Class _j <i 
 
 Book. 
 
 Copyright iN^. 
 
 -/ 
 
 s 
 
 J4^ 
 
 (KiFmiGHT DEPOSm 
 
VEILS OF SAMITE 
 
 BY 
 
 J. CORSON MILLER 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 3MALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
5 
 
 
 Copyright, 1921, 
 
 By small, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
 
 (incobporated) 
 
 FEB ~9 1822 
 
 •vt I 
 
TO 
 MY MOTHER 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Mr. Miller's name has been familiar to the readers 
 of poetry for a number of years, and the familiarity 
 is largely due to the manner in which his poems have 
 been widely copied following their original publica- 
 tion. In this miscellaneous appearance Mr. Miller 
 won an appreciative audience for his verse, an audi- 
 ence that now has the opportunity to understand 
 and admire his merit as a singer in this, the first col- 
 lection, in which he has brought his work together. 
 It is noted, in turning these pages, how well the sing- 
 ing quality is sustained. By way of song Mr. Miller 
 lures the reader temptingly along the paths of his 
 dreams, and into the heart of those secrets which 
 have a fine flavor of mysticism. I trust it is not out 
 of place, in considering poetry as an artistic ex- 
 pression, to remark that Mr. Miller is a Catholic; 
 and while he is a Catholic poet, in a certain phase of 
 the meaning, he is, I like to think, also a Catholic 
 and a poet. So to describe him is to emphasize his 
 universality. 'He sings afcout all tHose mystical 
 
figures, rituals and symbols, which belong to the 
 Church, but he never narrows the broad basis of life 
 on purely orthodox foundations.,Human life in its 
 fullness appeals to his imagination, and within the 
 scope of that imagination, he gathers its varied ex- 
 periences and its innumberable emotions. We catch 
 his encompassing vision as a poet in such verses to 
 which he gives the significant title of "The March of 
 Humanity." 
 
 It is not difficult to recommend a poet for the vari- 
 ety of his themes, it is difficult to commend a poet 
 for an equal excellence in the variety. One can 
 heartily commend Mr. Miller for his success in this. 
 The felicity with which he paints a bit of nature is 
 matched by the impressive grace with which he 
 sounds the elegiac note; these are two extreme 
 gamuts between which, with equal success, he sings of 
 love and war, of humanity and the Church. I would 
 like particularly to call attention to such poems as 
 "Transformation," "Sacrifice," "Maximilian Marvel- 
 ous." "Salve Regina Aetema!" "Epicedium (In 
 Memory of America's Dead in This Great War)" 
 and "The Dead Astronomer, A Tribute to the Mem- 
 ory of Percival Lowell," to show something of Mr. 
 Miller's temper with various themes. His enthusi- 
 asm is so manifestly pure that the reader, who is not 
 
looking for the bizarre or the exotic, cannot escape 
 the appeal of his spontaneity and exulation. He 
 has that most fortunate of all poetic gifts, the ability 
 to turn our common moods and emotional reactions 
 into the common currency of rhythmic expression. 
 Without debasing his facility into the maudlin, as 
 is too often done by the prolific, he pours forth his 
 songs always with the consciousness of his responsi- 
 bility as an artist. This collection represents but a 
 small portion of the verse Mr. Miller has written, and 
 so the reader may miss some pieces that have partic- 
 ularly pleased him in their fugitive publication. 
 But the collection here gathered, as a premiere, will 
 command him a place among the poets of to-day. 
 
 WiLUAM Stanley Braithwaite. 
 
Veils of Samite 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 I wear a red rose for my love 
 
 Who walks with me Life's crowded sphere; 
 I wear it for an outward sign 
 
 That always I shall hold her dear. 
 But in my heart, close-hid from view, 
 I keep a clean, white rose for you. 
 
 A red flame burns within my soul. 
 
 And through mine eyes men see that flame; 
 It keeps life's purpose straight and high, 
 
 Within its light can come no shame. 
 But in my soul, bright-burning, too, 
 I keep a white flame lit for you. 
 
 A red dream leaps and rules my brain. 
 
 And colors all my days with fire; 
 Men pause to praise and envy me, 
 
 [1] 
 
For that I pluck the world's desire. 
 But ah, they cannot pierce me through, 
 To see this white dream shaped for you I 
 
 [2] 
 
TRANSFORMATION 
 
 Love, we have dipped Life's humble bread 
 Into the stars' flame-bubbling springs ; 
 
 We've knelt before the Moon's white face, 
 While 'round us whirred Night's purple wings. 
 
 Love, we have trod the floors of Morn, 
 
 And watched Dawn's reeling galleons die; 
 
 The sunset's panoramic hills — 
 
 Love, we have known them, you and I. 
 
 Upon the battlements of Time 
 
 We stood and heard Life's thunders roar: 
 A million ticking years that swelled 
 
 To crashing notes of millions more. 
 
 Our hearts have germinated sweet 
 
 To beauty through each golden hour; 
 
 But now the bloom-time days are past. 
 The stalk is fading with the flower. 
 
 [3] 
 
And we shall seek earth's simple things : 
 A roof-tree small, a green- thatched fire — 
 
 Come, Love, and lay your cherished dreams 
 Beneath the touch of my desire. 
 
 We could not climb the Infinite, 
 
 The jagged heights were steep and long; 
 
 For us child-wistfulness and sleep — 
 Old twilight memories and song. 
 
 Love, is it here that we shall wend, 
 
 Down homelit paths, grown gently wise? 
 
 Perhaps our eyes, made glad of earth. 
 Shall find the Key to Paradise. 
 
 [4] 
 
A PANAMA P^AN 
 
 Where the sea-gods call from the spume-choked 
 
 spaces, 
 While the circling search-lights shatter the gloom, 
 The ghosts of the centuries hide their faces, 
 Aghast at the cleft of the Mother's womb. 
 For they clove the womb of the old Earth Mother- — 
 These Yanjkee Titans — brother with brother. 
 They fared from their homes to these tropic places, 
 But Death marked many for a hero's tomb. 
 
 How the steam-shovel groans and the air-pump 
 
 quivers ! 
 Yea, Atlas pales in the swirl o' the storm; 
 They have channeled the lakes, and they've 
 
 throttled the rivers, 
 But the heart of the old Earth Mother beats warm. 
 And her eyes grow soft with the joy of the giving — 
 There's a psalm for the dead, there's a cheer for 
 
 the living; 
 The rock-ribbed hills are rent to slivers. 
 The oceans wait with a vague alarm. 
 
 [5] 
 
The stars, amazed, peer down in their glory ! 
 Wind of the Night ! O Wind of the Mere t 
 Fly on thy wings with the wonderful story, 
 Scatter thy message afar and anear: 
 Swart fleets will float through the draws at even 
 Robed brave in the sunset-hues of heaven, 
 And stripling sailors and shipmen hoary, 
 From the farthest ports shall pause to revere. 
 
 Lo, Triton his night-horn is faithfully sounding 
 Across the wild wastes of the 'wildered seal 
 And the moon-lashed tides at the gates ar 
 
 pounding, 
 O vision Terrific of Things To Be ! 
 And it's East to the West shall be moulded forev€ 
 By the cordage of commerce that no man ca 
 
 sever ; 
 O, God of our Fathers, with blessings abounding 
 Keep Thou our stewardship clean and free I 
 
 In the days of our might, in the pride of ou 
 
 splendour, 
 Lord of the Starry Hosts, King of the Deep? 
 Grant Thou wilt cast on us benisons tender, 
 Watching us waking-eyed, guarding our sleep. 
 
 16] 
 
Thus, by this Waterway, held in Thy hand, 
 Progress shall march in triumphant command; 
 Lord of the Nations, our homage we render, 
 And, O, may the harvest be good that we reap! 
 
 [7] 
 
ON THE ROAD TO BLACK SUDAN 
 
 We saw the snows on Atlas 
 
 Glow red in the sunset's flame; 
 
 We heard the Mosques of the Karaouin 
 
 Resound with Allah's name. 
 
 We saw the Arabs in bournous and cowl 
 
 Kneel down where the Sebou ran — 
 
 On the road that leads from White Tangiers 
 
 Down to the Black Sudan. 
 
 We saw the walls of Kazar 
 
 With its orange and olive trees; 
 
 With its saffron- gilded gateways, 
 
 Sun-baked for centuries. 
 
 We saw Old Fez with its terraces, — 
 
 The march of the caravan. 
 
 On the road that leads from White Tangiers 
 
 Down to the Black Sudan. 
 
 The muezzins" call from the minarets 
 Was borne on the evening air; 
 
 [8] 
 
The hushed bazars of Mequinez 
 Showed us their ancient ware. 
 Snake-skin guitars and tambourines, 
 Girl-slaves from Kharrasan, 
 We saw on the road from White Tangiers 
 Down to the Black Sudan. 
 
 Bedouin pipes with their saddened tones, 
 
 We heard on the desert sands; 
 
 We heard the noon-day prayer go up, 
 
 With the lift of a thousand hands. 
 
 "Allah Akbar !" — the Moghreb dream 
 
 Still lives, hot souls to fan. 
 
 While cities crumble from White Tangiers 
 
 Down to the Black Sudan. 
 
 '[9] 
 
"SEALED ORDERS" 
 
 As stealthily as the tide recedes, the battle-fleet slips 
 
 down, 
 With turret-masts enveiled in sleep, where the sullen 
 
 "killers" frown. 
 And every mother's son aboard from "shore-leave" 
 
 in the town. 
 
 The port-holes hide in the purple haze that over- 
 hangs the sea. 
 
 The savage funnels spit black smoke across the 
 weather-lee. 
 
 The waves awash croon soft and low a good-night 
 melody. 
 
 "Good-night 1 Good-night!" but no man knows 
 what this calm night may bring, 
 
 For swift as fate is Death unleashed when Mars' 
 mad tigers spring. 
 
 "Lights out !" is flashed along the fleet. War looms 
 a living thing. 
 
 [10] 
 
O these are the floating monsters that carry a pent- 
 up hell, 
 
 Where the powder-song of the ftiagazine is wed to 
 the shrieking shell — 
 
 Yet these great ships of war on watch protect the 
 nation well. 
 
 These prowling lions of the deep strike terror with 
 
 their roar, 
 Then lightnings flash and thunders crash and 
 
 wreckage strews the shore — 
 But better far the deep-sea fight than blood across 
 
 our door. 
 
