's ''The 1890's") 
 
 A THOUSAND strange and curious stones in- 
 laid 
 And wrought in fretted gold — that flash and 
 
 grow; 
 In each new light a warm and different glow — 
 And scented peacock feathers strangely made. 
 
 Brocaded robes and robes of pearly frost 
 And velvet cloaks and noble hats with plumes 
 That undulate and vary as a flower that blooms, 
 And pass 'neath palace doors with arms embossed, 
 Or ride in glittering equipage to gaze 
 Upon the picturesque and poor, that throng 
 The London streets — ^those Juliets of chance 
 Those passing Venuses of red romance 
 Who smile and dally as they pass among 
 Old scarlet poets of new and perverse ways. 
 
 The gentle dandy poetizing down the strand 
 Who later clothed in Sapphic dressing-gown 
 Writes those brave sonnets that the rich demand 
 Or for a nod from some Earl plays the clown. 
 
 Lean hectic youths who tavernwards are bound 
 In search of peripatetic days of lore 
 When sages gathered at the tavern door 
 To see in wine what wisdom could be found. 
 
 [18] 
 
A thousand books in bindings rare and mellow 
 With pages made unique with black and white 
 And magazines bound in a classic yellow 
 To put decorum in a proper fright. 
 
 The palace of varieties new born 
 Where gathered minor bards who sang the charms 
 Of dancing wenches, as of Helen, until morn 
 Then wrote in anguished verse of empty arms. 
 And "art for art" that grew strange hot-house 
 
 flowers, 
 And made a murmurous music for the dreary 
 
 hours. 
 
 [19] 
 
ANTIPHONY 
 
 OGOD, thou hast laid me low 
 I bow my head before thy wrath, 
 As a broken tree before a mighty wind. 
 But I will comfort thee. 
 
 My deeds are scattered in the dust 
 And no good comes of them. 
 My friends have forsaken me. 
 Believe in me. 
 
 Nay, I will deny thee 
 For thou hast forsaken me; 
 I will dig deep into my own heart for comfort. 
 / am the living God, 
 
 I will dig deep into the giant man 
 Caged in me 
 
 Like a mighty beast in fetters. 
 / am thy strength, 
 
 I will proclaim my greatness. 
 Men shall know that the beast is unfettered. 
 They will flee before his strength. 
 Thou shalt love thy brother. 
 
 Nay, I love him not. 
 I shall conquer him: 
 He shall tremble in fear before me. 
 Man's wrath availeth not. 
 
 [20] 
 
If wrath availeth not, 
 If sin slay itself, 
 What shall prevail? 
 Love shall prevail. 
 
 But my brother loves me not; 
 He has mocked me. 
 My heart is sore against him, 
 Love begets love. 
 
 I cannot love : my faith is dead. 
 I see no beacon, rising calm 
 Above the seething waves of discord. 
 Thy faith shall be renewed, 
 
 God, that I might abandon myself 
 
 As a seaman to the waves. 
 
 And let thy kindness bear me up. 
 
 Thou shalt, for thou hast so desired. 
 
 [21] 
 
IVORY TOWER 
 
 IN silver cloth and frosted robes you sate 
 And mused how strange the sounds that came 
 and went 
 Or how in clamoring haste the days were spent 
 Beyond the quiet of your chateau gate, 
 Where now forewarned all Spring did lay in wait 
 The trellised roses bearing high their scent 
 To you, entowered, who heeding never fate 
 Saw youth go daily by and no lament. 
 
 In splendour drew and wavered in the park 
 A fragrant shadow holding still faint gleam 
 Of sunset's warmth, and glowed, till like a dream 
 All vanished and the castle lay in dark. 
 And as a barren breeze blew round the town. 
 You drew your robes about you and came down. 
 
 122] 
 
ANNUNCIATION 
 
 LIES beauty in all things. 
 Now to a barren world of freshly riven 
 wounds 
 Comes virgin proof of life that still abounds 
 And from some mystic teeming-source still 
 
 springs. 
 The race is not yet run. 
 All is not said ; nor sealed to hope the gates 
 While loveliness in hiding, potent waits 
 On that high time when birth shall have begun. 
 Be not to Isis so unjust as to deny 
 A fitting spring-time measure of deep joy! 
 
 Where mountain heights are set in mist of dreams 
 
 And rhododendrons show pale bloom 
 
 Against an April sky. And woodland gloom 
 
 Gives interval of vagrant happy streams, 
 
 And old grey rocks above the heath 
 
 Guard this dim valley's twilight rest — 
 
 There Spring bids us be still, that we attest 
 
 Her living triumph over death. 
 
 That she may new-world intimations give 
 
 Of all that dies and still does live. 
 
 [23] 
 
A COMPANION 
 
 YOUR thoughts, like fireflies glimpsed at dusk, 
 and lost. 
 And seen again, and, leading through still groves 
 Now wrapped in scented solitude, where roves 
 A wind before the rain — a faery host — , 
 Beguile me into phantasy of foreign lands; 
 And from dim shores comes an old wail of men 
 Barbaric, in strange splendor, or again 
 I feel the fire of sun on patient sands. 
 
 And on enchanted seas I voyage where 
 Arises new temples and new shrines of art. 
 And men thrill to new learning with one heart 
 That through the ages they may torches bear. 
 Yours is the magic word that bids me roam. 
 And yours, the steady lamp that lights me home. 
 
 [24] 
 
THE CRICKETS 
 
 YOU sing of things of olden times 
 And magic seas in twilight lands 
 Of drooping sky and white-stretched sands 
 And rhyming tongues in witching climes. 
 How is it that your monotone 
 Leaves me enchanted, and alone? 
 
 [25] 
 
TWO FRIENDS • 
 
 YOU were a guest invited to a feast 
 For whom we brought choice stores 
 And placed them consciously to please 
 That you might find a worthy board. 
 
 You . . . You entered by the open door 
 And sat with us the while we spoke 
 Of simple things . . . and shared our bread, 
 A silent blessing in your love. 
 
 [26] 
 
FRA LIPPFS NUN 
 
 THOU lovely one ! 
 An age of naive peace 
 And innocence, with un-increase 
 Of harm — still nun — 
 About thee lies. 
 Life's fairest gift of fruit 
 And knowingness find shallov^ root 
 In virgin place . . . For eyes 
 Hast thou to see a measured plane. 
 Still unaware with sweet tranquility 
 And mild assurance of no part 
 In worldlings motley train. — 
 As in deep cloistered hush, with rarest art 
 Of quietude, eternal be! 
 
 [27] 
 
TO A POET • 
 
 BRIGHT child and free of Greek and glorious 
 age, 
 Spirit from its ampler time far-strayed, 
 An Attic mind swift-flashing as a blade 
 Through time-worn myths of mediocre gage — 
 In you, Prometheus like, a hint of rage 
 And impotence, when virile thought not weighed 
 To mellowness bids your fine raptures fade 
 Before reality — life's barren stage — 
 A cynic hand upon a youthful dream. 
 Still may you paint in colors rich as wine 
 Your pagan dance where softly plays the gleam 
 Of polished limb against the laden vine, 
 Until at length from life's long-stagnant stream 
 You draw anew old beauty to be mine. 
 
 [281 
 
MEDIAEVAL WANDERER'S SONG 
 
 THE open road is my abode 
 And wandering is my sweetest rest; 
 New paths I roam my only home 
 And every bird and beast my guest. 
 And as I rove I widely love — 
 I wear my heart upon my sleeve 
 And it is lost at no great cost — 
 Who gains so much might never grieve — . 
 For one new moon I count a boon 
 And every star a new allure; 
 I woo this flower and every hour 
 I find it most amazing pure. 
 Who finds lost gleams in sunset streams 
 Or greets the dawn beyond the hill 
 May with me fare and all things share, 
 And stay or leave me at his will. 
 
 [29] 
 
A GIVER OF GOOD GIFTS - 
 Beauty is a gift — Gautier 
 
 HE said — You are all wondrous fair 
 No such stars in heaven, as in your eyes 
 Made quiet by lashes-dusk. And your hair 
 Holds light of purple and rare bronze, and lies 
 Close by your cheek in truest symmetry 
 Of waves, that shine in secret, sudden lights. 
 Or merge into a softest cloud. — One fittingly 
 To frame a nun*s white brow. Or else affrights 
 Your calmer moods with tempestuous swirl 
 And wantonness of brown and scornful curl. 
 