 [11] 
 
SUNDOWN OVER RHEIMS CATHEDRAL 
 
 The sunset's royal livery is thrown. 
 With all its lavish colors, at the last, 
 
 Across each wounded spire, each stricken stone, 
 Symbolic of the Past. 
 
 The soul of dauntless splendor lingers still 
 Around this noble pile, upreared to One 
 
 Whose thought with darkness all the Earth might fill, 
 At quench of sun. 
 
 Alas ! no more proud peals float on the air^ — 
 
 The throats of those great bells are choked with 
 tears. 
 
 And there is desolation everywhere — 
 Ye savage years ! 
 
 A brooding ghost of loneliness and loss 
 
 Walks down these aisles once dear to lovely Peace, 
 For here the hate of men scarred Christ's meek cross, 
 
 Without surcease. 
 
 [12] 
 
And yet, the sunset, steeping all the earth 
 In beauty, seems to lay a reverend kiss 
 
 On Rheims, as if to say "Thou'lt have new birth, 
 Greater than this." 
 
 "From nave and dome and spire thy lights shall shine, 
 Te Deums shall go forth on winds abroad; 
 
 Thanksgiving, Peace and Joy shall yet be thine — 
 Sentry of God!" 
 
 [13] 
 
JAMES NICOLL JOHNSTON 
 
 (In memoriam.) 
 
 I will not weave a garland for him now, 
 Entwined with flowers of song and silver praise, 
 But I would fain recall his peace-lit days, 
 And lay love's hand in sorrow on his brow. 
 
 No more he goes where chirping blackbirds throng, 
 As twilight bathes dear Donegal in dreams ; 
 Those faery-haunted hills and singing streams 
 Keep tryst for him, remembering his song. 
 
 Dust unto dust, so reads the Law for man. 
 And yet a thousand summers shall return — 
 The rose shall live again, new sunsets burn — 
 The royal woods shall hear the Pipes of Pan — 
 
 And he, Apollo's child, who visioned high, 
 May we not say his Spirit shall rejoice. 
 Hearing forever Nature's tranquil voice, 
 Entranced with scenes unviewed by mortal eye? 
 
 [1*1 
 
Lo, he is gone, and all his songs are done. 
 But Beauty that he shaped shall never pass ; 
 For as each year returns the smiling grass. 
 So fair shall bloom his songs, yea every one. 
 
 Time's friendship, fields, the sea. Love's mystic bars, 
 At one with these, his spirit now shall see 
 Life's hidden book through Death's wide mystery. 
 With eyes that drink the secrets of the stars. 
 
 [15] 
 
THE LUSITANIA'S DEAD 
 
 Over the loved ones billows roll, 
 
 The bright Sun warms the deep ; 
 No more for them stern stress of soul, 
 
 Eternal is their sleep. 
 Lord, grant them rest, the young, the old. 
 
 Who lie on Ocean's bed; 
 In Thy great arms do Thou enfold 
 
 The gallant dead. 
 
 Across their eyes the sea-weed blooms, 
 
 And finny creatures play; 
 No more for them glad love-lit rooms. 
 
 For ended is their day. 
 Lord, grant them rest, that silent throng, 
 
 So swiftly from us fled. 
 And bless with Thy soft evensong 
 
 The holy dead. 
 
 On golden lock^ or hair grown white 
 The ghostly moonbeams fall ; 
 [16] 
 
The sea-wind kisses them good-night, 
 While Triton sounds his call. 
 
 Lord, grant them rest, yea every one, 
 Let peace of Thine be spread 
 
 Around them now, whose lives are done — 
 The cherished dead. 
 
 [17] 
 
THE RAINBOW 
 
 Thou art a promise hanging high 
 Across the recent flame-swept sky, 
 
 That peace shall come, whate'er betide, 
 When thunders rock, and tempests ride. 
 
 Thou'rt like a ribbon, bright and fair, 
 With colors strung from angels' hair. 
 
 Thou art Earth's tender trilogy, 
 Of j Faith and Hope and Charity. 
 
 [18] 
 
VIOLETS IN A FLOWER-SHOP 
 
 The dusk is fading like a folded flower, 
 
 That voiceless evenglow matching their eyes, 
 
 For hue and tenderness; the rich day dies, 
 
 The stars come out to hymn the ritual-hour 
 
 Of sylvan trysts, and wings, and whispering shower. 
 
 But here, behind these garish windows rise 
 
 Sheaf upon sheaf of violets whose cries 
 
 Fall on deaf ears, — like huddled slaves they cower. 
 
 They shall be sold as souvenirs, a token 
 
 Of love from lovers happy in the spring; 
 
 Above light hearts they'll weep, whose hearts are 
 
 broken, — 
 Homesick for fields they are remembering. 
 And many with a faltering, last breath. 
 Shall die upon the cold, white face of Death. 
 
 [19] 
 
THE MARCH OF HUMANITY 
 
 From golden dawn to purple dusk, 
 Piled high with bales of smiles and tears, 
 The caravans are dropping down 
 Across the desert-sands of years. 
 
 And when the moonlight's kiss is sweet. 
 Still holds the trail a countless throng ; 
 Betimes a weary camel halts 
 Before an oasis of song. 
 
 But always toward the beckoning West — 
 The sunset-land of heart's desire. 
 The caravans go down to Death 
 The king of Zidon and of Tyre. 
 
 [20] 
 
PAGEANT 
 
 Blue-gray Dawn, and shadows flee 
 Like frightened children through the mist, 
 Before the Marchers of the Morn, 
 In mauve and amethyst. 
 
 Artillery along the clouds 
 
 Spurts rainbow-streams on copse and lawn. 
 
 As Day, the General, signals for 
 
 The red barrage of Dawn. 
 
 Behind a curtain-sky of fire, — 
 That jumbled flood of turquoise sea, — 
 The sunbeams swoop, like eagles, down : 
 Dawn's glittering infantry. 
 
 Then clash the arms of Day and Night ; 
 But Night's redoubts are weak and old. 
 And where Day's victors sweep the field 
 They loose a shower of gold. 
 [21] 
 
Yet violets and daffodils, 
 And little blades of sleepy grass, 
 With me, of all Life's living things, 
 Behold this pageant pass. 
 
 Then standing hushed among the flowers, 
 While Earth drinks deep the wine of Spring, 
 I hear the rivers raise glad voice. 
 The green-robed valleys sing. 
 
 [22] 
 
SONG-MAKERS 
 
 No more we chide the drifting dust of years, 
 For down the Morning^s stairs Pan's music's 
 
 blown ; 
 The Day Star's silver wreath with Evening 
 
 blends, 
 And Dusk puts on her purple robes alone. 
 
 Have we not heard Life's challenge in the dawn, 
 And seen the golden Phoenix ringed with fire ? 
 The Rose of Love showed us her naked soul. 
 Beneath a star-cloaked sea of old desire. 
 
 Now bear we all the Bowl of Dreams on high. 
 And flaunt our crowns of joy, with poppies 
 
 hung; 
 Beside a sleeping lake the lilies leaned, 
 And 'round our feet the magic whispers flung. 
 
 [23] 
 
The Night's cool voice is stirred to fluting 
 
 strains, 
 Earth spiUs her scarlet wine to keep us strong ; 
 For Beauty, setting fingers at our lips, 
 Unsealed our hearts with song. 
 
 [24i] 
 
THE WIND IN THE ELMS 
 
 The sunset's kiss, with lingering desire, 
 Unheeded, falls upon the elms asleep ; 
 They are as lovers, sick of passion's fire. 
 And crave the Moon that rules the starry deep. 
 
 But when that haughty Queen rides down the 
 
 lane. 
 And blows them kisses in a silver throng ; 
 A gush of music floods the elms again. 
 And every leaf is exquisite with song. 
 
 [25] 
 
TO A FIREFLY 
 
 The wonder-works of Nature are sublime ! 
 When that the throbbing heat of day is o'er, 
 And lovely Night's asleep on Summer's shore, 
 Thy flashing flight of wings moves the wild thyme 
 To ghostly beauty ; ah ! thy path's a rhyme, 
 Symphonically sweet, where fairies pour 
 Harvest of song to welcome thee the more, 
 Thou messenger of Earth's glad wooing- time! 
 The wonder-works of Nature are supreme: 
 Star-jewels blaze in the vast heavens above — 
 Here thou dost flare thy way, soft as a dream. 
 Skimming the grassy plain and gossamer ed grove. 
 Till thou must to all creeping creatures seem 
 God's very Herald of Light and Peace and Love. 
 
 [26] 
 
SONG 
 
 Only a time for the watching of wings that cleave 
 
 to the blue-roofed sky, 
 When the sun lies flat, like a plate of gold, over 
 
 the mountains high ; 
 'Tis then we'll take to the Sunrise Trail, and bid 
 
 the town good-bye. 
 
 Only a time for the shouting of winds thnt flirt 
 
 with the sycamore trees, 
 As we drink of the milk of the old Earth Mother, 
 
 for the joy that is steeped in the lees. 
 And we rest in the house that was built for love, 
 
 with its green and crimson frieze. 
 
 Only a time for the music of brooks that romp 
 
 in the sunset's aisle. 
 With a parting kiss for the queenly Dusk that 
 
 waits for the Moon's young smile, 
 Till the stars gather up their golden tents, and 
 
 march in single file. 
 [27] 
 
Only a time for the weaving of words where the 
 
 tide of youth flows strong, 
 And our feet are light on a hill-side road that 
 
 stretches far and long ; 
 Only a joy that is steel, and the Night, the flint 
 
 that strikes to song. 
 
 [28] 
 
THE BELOVED 
 
 Her love is like the treasured scent 
 
 Of roses laid in Attic j ars, 
 
 In whose dear fragrance there are blent 
 
 White dreams of youth, and summer stars. 
 
 The hallowed music of her smile 
 Oft stills for me Life's rude alarms, 
 For glad am I, and sheltered while 
 Held in the haven of her arms. 
 
 I care no whit for riches now — 
 Eternal ecstasies of Spring 
 Are mine, and the brave queenly brow 
 Of her whose love means everything. 
 
 Her love is like a sacred shrine, 
 Where moon-kissed lilies idly stir. 
 And down Night's silver stairs divine, 
 I come — a silent worshiper. 
 