 You are no thing of one dull patterning 
 
 Like unto a day of all drear clouds, or one 
 
 Of same stint, changeless measure, lightning 
 
 Only the cloud to bright and wearisome sun. 
 
 Never from elfish art 
 
 Might graceful wit thus stray; 
 
 Alike of sun and shade you take a part 
 
 To fashion your unique and charming day. 
 
 Cool rains and April-misted nights, and blue 
 
 Thin skies and Autumn fires are all a part of you. 
 
 Your voice conveys to me the sound of water, sing- 
 ing 
 
 In far and happy places; and the mouth that 
 frames 
 
 Sweet words has magic power of bringing 
 
 Light to dead discourse that slower logic lames. 
 
 Of wit and art and beauty you are wholly made. 
 
 Nor one, nor any other part does so outvie the 
 other 
 
 [30] 
 
That any needsome grace is placed in shade 
 Or man is left with power to fancy yet another. 
 I know no swinish man, in courtesy 
 So-called, who worthy of your slightest whim 
 might be. 
 
 Your breasts are white, and sweeter yet the soul 
 Of broadly loving youth, that charity to all 
 Does daily know and practice. And so, whole 
 In being, builds between the two no stunting wall. 
 Soft are your hands and shapen so 
 That music drawn from ivory keys, through 
 
 power 
 In them, is treble prized. And low 
 And hush't each melody of your enchanted hour. 
 And so faint music runs through all your days 
 And dims with sorcery your matchless ways. 
 
 And yet, poor man, he grossly lied 
 
 In all but this, his faith. For ever 
 
 Has it been to man denied 
 
 In love, the truth and seeming to dissever. 
 
 Grace might have been, and was, no doubt 
 
 As grace in woman goes. But had he known 
 
 Himself, the artist's art he had found out. 
 
 Then birth might he have given to fool's groan — 
 
 For thus it is, in conjuring charms, the lover 
 
 Fails he never. He wishes for, bespeaks 
 
 A gift (It grows to being, and another 
 
 From depths unknown, an Aphrodite rises). 
 
 Seeks 
 Vari-coloured passion from the buoyant springs 
 His own; and straightway thanks unto his lady 
 
 sings! ^3^ J 
 
LOVE AND DEATH 
 
 NOW, Death, I greet you with a willing Yea ! 
 Desiring nothing here on earth, I yearn 
 For still and slumb'ring places, for this day 
 I've drunk life deep: her fires no longer burn. 
 
 Forever in a twilight realm I'd hold 
 
 Close to my heart the wondrous murm'ring voice 
 
 Of you, who, knowing dim ultimate things. 
 
 Proclaimed us one, and near you drew the wings 
 
 Of rare and holy angels who rejoice 
 
 When earth's dull chains of use and want do 
 
 break 
 And earth's mean blasphemies of facile love 
 Are silenced in victorious cries that shake 
 The pillars of love's temple where now move 
 Old priests who cower and mumble toothless 
 
 prayer 
 That their dull creeds and rites shall still enslave. 
 . . . Dead futile art — for in your love you bear 
 Kich ageless alchemies that time's lies brave. 
 
 No more I'll turn and fret at prison bars 
 Of sense — With you, a living flame, I rise 
 Beyond all human touch, and singing stars 
 I move among in night's eternal skies. 
 No more I'll chafe, imprisoned in life's dream — 
 In earth or heaven is no thing can change 
 This splendid moment as it towers supreme 
 Guarded in mysteries beyond life's range. 
 Now feeling all, with striving all forgot 
 With your high soul attained, I long for rest. 
 Come Death! and wean me from such empty lot, 
 My lips are hungry for still Lethe's breast. 
 [32] 
 
FAILURE 
 
 I SOUGHT to veil in robes of mirth, true sight 
 That cried all false the fevered path of days, 
 Bearing rich thought before them in a maze 
 Of sound and colour ceasing not for night. 
 Unto my heart I counselled, pluck this thing 
 Forever out; make lyric your high power 
 To gild each day and quicken every hour 
 Until grief's knell you herald as you sing. 
 
 My heart surged up v^ith promise of old strength 
 
 And strove your v^ell-loved image to efface 
 
 Made for itself a palace of new grace 
 
 And cried a splendid victory at length. 
 
 And still as roses spring beneath their grave, 
 
 In sleep, Beloved, my heart you still enslave. 
 
 [33] 
 
DA VINCI'S HEAD OF CHRIST' 
 
 SO simple in thy clarity 
 That with mere color and mean brush 
 Wrought has he, in pale transparency, 
 Spirit on cold stone : singing faith in chapel hush. 
 
 Here are no thorns ; no cross : 
 
 Only in triumph meek, that love 
 
 That was reviled of men and knew no loss 
 
 And from death rose, that it might prove 
 
 The kingdom that dies not: nor has birth 
 But is and was, and so shall be 
 Whole in itself, nor any dearth — 
 Knowing no wrong in its rich purity. 
 
 Some cry, But is a victor there ? 
 See that wan face in very agony 
 Of death: a bleeding heart laid bare. 
 No victory his own. The betrayer, his Gethse- 
 mane. 
 
 Flesh not the conqueror. White 
 Winged faith the power. In proof true 
 To an ancient promise for the night, 
 **If it were not so, I would have told you." 
 
 [34] 
 
SUBCONSCIOUS 
 The Coward 
 
 I STOOD beside a door where filtered through 
 A glorious bar of light foretelling vast 
 And airy avenues, far-winding, past 
 Dusty plains to fields hill-set and new. 
 I longed for high adventure, longed to find 
 The promised tang of freedom down those roads 
 Beyond the door; to seek out strange abodes 
 And volatile, roam with the spring-time wind. 
 
 I pressed against the door with unsure hand 
 Though knowing full the strength of my desire 
 To sense the wonders hid, to feel the fire 
 Of ardent strength adventuring down the land. 
 Yet held by bonds of some drear natal shore, 
 Unfelt till now, I faltered, closed the door. 
 
 [35] 
 
SUPPLICATION 
 
 DREAD hold of night, I ask surcease 
 Of your unasked dominion over that far land 
 Where nightly I am borne by your strong hand 
 And pray an unimpassioned peace. 
 
 Fill not my heart with whisperings 
 Of ghostly days, and happy days 
 Break not night-calm with whisperings 
 Of love that comes, and never stays ! 
 
 [36] 
 
AGAINST DEATH POMP 
 
 STAY the barbaric hand, 
 Veil the profaning eye. 
 Let the dead dust be dead 
 And bury it quietly, quietly. 
 
 Blaspheme not, when life has fled 
 Cherish only the vital memory 
 Let the dead dust be dead 
 And bury it quietly, quietly. 
 
 [37] 
 
THE ALCHEMIST 
 
 SEEK not to make clear-known to thee 
 All the tortuous ways of life 
 For wisdom as apart from the blind strife 
 And need of nature can no profit be. 
 Great heights are there to climb. 
 These shall ye know, when blossoms each high 
 time. 
 
 Till then, know only that does urging press 
 Deep pregnant meaning to thy radiant own. 
 Turns to a magic place all it does gaze upon 
 The vital sight and want of livingness. 
 Then having power to much within thy gird 
 Shall life outstretch at thy wise-spoken word. 
 
 [38] 
 
BEATRICE D'ESTE TO A LOVER 
 
 ENCHANTED wine you might have found, 
 A draught of potent, magic Spring 
 That old grey days once more might sing, 
 And youth with fresher notes should sound. 
 
 Had you faint touch of alchemy 
 That lonely thing, one selfless thought. 
 Much loveliness you might have brought 
 Through the dark night. Eternity. 
 
 For heart, not mind, our tutor is ; 
 All logic by its warmth is known. 
 Francis of old went not alone 
 Midst lepers; love was ever his. 
 
 We shall be children to attain 
 That Heaven which on earth does lie 
 In faith to see abundantly 
 One lasting beauty with stain. 
 
 Ourselves of choice do hourly mold 
 The circumstance, the daily thing, 
 The vision ; or at length we bring 
 Unto life's shrine, a word untold. 
 
 [39] 
 
How comes a child to Paradise 
 But by his simple, eager prayer? 
 Take you of earth such earthly care 
 That you see not, that yet have eyes ? 
 