 [29] 
 
ANTICIPATION 
 
 A little house with flowering vines, 
 And a window wide to the sea ; 
 These will I have when my true love comes 
 To keep me company ; 
 
 With the song of a thrush 'neath the apple- 
 blooms 
 To gladden her and me. 
 Pink apple blooms and the drone of the bees 
 In the hush of the golden noon, 
 And the tender shade of an old pine-tree, 
 A-stir to an old love- tune ; 
 There will be silence and honey-sweet — 
 Under the moon. 
 
 For out of the arms of the fragrant Summer, 
 And warmed by the cheery face of the Sun, 
 There will be silence and honey-sweet — 
 When the wonderful day is done, 
 And the hours will blend like star-lit spaces, 
 So shining every one. . . . 
 [30] 
 
All this shall be (0 Dream of Dreams 
 That gilds Life's dark'ning gloaml) 
 When once My Love with smiling lips 
 Comes home. 
 
 [31] 
 
MANHATTAN— FROM THE SOUND 
 
 Like some vast, hushed Lyre, the City looms 
 Against the leaping splendor of the Dawn ; 
 Not yet the clangorous tide of traffic's on 
 Its mighty strings; the flushed East burns and 
 
 blooms — 
 A sea of trembling flame — those million rooms 
 Shall soon belch forth their streams of Brain and 
 
 Brawn, 
 As sleep-bleared eyes see Night's kind arms with- 
 drawn, 
 Ev'n as the hordes that once built Egypt's tombs. 
 And now, the Sun! men's feet salute the sun, 
 Shaking the Lyre to thunder-throbbing strains ; 
 Look ! o'er its chords Life's fingers fiercely run, 
 Till grave Herculean captains grip the reins 
 Of industry; N0I7 from ten- thousand lanes 
 Yon Titan throats proclaim that Day's begun. 
 
 [32] 
 
THE MISSING 
 
 (In memory of J. E. M.) 
 
 Spring will come with her dear caresses, 
 
 Touching the fields to green again ; 
 Spring will come with her vagrant tresses, 
 
 Strewing wild blossoms o'er woodland and glen. 
 But never the loved one returns to the living. 
 
 To tread the old pathways and mingle with men. 
 
 Spring will come in her robes of gladness, 
 Leading the south wind over the lea; 
 
 Spring will come with her girlish madness, 
 Singing new songs of joy to be. 
 
 But never the loved one returns to the home-hearth. 
 Never the loved one fares homeward to me. 
 
 Spring will come with her music and laughter. 
 Sunlight and starlight and moonlight and dew ; 
 
 Spring will come and for long days after 
 Skies will be curtained with magical blue. 
 
 But never the loved one shall smile me a greeting, — 
 Whose grave I have decked with rosemary and rue. 
 
 [33] 
 
TOYS 
 
 Man's life is as a gift, a precious token, 
 To play with, or to treasure, but not to keep ; 
 For soon or late the wonderful bauble is broken. 
 And then, like little children, grown weary of play. 
 At the end of the day. 
 We sleep. 
 
 [34] 
 
THE TRYSTING 
 
 Her feet make music on the grass, 
 Entwined with laughter of the breeze ; 
 And where the roses watch her pass. 
 The Moon weaves silver tapestries. 
 In all the world no grieving mars — 
 Nor evermore shall mar, it seems — 
 The hushed, lone beauty of the stars, 
 The jewelled carpet of my dreams. 
 
 I was a pilgrim on the road. 
 
 Where skies were gray and leaves lay sere; 
 
 Where nightly 'round my bleak abode, 
 
 Blew winds of bitterness and fear. 
 
 She comes and lo ! the Night flames forth, 
 
 To scatter far Life's mad alarms, 
 
 A Prince am I upon the earth. 
 
 With My Beloved in my arms ! 
 
 [35] 
 
APHRODITE 
 
 Her eyes are mellow landscapes of desire, 
 Her lips are roses, and her heart's the Sun, 
 Through which gold streams of love and beauty run. 
 Sounding the chorus of a poets' choir. 
 Yet her proud smile is but the Moon's cold fire, 
 Her hands hold all earth's battles lost and won, — - 
 Crusades and spoils sunk in oblivion, 
 Or burning on Humanity's red pyre. 
 
 Her hair are strands of dreams for which men die, 
 Beating, like prisoners, against Fate's bars ; 
 She is the world's mirage that flames on high, 
 The ghostly light that lures the sinking spars ; 
 The thunder-menace in a blackening sky. 
 The peace that cloaks a Cavalcade of stars. 
 
 [36] 
 
SUMMER DAWN 
 
 Now doth sweet Nature poise her magic brush 
 For the supreme, last effort; 'tranced in dreams, 
 The spangled fields lie liveried brave in green, 
 While swift the blue demesne 
 Of dauntless sky turns to a rosy blush, 
 Flecked with the flashing sunlight's golden beams. 
 
 The palpitating hush of beauty falls 
 
 Over the land ; like elfin troops in white, 
 
 The chaste satyrians stand in plumed array. 
 
 Kissed by the diamond-spray 
 
 Of honey-dew; the red-bird roysterer calls 
 
 From copse to copse while breaks the morning bright. 
 
 Heart of my Heart, look ! Nature paints the world 
 In rainbow colors — bloom and shrub and tree 
 Throb with new life. The South Wind croons a song 
 Of wild-wood hours so long; 
 For Summer's joyous banner is unfurled. 
 Deep-blazoned with Dawn's gorgeous pageantry. 
 
 [37] 
 
WHEN SUMMER DIES 
 
 When Summer dies, then does it seem to me 
 The flowers grieve that soon for them shall be 
 
 The end of life; no more for them the rise 
 Of throbbing sun-dawn, gold across the lea! 
 
 I think the dew's but tears from Pan's poor eyes, 
 When Summer dies. 
 
 And she, my love, does she have aught of cheer, 
 Now that the end of loveliness draws near? 
 
 What bodes those vague, unearthly forest-cries? 
 Are not those robin-notes surcharged with fear? 
 
 Ah, sorrow seems to tinge the very skies 
 When Summer dies! 
 
 Yet though all Nature wither like a leaf, 
 And life seem harshly gray and choked with grief, 
 
 Be sure brave Virtue ever wins the prize. 
 Whether our lives be overlong or brief. 
 
 Yes, on the world God's richest love-light lies. 
 When Summer dies. 
 [38] 
 
A RAIN-DROI* 
 
 I am a bubble in the heart of things, 
 
 A momentary miracle that springs 
 
 Across the world's vast face, and then is gone. 
 
 So like a human presence, as it glows 
 
 On earth a space, 'twixt Dawn and Sunset's close, 
 
 Till Death's hot drought or, yea, his freezing snows. 
 
 Then, lo, like me. 
 
 Back to the heart of things 
 
 It goes. 
 
 [39] 
 
AT DANTE'S TOMB 
 
 The Night breathes song with starry eloquence 
 Where now the stern-faced Dreamer keeps his 
 
 sleep ; 
 A peasant dofFs his cap — our pulses leap, 
 
 And Fame takes on a huge significance. 
 
 Here Time guards well the gates of eminence, — 
 Above the Tuscan hills the airmen sweep. 
 Like birds of prey ; the clocks to midnight creep, 
 
 The hour strikes — heads bow in reverence. 
 
 From out the mounded dust of centuries, 
 
 Thy dreams are flowering, Poet, though no more 
 Canst thou go musing by blue Arno's shore. 
 
 Thy mind at work with mighty mysteries. 
 Yet hush ! — far ofF resounds the boom of war. 
 
 Symbolic of thy life's experiences. 
 
 [40] 
 
THE "BENCHER'S" CHRISTMAS-EVE 
 
 He passed the homes on the Avenue, where the lamps 
 of the Mighty shine, 
 
 Where celebrations marked his eyes, with laughter, 
 song and wine; 
 
 With weary feet and a breaking heart, he came and 
 sat him down, 
 
 To watch the merry throngs go by on Christmas-Eve, 
 down-town. 
 
 (A homeless bunch of rags, forsooth, on whom police- 
 men frown.) 
 
 The jostling crowds, with packages, rushed gaily 
 
 through the Square, 
 The Christmas chimes of Trinity smote softly on the 
 
 air; 
 Somewhere, far off, on Childhood's hills, he heard a 
 
 mother's song — 
 
 [41] 
 
A thousand years ago it seemed, — ^how long it was, 
 
 how long ! 
 (To-night the North Wind's knife cut deep, and he 
 
 was never strong.) 
 
 A young girl passed with swinging stride. Youth's fire 
 in her eyes, 
 
 A flock of newsies scurried by, with loud, discor- 
 dant cries ; 
 
 A snowflake touched his chalk-like face — he heard 
 a shopper say: 
 
 "It's tough for 'bums' this winter-night, and he is 
 old and gray." 
 
 (Just then a limousine whirled by, with people from 
 the play.) 
 
 "0 Christ," he cried, "they say the Poor are pleasing 
 in Your sight, 
 
 "A dirty dreg of earth, I pray to You this Christ- 
 mas night; 
 
 "Take me away from all this light, this music, and 
 this mirth, 
 
 "For hunger and great loneliness are all I have on 
 earth, — • 
 
 "My mother's arms I'd like to feel around me, as at 
 birth." .... 
 
 [42] 
 
The North Wind laughed with ghoulish glee, more 
 
 fiercely growled the storm, 
 The snowflakes fell like a shroud of death across his 
 
 stiffening form, — 
 His mother's arms were Wound 7wm, she made him 
 
 snug and warm. 
 
 [43] 
 
THE NUPTIALS 
 
 (Joseph Plunkett, Irish poet-patriot-martyr, was married 
 at evening and executed the next day at sunrise in connection 
 with the Sinn Fein Rebellion.) 
 
 O Love of all my life, the day is done. 
 
 Look! Night throws purple shadows on the sea — 
 
 Cling closer, Love, through all eternity 
 
 We shall recall this hour ; there is One, 
 
 Besides ourselves, albeit, like the Sun — 
 
 Radiant and high — shall mold my dreams for me — 
 
 Shall give to Erin strength to battle free. 
 
 While some proud thrones sink to oblivion. 
 
 Time hastes; soon Dawn shall wipe away the stars 
 And my young life ; yet, if I e'er had fears 
 Of Death, they've left me now — like rose-laid jars. 
 Love's honeyed sweetnessi soothes me, and appears 
 The Vision I have glimpsed through prison bars: 
 Brave Erin smiling through a veil of tears. 
 
 [44] 
 
MOONLIGHT 
 
 The velvet-footed Night lays healing hands 
 On lake and river and sleeping meadow-lands. 
 Across the restless city moon-beams play, 
 Turning the fevered dark to silver day. 
 O Moon of Memory, Queen of old years, 
 Mistress of the world's laughter and its tears. 
 Long since did Vergil — laurellel poet — raise. 
 From out his store of jewelled nights and days, 
 A mighty monument of song to thee! 
 Full-fashioned out of vast infinity. 
 Thou wearest evening's gallant robe of blue — 
 For ages old, yet magically new — 
 With all the grace and grandeur of a queen. 
 Traversing thy demesne. 
 
 Rose-time of youth ! ye vision-straining faces ! 
 Far, far we wandered over moon-blown spaces. 
 By hawthorn-ways, beyond the reed-lined river. 
 Long seeking Beauty — her, the gracious giver. 
 And once, so near, we almost clutched her dress, 
 
 [46] 
 
Yet when we looked, lo, there was Nothingness — 
 Nothing but dreams and wistful after-glow — 
 How well we know! 
 
 And as thou wanest, Moon, our lives shall pass, 
 And we shall be like blades of riven grass. 
 Dust to the dust, borne on a vagrant breeze. 
 Freighted with bits of lovers' melodies. 
 Love's heartbreak, music, wine and wayside song, 
 These, too, shall pass, nor be remembered long. 
 But O, my heart! we who have wooed the Night 
 Of moon-hushed avenues and rapturous sky- — 
 Illimitable lanes of witchery — 
 Into the Great Beyond, with eyes alight. 
 Shall we not fare, like eagles homeward veering, 
 Nor anything of Death's adventure fearing? 
 With arms outstrettihed to greet the old Earth- 
 Mother — 
 
 Brother with Brother, 
 We shall arise to make the final quest, — 
 
 Yes, thi^ is best: 
 To go by night along a windless shore, 
 In comradeship with Beauty evermore, — 
 Moon-silence, Peace, and Death for dearest friend. 
 
 When, lif §'^ at an end. 
 
 [46] 
 
TRANSPOSITION 
 
 In those dim years when yet your youth a-flower, 
 Threw ofF a radiance, rich as liquid gold; 
 I stood, appalled, before your Beauty's power, 
 And I felt old. 
 
 But now, though like an autumn-dusk you fade. 
 The memory of your love through heart and tongue. 
 Makes life a Spring-lit road, with violets laid, 
 And I am young. 
 
 im 
 
SACRIFICE 
 
 Sing not to me of earthly power, 
 
 For winds make sport of the dust of kings ; 
 In many an immemorial hour 
 
 Men fought and bled for trivial things. 
 Sing me the prayer that lifts from some white heart, 
 As Earth's immortal part. 
 
 For deeds that live to gain reward, 
 
 And dreams that barter Love for Fame: 
 
 These all shall die as with a sword, 
 And be forever linked with shame. 
 
 The great white visions born of pain and death. 
 
 These have eternal breath. 
 
 And as a comet sweeps the sky. 
 
 To reappear through cycling years. 
 
 So shall Love's deeds supreme and high 
 Enldndle hope again from tears. 
 
 Sing me Love's utter sacrifice and loss — 
 
 Christ's death upon the Cross. 
 
 [48] 
 
RECOMPENSE 
 
 Against the keen-edged winds of life, 
 That pitilessly leap and dart ; 
 You warmed me, with true mother-love. 
 At the fires of your heart. 
 
 Now that your days of bloom are spent. 
 And Age, slow-creeping, chills your form; 
 Close-sheltered in my filial love. 
 What matters cold or storm ! 
 
 [49] 
 
A NIGHT OF STARS 
 
 Night's decorated altar throbs and glows 
 Far out in sacred stillnesses of space. 
 The moon, for sanctuary lamp, has place 
 
 Of proud dominion; starry blooms unclose. 
 
 Like red and purple tapers ; darkness shows 
 Blue sky for altar-cloth; and there is trace 
 Of filmy clouds to serve as altar-lace. 
 
 Pure-white and clean as winter's driven snows. 
 
 Sweep low your matchless music, starlit hours. 
 Along earth's sleeping roofs, that men may 
 hear! 
 And 'wake our souls to beauty fair as flowers 
 That, smiling, meet God's smile year after 
 year. 
 Waft down some singing angel's keen delight 
 Across the panorama of the night. 
 
 [50] 
 
SUNSET AT SEA 
 
 Silence, attuned to music, rules the Deep. 
 Like some vast, filigreed fan, the dauntless sky 
 Spreads wide its blood-red splendors royally, 
 For Day, the Kingly One, doth couch in sleep. 
 Across the frenzied West weird spectres creep, 
 Lashed on by that perpetual Power on high. 
 Which whirls this pin-point world, where you and I — 
 Mites of creation, watch the fire-tides sweep. 
 
 So Adam, haply, ranging earth's bleak shore. 
 Close-clasping Eve, his helpmate, by the hand, 
 Once marked the great Sun kiss the fading strand, 
 His eyes remorseful that it smiled no more 
 On him and his, glad in God's garden-land, 
 His ears new-choked with Life's stern, sullen roar. 
 
 [51] 
 
ILLUSION 
 
 When "blue^robed Evening* climbs Night's altar-* 
 
 stairs, 
 And hides from view the dead Day's sanctities, 
 Her image comes before my lonely eyes, 
 To wipe away old griefs and dark despairs. 
 Warm arms creep softly 'round me unawares, 
 Once more I hear those tender, low replies. 
 And Peace comes to my heart ; Life's clangor dies, 
 For Love walks with me down bright thorough- 
 fares. . . . 
 
 Dreams play strange pranks, and 3^et I swear she 
 
 came, 
 With smile-enwreathed face, across the grass. 
 To keep me company till night should pass, 
 All for the sake of Love's immortal name. 
 Ah! look — Dawn's rosy curtains flare and flame, 
 And I have broken Memory's looking-glass. 
 
 [52] 
 
OLD GARDENS AND OLD DREAMS 
 
 Old gardens and old dreams — ^here strays Delight, 
 To loose the chains of care from weary feet ; 
 When Morning's kiss falls sweet 
 Upon the red-gowned rose or pansy trim, 
 Contentment cools the soul ; the robin's hymn 
 Sounds like a nun's white prayer at close of night. 
 Memories long dead — proud passions of the past, 
 (Youth's bravest first, Life's broken-visioned last) 
 Once more — pale wraiths — roam down these green- 
 wood-aisles — 
 
 Old lovers with old smiles ; 
 'Twixt vagrant, wind-blown spaces. 
 Come forth old friends — the dear, the cherished 
 
 faces, 
 Forgotten in Life's fevered afterwhiles. 
 Here, 'mid the laughing grass and shy-lipped clover. 
 With songs of Youth and music echoing. 
 Queen Beauty breeds new forms, all brimm.ed over 
 With careless rapture of eternal Spring — 
 
 Gay fantasies that cling 
 [53] 
 
Around the dreaming heart ; here glad-winged hours 
 Flit through the frail battalions of the flowers; 
 And when the Sun of Noon is on his throne, 
 
 I walk alone, 
 Drinking the Cup of Peace; yes, this is best, 
 
 Under the tented sky. 
 Surrounded by dear Summer's artistry, 
 
 To rest. 
 But when Night's purple breast 
 Is folded 'neath the sheltering wings of sleep. 
 
 There comes a solace deep — 
 The hushful voice of the caressing rain — 
 Far, far I slip from War and Blood and Pain, 
 
 And I would fain 
 Be gathered up in the soft arms of Death, 
 While blows Earth's rain-sweet breath. 
 
 Across the flowers. 
 
 [54] 
 
CONTEMPLATION 
 
 Yes, this is best, O heart! 
 
 Here's peace, and the cool touch of pitying Night. 
 
 No more around us ghosts of dead dreams hover. 
 
 'Tis true, thy wounds still bleed and sorely smart, 
 
 Yet moon-lit trees shall heal them with delight. 
 
 Tear out the ragged page of memory, 
 
 O poppy-poisoned lover! 
 
 Along these star-hushed pathways you shall run. 
 
 Forgetting Life flung roses in the sun — 
 
 Roses that turned to dust; ah! this is best: 
 
 To lay old tears and partings on the breast 
 
 Of uncomplaining Night. ... Be glad! be free! 
 
 Go not through Pan's cathedral, sadly sighing. 
 
 Deaf to his music ; you shall soon recover, 
 
 O heart, amid Night's solitude undying, 
 
 For now Love's fevered days and dreams are over. 
 
 Night and the stars — and winds forever blowing. 
 Heart, these are yours ; the mating-songs of birds, 
 The patient pines that murmur cryptic words. 
 And laughing rills, and quiet rivers flowing. 
 
 [55] 
 
You shall be one with the majestic Sea. 
 
 Hold converse with the slumber-lidded hills, 
 
 Whose calm, mysterious beauty ever thrills 
 
 The soul to thoughts of immortality. 
 
 Yet, heart, before you take the Night for bride, 
 
 Lift up a farewell-prayer to the One 
 
 Who made Love's noon-day garden like the sun, 
 
 Wherein no darkness came till Summer died. 
 
 Wisdom and Truth and Beauty, and brave tears, 
 
 These all you have, O heart — so let it be. 
 
 The Rain's warm kiss and Night's immensity 
 
 Shall give you songs to speed the lagging years. 
 
 Yes, this is best — you shall be Night's fond lover, 
 For now Love's fevered days and dreams are over. 
 
 [56] 
 
REQUIEM 
 
 Darken the lights on the lonely threshold, 
 
 Life will not trouble her now with his merciless din ; 
 
 Over the wreck of the bitterest pain and the parting, 
 
 Love could not enter in — 
 
 Darken the lights ! 
 
 Lower the shades on the moon-washed windows^ 
 Better for her Death's peace away from the light; 
 Cover her soft with the magical mantle of silence — 
 Warp of the summer night — 
 Lower the shades ! 
 
 Bolt up the doors to the room where she's lying. 
 Sorrow will thrall her no more, now life's at an end; 
 Dreams she had known, and lovers heartless and 
 
 faithless. 
 But Death was her loyal friend — 
 Bolt up the doors ! 
 
 [57] 
 
She is at rest beyond Life's turmoil, 
 
 Needless your pity, or any fond vigil you'd keep; 
 
 Life that was harsh to her, now is at work with the 
 
 living, 
 Death that was kind, gave her sleep — 
 She is at rest. 
 