 Had you a wish to see me bring 
 Across far seas of thoughts roving 
 A thousand gleaming sails of ships, 
 A freight of human lore bearing 
 Rich you had been, and peace your fate. 
 With beggared faith, you come too late. 
 
 [40 J 
 
THE SUICIDE 
 
 SHE seemed to us a child lost in the market 
 place, 
 And wondering, and quite unseeing in the din 
 How there were brutal faces near, and how the 
 
 dust 
 Of many careless trampling feet hung heavy- 
 there. 
 We saw her turning in the midst of heat and 
 
 sound. 
 Laughing and curious at the laden stalls of wares. 
 Loving the brightly colored things and touching 
 
 them 
 As she passed lightly by, — and nodding now and 
 
 then. 
 Gaily, and with a pleased surprise, at some new 
 
 face 
 That looked on her in friendliness; for, like a 
 
 child. 
 She saw no strangers anywhere, but people much 
 
 alike . . . 
 A shifting pageant, wonderful and ever new; 
 And in the darkening street she moved 'till dusk 
 
 alone. 
 Not minding much the jostling throng that 
 
 pressed toward home. 
 Though sometimes even she found their touch 
 
 rough. 
 Brushing her aside, unheeding all save the late 
 
 hour. 
 
 [41] 
 
But when the lamps were lighted in the streets, 
 
 and stalls 
 Were closed, and eager footsteps turned into 
 
 sure ways, 
 She felt that she was tired, and saw the darkness 
 
 creep on her 
 Like something nameless : and she knew she was 
 
 alone, 
 And quite apart from those who hurried home 
 
 so busily. 
 So, very tired, and seeing in the sudden dark 
 A strange conspiracy beyond her grasp, she 
 
 closed her eyes. 
 As frightened children do, and trembling, fell 
 
 asleep. 
 
 [42] 
 
TO A SEAMAN 
 Alfred Bjorja 
 
 I SAW you come and go with quiet mien 
 All-heeding and attendant on the ruling mind 
 To bend your ship's desire to sea or wind 
 Or thwart, in fate, a freakish mood of spleen. 
 At times of calm, you stood, a granite man 
 Symbolic, carved against the western sky 
 Peering from 'midst the bows as to descry 
 With eyes to treachery trained, the eternal plan. 
 I marvelled at your fortitude and selfless will . . . 
 Unquestioning you moved as in a sick dream's 
 
 world 
 When seas grew murderous and a great wind 
 
 hurled 
 Tempests of ghoulish hate against your skill. 
 And then one day you told me how, afar. 
 You knew a ship with forty-seven sail 
 And how the moonlight, gleaming fairy pale 
 Lighted each swelling sail and singing spar. 
 I thought that never was fidelity 
 So mingled with a lover's tender artistry. 
 
 [43] 
 
NEUROSES 
 The Ghost 
 
 WITH groping hands I sought for some dear 
 thing 
 Known well to me but distant as a dream 
 Or followed, half -afraid, a dancing fitful gleam 
 Of some bright joy I knew must color bring 
 To wan grey days — or light a level path 
 My feet had trod for lo ! these aimless years — 
 A path to one irresolute, of tears 
 And all the plaint of a dead souFs piteous wrath. 
 But never could make mine one single loveliness 
 Or once see through the stifling vaporous wall 
 That barred from my vague touch the sense 
 
 of all 
 Warm human-kind or simple blessedness. 
 Held captive in a fainting spirits' tomb. 
 My courage sickened and I chose this doom. 
 
 [44] 
 
THE UNDYING 
 
 LIFE — in one hour you burdened me 
 With fleet mockeries and ghost-grey memory. 
 
 At your touch I saw, as at magic words 
 A world of spreading green, a plain 
 Of golden, haze, where soaring birds 
 Taxed the heart with melody's pain. 
 And sat I goddess-like, throned and serene 
 On a still mountain height, set in purple cloud. 
 Where lay the world before me — As a queen 
 I viewed this gem — As a queen, throne-proud. 
 And you, radiant as a spring-time sun. 
 As a sun blinding to unvisioned mortal eye — 
 But was I mortal then, or was I one 
 With laughing gods — No mortal, I. 
 
 Two demi-gods, bright with beauty of youth 
 
 Reading the past and all that was to be 
 
 In the depth of awakened eye. Truth, 
 
 Deep wisdom, saw we, and serenity. 
 
 All of beauty we had heard or thought 
 
 Or lived — all of wonder we had ever known. 
 
 All, time-laden, we had brought 
 
 From that far land, whence we came alone. 
 
 And sought the spirit of ancient lore, that sings 
 
 Of other lives and loves that die, 
 
 That we, knowing many things, 
 
 Should live, in faith and guarded mystery. 
 
 [45] 
 
Over an April sky 
 
 A light-blown cloud • 
 
 Cold mists for a shroud. 
 
 No one knows 
 
 Where swiftly goes 
 
 The fragrance of the rose. 
 
 Where goes the soul of music, in chord and chime, 
 
 The laughter of a child; 
 
 That short allotted time — 
 
 Harmony of all tones, sweet and wild. 
 
 Time when pulse and eye and hand 
 
 Tell in one short and poignant breath 
 
 More than mind has ever planned — 
 
 Go these things down to death? 
 
 To a still black river of death, 
 
 Whence rises a chill grey cloud 
 
 To meet a barren dawn, that cries aloud 
 
 To Earth — Beauty to me restoreth! 
 
 It was never so. 
 
 We know, not knowing how we know, 
 
 All we have felt or dreamed on earth shall grow 
 
 Into the web of time, and shall before us go. 
 
 Till myriad-sensed, we fixed shall be 
 
 As tranquil stars, in the long night, eternity. 
 
 1916. 
 
 [46] 
 
SYMBOLIC 
 
 GREY clouds have gathered and have hung 
 Day-long with leaden weight, as malice 
 They had felt, so to hide the sun. 
 No life is in the air, nor do 
 The leaves stir, as when the breeze taunts them. 
 Toward a weary night, the day has spun herself, 
 Half fainting, she closes skeptic eyes. 
 
 And now through darkening mists 
 
 Break forth a hundred waves of gold. 
 
 Giving new- world glimpses of radiance: 
 
 In pure and aureate light are consecrate 
 
 A spire, a roof, a village now re-born. 
 
 As on a high and fore-told hill were set 
 
 A magic city, so the twilight change is wrought. 
 
 [47] 
 
THE MOTHER 
 
 ALL night long she moved not 
 Nor left, close by the bedside, 
 The low chair : but watched the flickering rays 
 Light wistfully the small white face. 
 
 Grief drowned in grief, and beaten. 
 Faith listless, hope forgotten of the past, 
 Anguish beyond her frozen world. 
 Passive, she watched her child. 
 
 No tears had she, nor any bitter plaint. 
 The childish hands were still, and so was she. 
 Her one life's flower was broken, 
 And dead, and far more dead, was she. 
 
 [48] 
 
THE LIVING DEAD 
 
 CREATURES of shade and cold half-light 
 Dwellers of tombs and ways withdrawn 
 Mystically filling the living dawn 
 With ghostly hint of strange foresight . . . 
 These quiet ones at day do cease 
 Their hold . . . And home toward lifeless peace. 
 
 Not such we fear ; the visitants dread 
 Are those dear living — more distant 
 Than a foreign land, whose loved implant 
 Shall sorrow bear — the living dead! 
 These come like dreams of shadowed lands 
 And touch us nightly with regretful hands. 
 
 [49] 
 
REST 
 
 YOU are the shrine to which I come — 
 A cooling spring, 
 Where tyrant moods and fevers vain 
 Are given still repose: nor stirred. 
 Constant and still are you, nor made to stir. 
 You hold glimpses of truth, immutable, 
 That ebbs not, like waters. 
 Nor rises to the moon in old self-seeking 
 But knows dim and quiet ways, 
 Remote from earth. 
 
 Here is deep rest, and shadow as of woodland,- 
 A pause in summer's heat, 
 A lull in human stress, 
 Here, at your feet. 
 Grant me deep sleep ! 
 