 [58] 
 
THE DYING YEAR 
 
 (1917) 
 
 Dirge-toned and slow a Requiem of Death 
 Re-echoes down from Night's moon-haunted tower, 
 Reviving scenes of birth and winey breath 
 In Nature's gay, untrammelled June-lit bower. 
 
 Gray-gowned, the penitential seasons pass, 
 Each one more lovely for the trembling tear 
 That, like a pearl, drops on the dying grass, 
 Already doomed to shroud the dying year. 
 
 Spring walks with maybell-chaplets 'round her hair. 
 And Summer goes, rose-crowned, into the dark ; 
 While Autumn, with her strong, tanned arms and 
 
 bare, 
 Takes leave of wrinkled Winter in the park. 
 
 White-haired and icy-veined, gaunt Winter stands, 
 A king surveying lands beneath his thrall; 
 
 [59] 
 
And 'though he holds a scepter in his hands, 
 No pomp enhances his inaugural. 
 
 Only great winds that herald pain and loss, 
 Impress the crown of war on Beauty's brow — 
 Upon the night they scroll Earth's bloody cross, 
 Reeking pathetically with misery now. 
 
 The star-attended moon that rides the sky, 
 Engendering hushed dreams of years now fled, 
 Recalls how swift Life's mighty moments fly — 
 To-night I know another year is dead. 
 
 [60] 
 
SONG 
 
 If you have loved and lost, lad, 
 And Life's a bitter story ; 
 Stop not to count the cost, lad, 
 For you have drunk of glory. 
 
 But, if you've loved and won, lad. 
 And Life's gold dawn is 'waking, 
 Go, sing the world a song, lad. 
 For many hearts are breaking. 
 
 O Love's a road of thorns and briers. 
 You cannot stop for breath; 
 It leads to stars and rainbows. 
 And, sometimes, lad, to death. 
 
 But, win or lose in love, lad. 
 Right bravely greet the morrow! 
 And sing a song of love, lad. 
 For love is joy and sorrow. 
 [61] 
 
SEPTEMBER DUSK 
 
 It is the silence as when lovers meet, 
 After the slow, revolving change of years. 
 When all Night's plume-tossed pageantry, complete. 
 Begins to move through purple sky-portieres. 
 
 Now stars are clocks that chime the drowsy hours 
 Above gray lanes where ghostly cedars sleep ; 
 And grasses stand as sentinels to flowers. 
 Against marauding birds that earthward sweep. 
 
 It has the childish wistfulness of Death, 
 
 When eyes go blind before Life's beckoning spire; 
 
 Like we — it is a dream, a sea-blown breath. 
 
 That stirs dry leaves, splashed red with sunset-fire. 
 
 It is the bugle blown, whose echoes die 
 Along a moon-tranced beach when winds are still, — 
 The sadness' of old pines that know the cry 
 Of the sad whip-poor-will. 
 [62] 
 
EXCURSION 
 
 When spendthrift Morning flings his gold 
 Across the fields of jocund red, 
 Then girlish Autumn — supple, bold, . 
 Springs from her leafy, virgin's bed. 
 
 The hooded sumachs veil their eyes. 
 The maples' cheeks are tinged with shame, 
 For Autumn comes with swift surprise, 
 And love is in her looks aflame. 
 
 To waving maize and alder-bloom 
 
 She shouts "Good-Morning," while the breeze. 
 
 For mischief, gives her elbow-room. 
 
 Then blows her skirts above her knees. 
 
 But Autumn laughs and scampers down 
 To purple-oozing hills of vine ; 
 And drinks until her russet-gown 
 Is stained with grape and berry-wine. 
 
 [63] 
 
Then mountain-ash and laurel come 
 
 Down sunset-pathways still and steep; 
 'Mid thrush's song and insect's hum, 
 They lead the hoyden off to sleep. 
 
 O Autumn is a tipsy j ade, 
 She bids "Good Eve" to bird and flower, 
 But when the long dusk-shadows fade. 
 She scorns her maiden's bed-time hour. 
 
 For her the Moon's rich harvest-smile 
 Falls silver-soft and gently slow; 
 For her star-pageants, mile on mile. 
 Pass by in wonder-streaming show. 
 
 Yet earthly things are brief at best, 
 And there's a sadness in her eyes ; 
 For when gray Winter stalks the West, 
 The lovely Autumn dies. 
 
 [6*] 
 
LIFE'S GRAY SHADOWS 
 
 Life flung us lilies, but we craved Love's wine, 
 In those dear lilac-dusks of long ago ; 
 
 Blue moons of fragrant memory are mine: 
 
 The Spring's caress, your eyes, and sunset-glow. 
 
 Old, starry griefs and laughter bom of Youth 
 I plucked for you, and wove into a song; 
 
 The magic fire that leaps to fondle Truth, 
 
 Once touched my lips and made my spirit strong. 
 
 Too late to know what Love in silence sings. 
 My ears grew deaf to his immortal call ; 
 
 The music dies, and only Sorrow clings 
 
 Around two hearts that still remember all — 
 
 As Life's gray shadows faU. 
 
 [65] 
 
ON AN AGED POET WHO IS FAILING 
 
 The iron that was in his blood, 
 And once ran molten-red, 
 Is like a cooling cinder-ash 
 That dies when flame is fled. 
 
 The tempered steel of his desire. 
 
 That flashed Life's sparks so long; 
 
 Is cloaked with Time's slow-killing rust — 
 
 Once he was young, and strong. 
 
 The g'leaming silver of his mind — 
 Ah, who shall And it now.'' 
 There's silver on his scanty hair, 
 And wrinkles on his brow. 
 
 But of his dreams, O masters, hear! 
 Let this proud tale be told : 
 He leaves the world, as heritage, 
 A hoard of purest gold. 
 [66] 
 
WINTER STARS 
 
 The sky is a blue bowl, 
 
 Inverted, 
 
 Dripping with diamonds. 
 
 As lovely as a dream fading to glittering distances. 
 
 The air, 
 
 Like the cold kiss of a weary lover, 
 
 Brushes my cheek. 
 
 The streets are silver ribbons, 
 
 That crystallize to rainbow-colors 
 
 Beneath the moon, 
 
 Diverging hither and yon, 
 
 Far, . . . far ... to the ghostly suburbs. 
 
 While the Night— 
 
 A queenly sleep-walker, 
 
 Robed in peace, 
 
 And sweet with the magic of silence, 
 
 Traverses the world. 
 
 [67] 
 
BATTLE CRY 
 
 Lord of the living and dying, 
 
 Judge of the hosts that are dead, 
 Spinner of years swiftly flying, 
 
 Sentry of centuries fled, — 
 Ah, though my life looms up lowly. 
 
 Though I be lost in the fight. 
 This be my prayer. Lord, solely, 
 
 Make my arm strong for the Right 1 
 
 Daily the armies are clashing: 
 
 Virtue arrayed against Sin; 
 Look, where the lances are flashing, 
 
 Cowardly traitors creep in ! 
 So, I would pray and implore Thee, 
 
 Now while I'm armored with youth. 
 Hold Thou the sword out before me. 
 
 Make my arm strong for the Truth ! 
 
 Greed hath the world in its madness ; 
 Error runs wild day and night; 
 [68] 
 
Pessimists pluck out the gladness, 
 Men have derived from Thy Light. 
 
 Yet, through faith's faucets supernal. 
 Gushing supreme in my breast, 
 
 I would beseech. Lord Eternal, 
 
 Make my arm strong for the Best I 
 
 Golden Thy rule is and mighty, 
 
 Framed for the rich and the poor; 
 Never wild brain-fancies, flighty. 
 
 Dragging men down with their lure; 
 Order and law was Thy teaching. 
 
 Thine was the Master's true role. 
 Lord of Crusaders, world-reaching. 
 Give me a valorous soul ! 
 
 [69] 
 
THE ANGELUS 
 
 The red moon glows like some rich poppy-flower 
 Against the Night's blue breast ; green saplings stir 
 Their tiny hands in sleep ; shy lavender 
 Enfolds each valley-hamlet, tower on tower. 
 Now for a space Queen Beauty wields her power: 
 Before her throne, far from the City's whir, 
 Earth bows, and like blown frankincense and myrrh, 
 The hush of evening rises hour by hour. 
 
 And lo, across the dusk, I hear a bell — 
 
 The low-toned Angelus that calls to prayer, 
 
 In memory of Mary, pure and fair, 
 
 Who knelt long since beneath bright Gabriel's spell. 
 
 Somewhere a homing thrush his love-song trills. 
 
 And Night creeps down upon the sleeping hills. 
 
 [70] 
 
ON A MADONNA PAINTED BY PERUGINO 
 
 Lo, this is She — Salvation's burning sign! 
 Dear lips poised virgin-wise, as if a prayer 
 For recreant sinners shyly trembled there — 
 What patient mother-eyes, love-brimmed, benign ! 
 A star-hushed Lily — sprung from David's line — 
 Earth's queenliest flower — See! the hallowed hair, 
 Those eager, clasping hands, grown fairest fair, 
 For that they hold the Infant Babe divine. 
 
 O Lord of all Art's beauty-flashing goal. 
 Though noble centuries have choired her name, 
 Stir Thou my heart with fire to limn her soul 
 In all its golden glory: yet, if blame 
 For sin debar me — take my tears for toll. 
 My silence and my sorrow, yes — my shame. 
 
 [71] 
 
GOD'S TREE 
 
 A tree grew in the Garden of the Lord, 
 
 Watered by the Eternal Word; 
 With Dawn's blue wings beneficently spread 
 
 Above its gentle head, 
 Its flowers were like the lily -blooms that spring 
 When Summer's golden heart is glittering. 
 Yet sunset found them ruddy as the rose, 
 Whose perfume lulls June gardens to repose. 
 And when the moonlight silvered this fair Tree, 
 
 Lo ! there would be — 
 For wondering angel-eyes to see — 
 White blossoms, stainless as fresh-fallen snows. 
 
 And God, the Gardener, walking His domain, 
 
 Said: "I would fain 
 That men of earth might view this lovely Tree. 
 I shall transplant it down upon the earth; 
 
 And by its mystic birth. 
 Surcharged with Heaven-wrought heredity, 
 The world of men shall once more turn to Me." 
 
 [72] 
 
Vibrant with splendor, like the star of morn, 
 
 From every earth-taint shorn, 
 It grew a thing of beauty for all time, 
 Unmarred by sin's vile mire or its slime. 
 Its ruddy blossoms opened, and there came 
 
 Love's living flame — 
 The Christ Divine who labored in God's name. 
 The white blooms burst that men again might see 
 The sign of womanhood's virginity. 
 The seeds that fell from this immortal Tree 
 Have taken root, and through the centuries 
 New trees will bloom to gladden men's poor eyes 
 
 A symbol of the Tree of Paradise. 
 Love, fortitude, and dauntless purity, 
 These fruits it gives to earth perpetually. 
 
 God said: "I shall transplant on earth a Tree, 
 In memory of My Son and Her and Me." 
 
 [73] 
 
SIR GALAHAD'S VISION OF THE VIRGIN 
 
 'Tis on the holy night of Candlemas, 
 A merry moon spills silver on the snow, 
 And stately pines, like sentinels a-row, 
 Behold a rider pass. 
 
 Sir Galahad, a noble knight and true, 
 Whose gallant blade is ever raised on high 
 To shield weak V^omanhood in chivalry. 
 Springs suddenly to view. 
 
 His casque of gold strikes fire, and his eyes 
 Burn with a m37^stic light — in all the land 
 Rides never knight more fit to hold command 
 In desperate emprise. 
 
 Yet 'tis the night of Candlemas — he goes 
 On peaceful quest, yon chapel summons him. 
 Where watchful tapers flame, and Seraphim 
 Are sculptured in repose. 
 [74] 
 
He falleth on his knees — far, far the world 
 Recedes, and Sin, and every evil thing 
 That vexes men, when lo ! a fluttering 
 Like to great sails unfurled. 
 
 He glanceth up — "O Ladye, grasp mine arm. 
 Strengthen mine eyes that gladden now to tears. 
 Thou stately Lily of the Starry Spheres. 
 Bright Beacon in the Storm !" 
 
 She stands — our blessed Ladye — like the sun. 
 The while a diamond light moves slowly 'round, 
 Wherein a Seraph circles without sound. 
 Calm as oblivion. 
 
 The Virgin speaks: ''Unconquerable Knight,, 
 Strong as the oak, for that thy heart is pure. 
 Keep thou steadfast, let naught of earth allure 
 To mar thee in my sight." 
 
 What loving look the Virgin casts on him. 
 It seemeth his lost childhood comes again. 
 Bringing a mother's care, and then — ah ! then 
 The dazzling rafters swim. . . . 
 
 [75] 
 
Viols and harps breathe music 'mid a throng 
 
 Of swaying lihes ; ruddy roses s'tir, 
 While ceaselessly a mighty thurifer 
 Blends with an Angel's song. 
 
 Let ws rejoice f Madonna of the Morn, 
 Let us rejoice. Thou Lily of the Night, 
 
 With happy voice. 
 
 Let us rejoice . . . 
 
 Thou Jewel of the Crown, of Kings, 
 Thou Bloom of God's imaginings. 
 
 With tireless voice 
 
 Let us rejoice. 
 
 Rejoice. . . . 
 
 The Vision fades, the North Wind's trumpet-blast 
 Is borne unto his sad and startled ears, 
 And o'er his eyes there falls a mist like tears, 
 Because the dream is past. 
 
 He mounts his fiery steed, the ancient stars 
 Smile down as swift as he skims the lonely plain, 
 Sir Galahad, the Pure — devoid of stain. 
 Is leaving for the wars. 
 • •••••• 
 
 [76] 
 
'Tis on the holy night of Candlemas, 
 A merry moon spills silver on the snow, 
 The stately pines, like sentinels a-row. 
 Behold a rider pass. 
 
 {77] 
 
VERONICA TO THE MOB 
 
 "A woman sprang from the crowd and wiped His face 
 with a cloth, and lo! thereon He left the bloody imprint of 
 His countenance." 
 
 Yea, even as ye, I followed on the road — 
 
 I saw Him bear His load, 
 The cruel weight of that o'erpowering Cross ; 
 I saw the sickly sweat, the pitiful loss 
 Of ruby-colored Blood that oozed from Him 
 At every step; I marked His eyes grow dim, 
 And when He fell beneath your rain of blows, 
 And like Hell's clamor, pandemonium rose, 
 'Twas then I caught His eye, half-closed with mire. 
 And there ran through my veins, like streams of fire, 
 A very flood of pent-up tenderness. 
 And I resolved, against all strife and stress 
 That raged around me, I would leave my place, 
 And daring all, wipe clean His bloody face, 
 
 Look ye! this is the kerchief that I bore 
 
 With trembling hands, and placed upon His brow — 
 
 Mark ye it now ! 
 Ah me! — down to the grave the look He wore, 
 
 [78] 
 
Goes night and day before me evermore. 
 When He gave back this white cloth unto me, 
 His Face shone like the moon on Jazer's Sea, 
 And there were sunset-colors 'round His hair, 
 And scents from hidden gardens filled the air. 
 And then — O hark ye! ye who jeered Him down, 
 And pressed upon His head your mocking crown — 
 
 He smiled a wondrous smile; 
 Yea, all your heaped-up torments mile on mile, 
 As then I glimpsed Him for a moment's while, 
 Had marred not ev'n the hem of His poor gown. . . . 
 
 I looked again, and all was as before: 
 
 I saw Him stumble on in travail sore, 
 
 And I held in my hands, clutched tight and fast, 
 
 This cloth that shows Him facing Death at last. 
 
 Yea, I, Veronica, am glad that I 
 
 Wiped clean His woeful face as He passed by. 
 
 [79] 
 
OMNIPOTENCE 
 
 Death spoke, amid the rumbling roll of thunder, 
 Along the vast, black-curtained reach of shore: 
 "Revenge is mine, my hand shall draw them under, 
 The homes of earth shall know their steps no more." 
 
 But when the Dawn — a rose of golden wonder — 
 
 Flamed radiantly across the sleeping sea ; 
 
 I saw the ship, and while I paused to ponder 
 
 How ail on board in safety still could be, 
 
 A voice cried out : "I tore Death's bonds asunder, 
 
 I am the Lord of Love, give thanks to Me !" 
 
 [80] 
 
ON A RUINED ABBEY AT DUSK^ 
 
 A wand of reverence rules the purple hush; 
 They cared not here what storms were forged afar, 
 Seeing with peace-lit eyes each bloom-crowned bush 
 The sunset splendored like a new-born star. 
 For them the noble chaunt of churchly hymn, 
 Where gentle gilly-flowers basked an dreams. 
 Gray-gowned they walked — their hearts enwrapped 
 
 in prayer — 
 With eyes that pierced beyond Earth's farthest 
 
 rim, 
 Yea, far beyond the sea-moon's wistful beams. 
 To where St. Bernard climbed God's mystic stair. 
 
 They had their j oys ; on many a rose-flushed dawn 
 
 Trooped down yon ancient path that meets the sea. 
 
 To pit their sun-toiled strength and virgin brawn 
 
 Against the waves' lithe arms ; quaint pageantry 
 
 Of noontide's blue and gold for them marched by; 
 
 1 Beaulieu Abbey, Hampshire, England. 
 Founded in 1204 A. D. by King John. 
 
 [81] 
 
From sward and copse each locust, bird and bee 
 For them made music; yet, as swallows fly 
 Southward when Summer winds her parting horn, 
 To-night they are but wraiths of memory, 
 The Abbot's garden sobs a song forlorn. 
 
 Grave, saintly faces' — scholared minds of old. 
 Here wont at eve to grace the cloistered green. 
 Are dust ; no more the Angelus is tolled, 
 •No more from great Aquinas do they glean 
 Wisdom of Christian lore. 
 
 When stars looked down. 
 And Spring crooned softly 'neath the budded Moon, 
 Then most, I think, each Brother's tonsured crown 
 Was pleasing to Our Lady of the May, 
 Yet all things, save our dreams, fall to decay — 
 
 The Sea's breath quickens now, the West burns dim, 
 Pale, ghostly fingers kiss the moss-hung walls. 
 But from those abbey-towers, I swear, a hymn — 
 An "Adoremus Domine" — ^^enthralls 
 The listening Night ; it soars aloft, afar — 
 Across the boundaries of sea and sky — 
 Up from these paths that holy men have trod: 
 
 [82] 
 
"Praise Ye the Lord!'* — it rises clear and high, 
 And lo ! I kneel, for where those choirs are, 
 Eternal looms the Great White Throne of God. 
 
 [83] 
 
THE SPIRES OF ST. PATRICK'S^ 
 
 In mute-tongued reverence and splendor lone. 
 They lift beseeching hands to God on high, 
 Blending their peace with the majestic sky — 
 A veritable prayer of steel and stone. 
 Above the Avenue's proud monotone 
 Of Wealth that overawes the passer-by, 
 These shafts are wings on which hosannahs fly, 
 And penitential psalms are starward blown. 
 
 Like sentinels, unmoved, calm-eyed and strong. 
 Who guard the hidden gates of Life and Death, 
 They stand and drink the South-Wind's winey breath, 
 Surcharged with hints of Love and Sacred Song. 
 Of temples such as this the Master saith: 
 "Keep sweet My dwelling-place, here Angels throng." 
 
 1 Fifth Avenue, New York 
 
 [84] 
 
CHRISTMAS IN THE ARGONNE 
 
 'Tis Christmas-Eve in the gray Argonne, 
 Where Yankees fought and bled; 
 
 The snow floats down in silver flakes 
 Upon each burial-bed. 
 
 When, lo, One comes in Comradeship, 
 To vigil with the Dead. 
 
 And swift each ghostly warrior stands 
 
 With reverential grace. ; 
 They spread a friendly circle 'round, 
 
 And gaze upon His face. 
 They know Him for the "Prince of Peace," 
 
 Who loves the Human Race. 
 
 And soft there rises on the night 
 
 A golden Christmas-Song ; 
 The woods are hushed to hear the notes 
 
 Of soldier-voices strong. 
 For Christ has flung the spark of joy 
 Among this warrior-throng. 
 [85] 
 
Then every dead man gathered there 
 Goes up and grips His hand; 
 
 They greet Him as the Living Lord, 
 Whose nod is a command, 
 
 And now they hail Him as "The Chief," 
 And at salute they stand. 
 
 But soon as Night's spent shadows flee, 
 
 He fades before their eyes ; 
 His words they hear: "With Me you made 
 
 The 'Supreme Sacrifice' " — 
 An Angel speaks : "The Son of Man 
 
 'Waits you in Paradise." ... 
 