 [50] 
 
WASTE 
 
 LIKE sparks borne upward on a hungry flame, 
 And jewelled but one moment in the dark, 
 Then breathing back into the night the same 
 Brief ardor of their birth, so my thoughts rise. 
 For life, a monster flame, with fabled greed. 
 Thus bears me on, devouring good and ill, 
 Splendidly loyal to an atavistic creed, 
 Unheeding any plaint that aught be spared. 
 And, as the spreading evil tongues possess 
 First one, and then another blessed shrine. 
 Light eagerly, then char, each loveliness. 
 These wistful wraiths, like souls released, ascend. 
 And deeds conceived to crimson all the skies 
 With brilliant pageant-blaze, and guide its wrath, 
 As fleeting as such ghostly sparks, arise 
 Above the havoc flame, and glow, and die. 
 
 [51] 
 
TO 
 
 YOU were a voice heard in dreams, 
 Heard dimly, and buried 
 In the dark caverns of sleep. 
 Buried until a time might come 
 When need should call it forth. 
 — For no thing in dreams is lost. 
 And the voice spoke of peace, 
 "Be not troubled, my child; 
 Neither have fear. 
 For in your breast 
 Is a giant in fetters. 
 If you will release him. 
 He will do your bidding. 
 Hidden in you are many wonders; 
 When the time comes, they will unfold. 
 Do not stifle them in fear. 
 Live greatly. 
 
 Learn to live as a swimmer 
 Who abandons himself to treacherous waves. 
 And finds himself borne up. 
 Do not fear, my child; 
 And know always that I am here." 
 Thus you spoke to me silently, 
 And your message was borne 
 Down windy caverns of sleep — 
 Strange and alien vistas. 
 And a faint remembrance 
 Filled waking hours with mystery, 
 With tidings as a shadow. 
 
 [52] 
 
That spoke of an approaching form. 
 
 And when the dream was fulfilled 
 
 And the fore-shadowed hours appeared, 
 
 They were in turn 
 
 Like fevered pictures in a dream. 
 
 For they were filled with discord 
 
 And with ghoulish figures, 
 
 And menacing tongues. 
 
 And then I heard your voice, antiphonal. 
 
 Rising and falling in a conquering rhythm, 
 
 And at length rising above 
 
 The savage discord. 
 
 And again you said, 
 
 "Do not fear, my child; 
 
 Know always that I am here.** 
 
 And I knew I listened to words of love 
 
 — Of a great far-seeing love. 
 
 That harbored no images of self 
 
 But tended as an acolyte his shrine. 
 
 The services of deep devotion. 
 
 And my heart leaped up 
 
 When I heard aright 
 
 The words that had run, like a minor melody. 
 
 Through a maze of days and nights. 
 
 It was as if silver trumpets 
 
 Had proclaimed a glorious victory. 
 
 And my heart echoed and answered 
 
 With a single cry. 
 
 As that of a child who was lost. 
 
 And finds again the path of love. 
 
 [531 
 
LISA GIOCONDA 
 
 IN the twilight of beauty you sit by old rocks 
 Where the evening of time hangs a mantle of 
 cloud 
 And shadows of purple, dusk-tinged, as a veil — 
 Strange enchantress, your dim secret magic 
 enshroud. 
 
 You have looked on far shores where rare splen- 
 dours arose 
 
 And have felt yourself sway on the tide of desire 
 
 Toward new seas whence came ships from ports 
 charmed and unknown — 
 
 From the great Renaissance and its consummate 
 fire. 
 
 You have voyaged time-free to all lands and all 
 
 climes. 
 Through the ages have been as a seer without 
 
 age: 
 You have known the meek heart of St. Francis 
 
 or Anne 
 And have trembled war-girt with a monarch's 
 
 high rage. 
 
 [54] 
 
A story is told of a princess long dead 
 Through centuries of lore in sarcophagus found — 
 As of old radiant still with a grace from which 
 
 death 
 Has fled shamed — and her beauty is yours, 
 
 mystery-crowned. 
 
 As a prophet of youth clothed in garments of time 
 With faith visioned and calm you foresee all 
 
 strange ends 
 And await that far shore where the sought is 
 
 the found 
 And the child with old craft to a new peace 
 
 ascends. 
 