 The Dawn creeps down the gray Argonne, 
 As Day's wide pinions sweep; 
 
 Close by a shivering shepherd walks 
 Behind his flock of sheep. 
 
 But every dead man in the woods 
 Is wrapped again in sleep. 
 
 [86] 
 
"URGE ME NO MORE" 
 
 Urge me no more to pluck earth's deadly blossoms, 
 The fruit was bitter, though the rind was sweet; 
 
 The flowers faded, leaving scentless ashes, 
 
 I drained Life's cup, and found I won — defeat. 
 
 My dreams are ghosts that mock me at my door — 
 Urge me no more! 
 
 Urge me no more to listen to earth's music. 
 
 The notes were false, and Sorrow topped the score ; 
 
 The songs of earth are ribald, and their meaning 
 Is shown by Shame who dances on the floor. 
 
 I would my days and nights to peace restore — 
 Urge me no more! 
 
 Urge me no more to drink earth's cup of laughter, 
 
 For death was lurking at its poisoned brim; 
 The lights burned bright, but darkness came, and 
 grieving. 
 And then I knew I had deserted Him. 
 My course is set to where God's graces pour — 
 Urge me no more! 
 
 [87] 
 
FINALE 
 
 These things are mine to treasure through the years. 
 Some brought me joy, and some have brought me 
 tears, 
 
 Rose-bannered streets of dawn, full-paved with gold, 
 Down which the sun's red curtains were unrolled. 
 
 The wistful sighing of a willow-tree, 
 The sunset's banners fading gallantly. 
 
 Lo, I have known the lover's lingering kiss, 
 Eternal in its momentary bliss. 
 
 The rain-song of the robin in the spring, 
 
 Has brought me dreams no other song could bring. 
 
 Yes, I have known a mother's proud caress, 
 And drunk deep in my soul its tenderness. 
 
 Stars have I seen — those blossoms of the sky, 
 That bloom for centuries, yet never die. 
 
 [88] 
 
And I have heard the moaning of the sea, 
 That world-old mighty, sobbing symphony. 
 
 And I have seen the light in children's eyes, 
 And thrilled to see a wounded eagle rise. 
 
 A violin at twilight I have heard, 
 
 When rose-scents filled the room and nothing stirred. 
 
 Yet have I known sad partings, and I know. 
 What lamps' are quenched when precious friendships 
 go. 
 
 Beneath a cedar tree, bathed by the moon. 
 Once have I heard Love's parting words too soon. 
 
 And have I known the tang of forest-trails, ^ 
 
 And heard at dusk the notes of nightingales. 
 
 Yes, I have touched in Spring the sun-warmed sod, 
 Musing in silence on the work of God. 
 
 A baby's kiss has swept my world-worn cheek, 
 And suddenly my heart became quite meek. 
 
 I have so loved the sight of apple-blooms. 
 Rain drenched and sweet — and I have seen old tombs. 
 
 [89] 
 
Old gardens I have known, where lovers tryst, 
 Ghostly and wan, and white as mountain-mist. . . . 
 
 These thmgs are mine to treasure through tlie years. 
 Some brought me joy, and some have brought me 
 tears. 
 
 [90] 
 
WINTER MOON 
 
 Snow-glittering to beauty, proud and cold, 
 
 The Earth is like a jewel, set for show. 
 
 Upon Night^s counter draped in purple sleep — 
 
 The staring stars pass outward, smooth and slow. 
 
 Still as a dream-smile curves a child's wan face. 
 
 The painted river exquisitely stands 
 
 Amid the grave nobility of pines, 
 
 And brooding hemlocks of the meadow-lands. 
 
 Like stern-browed sentries flashing diamond-mail. 
 In Titan-splendor, southward, mountains rise, 
 Who keep their ancient vigil o'er the world. 
 While winds of peace strew incense on their eyes. 
 
 Lo, now, before this majesty of Night, 
 Far, far recede Life's murk and clash o' powers ; 
 Alone, I read the ritual of the Moon, — 
 Court-Queen of starry aisles and cloudy towers. 
 
 [91] 
 
Shall I cry Beauty's mute, inglorious death, 
 From out earth's molten core of space and time? 
 Nay, bannered glories of the Flesh drink dust, — 
 From age to age do Nature's festals chime. 
 
 song-brimmed hearts, O music-streaming glances ! 
 Now all the dear, young Dead of Earth's spent years 
 Appear: the earth's crusaders of lost causes — 
 Between the ghostly folds of Night's portieres. 
 
 How strange. My Love — My very Love of old — 
 The wine-stirred fragrance of your tremulous hairl 
 Across Death's restless reservoir you come, 
 Ensilvered sweet of gown, moon-hushed and fair. 
 
 1 made new gods for old in days of youth. 
 Tossed to the winds the ashes of Love's fire ; 
 But underneath this canopy of Night, 
 
 I swear allegiance to the old desire. 
 
 Behind the stars, look, look — my Love — my Soul! 
 The blinding windows of remembrance burn! 
 Blue gates of dream swing wide unto our gaze. 
 Old visions flame. Life's storied joys return. . . . 
 
 [92] 
 
Not so ; 'tis but the winter-moon on high 
 That smiles farewell across Night's fading sea; 
 Dawn's freezing touch is on the river-wind, 
 And Loneliness once more companions me. 
 
 [93] 
 
THE SHEPHERDS AND THE CHILD 
 
 Judea's hills la3^ robed in sleep, 
 When, lo, a Star flashed out on high ; 
 The humble shepherds, with their sheep. 
 Slept peacefully beneath that sky. 
 
 Then suddenly an Angel came. 
 
 The shining herald of the Lord ; 
 
 "Eear not," said he, "nor grief nor blame, 
 
 I bring you, but a mighty word. 
 
 "Glad tidings of great joy I bring. 
 To you in Bethlehem this night 
 Is born the Saviour, Christ the King, 
 Of all the world, the Living Light. 
 
 ?> 
 
 Thus spake the Seraph, and they saw 
 Forthwith a dazzling angel-throng — 
 Ambassadors of Love's own law, 
 Who sang the first sweet Christmas-song 
 
 [94] 
 
6( 
 
 All glory be to God on high, 
 Goodwill from Heaven ne'er shall cease; 
 And as the centuries sweep by, 
 To men of earth be peace!" 
 
 The shepherds came, the Christ-Child's heart 
 At once oped wide to let them in; 
 He saw unbidden tear-drops start. 
 And wiped away their stain of sin. 
 
 Not to the Powerful of earth, 
 On Christmas Eve went forth his call ; 
 Nay, tidings of His wond'rous birth 
 Did first to lowly Shepherds fall. 
 
 O Christ-Child, mid life's lewd alarms. 
 Our weary souls are marred with sin; 
 Or Rich or Poor, ope wide Thine Arms, 
 And take us in! 
 
 [95] 
 
SYMBOLS 
 
 I see His wounds on every rose 
 
 That lifts red fingers to the dawn; 
 In yonder towering oak that grows, 
 I read the Rood He died upon. 
 For me the raindrops through the years 
 Are Mary's tears. 
 
 In every garden lined with moss, 
 
 Where green and gold moon-shadows fall, 
 I see Him in His suffering toss. 
 
 And hear Him to His Father call. 
 All rocky hill-paths lead, for me, 
 To Calvary. 
 
 And yet when Morning's sunbeams rise, 
 
 In splendor, over land and sea, 
 I glimpse the glory in His eyes — 
 
 His resurrection-majesty. 
 By sun-crowned day or star-pierced night, 
 I feel His might. 
 [96] 
 
I mark His smile on every leaf, 
 
 For me His voice rolls on the storm; 
 
 His touch makes every harvest-sheaf, 
 
 His love keeps fledgling sparrows warm. 
 
 He rules all things — in Him I see 
 Infinity. 
 
 [97] 
 
SALVE REGINA tETERNA! 
 
 Robed in thy flawless beauty sempiternal, 
 That shames the towering lovelinss of Night, 
 
 Earth's ancient message vernal 
 Is turned for thee a hymn of praise diurnal, 
 
 Of elemental might. 
 Yea, Summer, in her fragrance-laden flight. 
 
 Doth spill her shining hours. 
 
 Brimmed high with fruits and flowers. 
 For thee who art the Queen of All the Year. 
 So, too, when Autumn, ruddy-cheeked and brown, 
 Along her flaming fields comes dancing down. 
 Freighted with golden harvest of good cheer — 
 (The purple grape that clustered to its fall. 
 The new red corn, ripened for festival, 
 God's every gift from field and tree and vine,) 
 There comes a mem'ry of thy Son divine. 
 And thy dear voice saying : "They have no wine." 
 
 Then Winter, white and tall. 
 Though aged, gaunt, of chilly mien withal. 
 Brings to thine arms again the Christ-Child — Him, 
 Adored by highest Heaven's Seraphim; 
 Him Whom the Father loves; of Whom He spake. 
 
 What time the Earth did quake, 
 On Tabor when the Vision smote men's eyes — 
 
 [98] 
 
"This is My well-beloved Son, 
 
 Mark ye Him now, this is The One, 
 
 In Whom forever I am well pleased." 
 In truth, throughout the year's proud festal chain, 
 Come hail or snow, sunshine or silver rain, 
 Thy Name is linked to veneration-days, 
 
 And dedicate to praise. 
 
 Hence am I come. 
 
 Soul-weary, harassed, dumb — 
 
 A strayer by lone streams, 
 
 A dreamer of poor dreams. 
 
 Albeit a weak mortal smirched with mire, 
 
 And seared with Sin's fierce fire, 
 To lay my humble tribute on thy shrine. 
 
 To ask thee, mother mine. 
 If thou wilt take to-night my simple song. 
 Abashed, I press from out the straining throng. 
 To hail thee Queen Possest of Heaven's Charms, 
 
 To seek thy shelt'ring arms. 
 Art thou not Mother of our Fallen Race? 
 Lo ! let the pity pictured in thy face 
 Rush down upon me, flooding all my soul 
 With penitential peace to make me whole. 
 
 For thee, for thee, 
 Lady of Loss, yet White-Winged Victory, 
 I touch my lowly lyre to fervent strains, 
 
 [99] 
 
And sing thee Queen of Heaven's rich domains. 
 Dowered with tenderness, 
 Flowered with gentleness, 
 
 From thy lily-white feet to thy hallowed hair, 
 Beloved of Jesu, Beloved, Beloved, 
 Supremely spotless, eternally fair. 
 Virgin of Virgins, hear my prayer ! 
 