 [55] 
 
TO A WOOD-THRUSH 
 
 OF dim and twilight ways you give us sight 
 When slowly all that still is, and withdrawn. 
 And mellowed after days long — wearied dawn 
 Finds shelter in the hour of coming night. 
 And now you magically at dusk create 
 With elfin silver flute, a dim forecast. 
 Lost in its weight of tranquil thought, of massed 
 And shadowed groves, where old gods meditate. 
 
 Bewitched and still they pause erewhile to free 
 Unto your charmed cadences a vast 
 And myriad sense. High captives till has passed 
 That brief and poignant spell; — as mortals, we 
 Do know alike a moment blessed, and live 
 That time, your cool and faery voice does give. 
 
 [56] 
 
CHALLENGE 
 
 STRANGE, still—this thing— that you, 
 Who shatter with a careless hand 
 Each beauty of a gentle hue 
 And mutely murderous still stand 
 Should thus exempt from penance be. 
 Drowning in sense all sensibility. 
 
 [57J 
 
A MEDIAEVAL PORTRAIT 
 
 TWILIGHT of beauty! Gentle repose . 
 After a youth's bright noon; 
 When soft forebodes the tranquil moon 
 Of night. Purple shadows close 
 Around that still-poised head . . . 
 Setting perfect for a queen of hidden ways 
 Who likes not the inquietude of day's 
 Swift images, through tortured fancy led. . . 
 You are a harp, with muted golden tone, 
 Touched by the fingers of stars, on hills, alone. 
 
 [58] 
 
TO 
 
 AH! Sing to me until senescent stars 
 Fall wearied at the sound of an old plaint 
 More sad than time ... a sonorous chant grown 
 
 faint 
 At dawn ... Of souls in bondage, and of scars 
 Born of the spirit's groaning fabled yoke. 
 Now let me hear Delilah's subtle voice 
 Of faithless passion, murmuring rejoice 
 In scarlet victory, 'ere day awoke. 
 Sing me words, tear-edged, as with Isolde's lyre 
 Lulled Tristan in a perfumed, swooning sleep ; 
 And cast your spell of evocation deep 
 About me, like an evanescent fire. 
 Ah ! golden vessel wrought to hold the wine 
 Of very life, a little while be mine! 
 
 [59] 
 
FORGIVENESS 
 
 IF I should see you turning where that old 
 path winds 
 
 My heart would leap with ancient joy and cer- 
 tain pride, 
 
 And for an instant I'd forget a gulf more wide 
 
 Than centuries . . . that lies between two faith- 
 less minds. 
 
 And I should see with older and with truer sight 
 
 The unchanged vestures of an inward unchanged 
 grace, 
 
 That meant for me — how long it seems — a hidden 
 place 
 
 Of peace, and ever in the darkness a sure light. 
 
 Ah! If I held that vision through the night till 
 dawn 
 
 You might return again to wake me from a dream 
 
 More real than death — that only dims the fitful 
 gleam 
 
 Of earthy lamps, when earth's senescent glow 
 is gone. 
 
 And like a homing bird that wings, long-lost, 
 apart. 
 
 My love would swiftly rise and nestle in your 
 heart. 
 
 [60] 
 
NOCTURNE AFTER CHOPIN 
 
 PIPING of a hidden lute 
 Faery, drowsing, distance-hushed 
 Colored with a twilight note 
 Of massing waters, now dusk-brushed 
 Bearing shadowed messages 
 Of other peace and stiller rest, — 
 Calm that fairer dawn presages 
 Fairer dawn and stiller rest. 
 Yield thyself to magic hands, 
 Walk nightward where white beauty gleams ! 
 This shall be a dreamless night 
 Haunted by a thousand dreams. 
 
 L61] 
 
THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 
 Tao 
 
 AS waves that lap a strange and mortal shore 
 Dim music pulses on the shores of time 
 Where tranquil and immortal dwell enisled 
 And quired in golden solitude, the blest. 
 
 They rise, rise ever, past labor and longing, 
 Past labor and longing, here dwell the blest. 
 
 They burn with the light of peace, the blest. 
 Where, knowing all and striving never. 
 They pause, 'ere the white dawn of Paradise. 
 Attuned to time, the blest, where the rhythm 
 Of peace is one with the swell of timeless waves, 
 Like music, lapping on eternal shores. 
 
 [62] 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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