 Hail Mary, Full of Grace, pray for me when 
 In what tense hour I go to death, Amen. 
 
 [100] 
 
THE SONG OF SONGS 
 
 One sings of the Dawn's proud bloom of amber, 
 That swings on a skein of emerald thread ; 
 
 And one, of the sunset's fading blossoms 
 When Day reclines on his burial-bed. 
 
 But I shall sing of the Virgin-Mother, 
 
 As He hung on a Cross and slowly bled. 
 
 There are many who fashion the gracious moonlight 
 To the Night's cool kiss on a parched plain ; 
 
 And many have sung of the pine-tree's whisper 
 When forest-aisles are draped with rain. 
 
 But I shall sing of the Virgin-Mother, 
 
 Wliose heart was crushed when her Son was slain. 
 
 There are songs of the rose and the stars' hushed 
 glory. 
 When the fever of youth runs hot and high ; 
 Who has not sung of the rainbow's rapture. 
 The Sea's low call, and the willow's cry? 
 
 [101] 
 
But I shall fashion a song of suffering, 
 Of the days when martyrs chose to die. 
 
 I will raise up the banner of Love that is bleeding, — 
 The meek and the lowly who fall in the test 
 
 Are often the victors, though theirs not the laurel, 
 God loveth the Poor, but the Pure He loves best. 
 
 Sing me the dead Christ in the arms of His Mother, 
 As she held Him close to her aching breast. 
 
 [102] 
 
TO MARY, PATRON OF POETS 
 
 Hast thou not made me a hewer of beauty? 
 
 Hast thou not shaped me a builder of dreams? 
 Then were I faitliless to thee in my duty 
 
 Did I not praise thee in chastefullest themes. 
 Yes, I must hallow thee, — wistfully, tenderly, — 
 
 Daily and nightly, — forever, it seems. 
 
 Hast thou not smiled to me over the flowers ? 
 
 Have I not heard thy voice calling in Spring? 
 Ah, thou hast lightened life's heaviest hours. 
 
 Helping these songs of mine Heavenward to wing, 
 So I proclaim to thee, come what of fame to me, 
 
 'Tis the fair name) of thee moves me to sing. 
 
 Hast thou not changed me to votary of sorrow. 
 Lover of purity, brave and serene? 
 
 Thou art my hope for a sinless to-morrow, 
 Guarding my fight against things unclean. 
 
 Hence, in songs lowly, 'though rapturously holy. 
 Hail I thee womanhood's loveliest queen! 
 [103] 
 
PROCESSIONAL 
 
 All night they pass, with calm, uplifted faces, 
 Those ghostly lines, pathetically thin ; 
 
 They come from high and low and desolate places, 
 The men and women this world cannot win — 
 They are the ones who flee away from sin. 
 
 No revels mark their coming or their going, 
 No ribald sounds of music or of mirth ; 
 
 But I can see the Mystic Lily blowing, 
 
 And where they pass there's sweetness on the 
 
 earth. 
 Although the world deems them of little worth. 
 
 Some wear a crown of suffering with gladness', 
 And some are marked for grief till life shall end; 
 
 And some shall never smile again for sadness, 
 And many know but Heaven as their friend. 
 Along life's narrow path their footsteps wend. 
 
 [104] 
 
Some go in tattered rags, and some in splendor, 
 Yet every eye shines out supremely kind ; 
 
 Soft words I hear, and speech grown strangely 
 tender, 
 Mysterious as summer's evening wind. 
 And one old man is lame, and one is blind. 
 
 All night they pass, with calm, uplifted faces, 
 Those ghostly lines, pathetically thin; 
 
 They come from high and low and desolate places. 
 The men and women this world cannot win; 
 Their souls are white, because they will not sin. 
 
 [105] 
 
FULFILLMENT 
 
 I yearned to write a record into life, — 
 Some work engrossed with. Truth^s immortal flame; 
 My soul leaped forward, eager for the strife, 
 But every failure brought me bitter shame. 
 
 And, lo, one mom, beside a dawn-wreathed road, 
 Love called me for a space from friends apart ; 
 And, showing me his secret cipher-code, 
 Love burned his deathless image on my heart. 
 
 No more I crave Life's honey-flowing hour. 
 For Love has touched and made my spirit strong ; 
 In deeds, not words, my Soul shall come to flower. 
 My days are notes in God's eternal song. 
 
 [106] 
 
THE CHOICE 
 
 Wealth hung a wreath of roses 'round my brow, 
 And said: "For certain, thou art happy now. 
 In all this world to thee is naught denied — " 
 "Excepting love," I answered him, and sighed. 
 For I was sad. 
 
 Love placed a crown of thorns upon my head — 
 "Thou must go down, ev'n unto death," he said 
 "Hast thou the soul to meet the stern emprise?" 
 "Lead on !" I begged of him, with kindling eyes — 
 For I was glad. 
 
 [107] 
 
WALT WHITMAN 
 
 (For the Centenary of the "Good Gray Poet," May 31, 1919) 
 
 One hundred crowded years' have passed — 
 
 A century of epoch-building years — 
 
 Since you were bom to walk Life's devious ways. 
 
 And twenty-seven years have taken wing, — 
 
 A veritable flood of flaming days — 
 
 Since you "went West" along the Twilight-Trail. 
 
 But I will swear I saw you, — 
 
 I saw you plain this golden mom, Walt Whitman, 
 
 Strolling, fresh-eyed, beyond the Jersey Shore. 
 
 You held a lilac-blossom in your hand, — 
 
 You always loved the lilacs, Walt, — 
 
 The dawnlight's splintered silver fell on the cedars. 
 
 The crimson tips of the maples stirred in the breeze. 
 
 I heard you warble a song for lilac-time, 
 
 (I always thought you'd come in the lilac-season) 
 
 The same as you sang full forty years ago. 
 
 [108] 
 
straightway, a blue-bird showered the woods with 
 
 music, 
 The violets lifted their small white eyes to you, 
 The hylas purred as of old along the rushes. 
 The dandelions poised their faces for your greeting. 
 Nearby I heard the reedy notes of a robin, 
 The wood-peckers tapped the trees in clarion chorus. 
 The sparrows sang their simple songs of joy, — 
 A natural concert under the blue-roofed sky. 
 And, Walt, 'twas all for you. 
 
 The smell of the good, clean earth was in the air. 
 The earth, new-born and glad from the kiss of the 
 
 rain. 
 I saw you snifF the air like a startled stallion. 
 Then set untrammeled stride for the Jersey Hills. 
 I saw you plain, Walt Whitman, 
 I marked your massive shoulders. 
 Your steel-blue eyes that cleaved the reach of the 
 
 valley. 
 Your ruddy lips that drank the tang of the West 
 
 Wind, 
 Your flowing hair, long used to wind and weather. 
 And I thought of your bold-toned songs and virile 
 
 visions. 
 Of your praise of Nature's beauty and dear De- 
 mocracy, 
 
 [109] 
 
Your Song of the Open Road, — that mighty master- 
 piece, 
 Your songs of the joy and pride of all free peoples. 
 And my soul cried out to follow you, Walt, 
 Over the hills and th^ valleys. 
 
 I wanted to talk of the deeds of the Yankee heroes. 
 Who went through the fires of hell in the last Great 
 
 War, 
 Of Chateau-Thierry, Argonne and the Hindenburg 
 
 Line, 
 I wanted to hear you raise another paean, 
 A deathless chant for the old Democracy, 
 But you walked so fast, I lost you far in the distance. 
 Yet I was glad to (glimpse your face, Walt Whitman, 
 To hear you warble a song for lilac-time, 
 To feel the fragrance and dauntlessness of your 
 
 pinging. 
 Like a cool dawn-wind of Summer carelessly blowing. 
 Over the Jersey Shore, 
 
 Fresh and sweet and brimming with remembrance, 
 After forty years. 
 
 [110] 
 
EDMOND ROSTAND 
 
 (Frtench Poet and Dramatist, Member of the Academy, died 
 
 Dec. 2, 1918) 
 
 To-night is Paris robed in light and laughter, 
 Her boulevards are choked with merry throngs ; 
 But nevermore shall he come strolling after, 
 Who sang so well his country's epic songs. 
 
 O'er Notre Dame the soft moonlight is falling. 
 The Seine — a silver riband — gleams below; 
 Along the Rue de Boise old ghosts are calling, — 
 De Musset, Bergerac and Rochambeau. 
 
 Donremy's field, where Joan of Arc is sleeping, 
 Grows restless with the voices of the Dead ; 
 O war-wrecked France, hide not thy sorrowed weep- 
 ing, 
 Rostand wept for thee, too, when thy heart bled! 
 
 He hath ennobled thee in song and story. 
 And placed before the world thy valor's flame; 
 The Fleur-de-lis of France is steeped in glory. 
 For that Rostand hath lived and sung Thy fame. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
Tread softly, then, Messieurs, the year is going, 
 Let bugles sound, let Music play its part ; 
 Unknown to us, and yet, for all our knowing, 
 The trials of France in war broke Rostand's heart. 
 
 Attention, ye proud Chevaliers of France I 
 
 Salute a comrade, give him honors high! 
 
 He was a great French Poet of Romance, 
 
 As Frenchmen, give him greeting and — good-bye. 
 
 [112] 
 
RETROSPECTION 
 
 It was not that you came so late, 
 And left me, all unknowing, 
 But that I missed you at the gate. 
 When you were going. 
 
 You, who were child of field and sun. 
 With gold my dreams adorning; 
 The thread is broken that was spun 
 In Love's blue morning. 
 
 The river-lights dance on, the Moon 
 
 To-night is silver-cheery ; 
 
 It was not that you went so soon, 
 
 And made life dreary. 
 
 Nor that you were Death's plighted mate, 
 
 And left me, all unknowing. 
 
 But that I missed you at the gate. 
 
 When you were going. 
 
 [118] 
 
MAXIMILIAN MARVELOUS 
 
 "Maximilian Marvelous" we called him for a joke, 
 He used to pass us every day, but rarely ever spoke. 
 The shoes he wore were scandalous, they did not fit 
 
 his feet, 
 In tattered coat and greasy shirt, he shuffled down 
 
 the street. 
 When once we stopped Max solemnly, to pass the 
 
 time of day, 
 He looked at us, half doubting, in a hesitating way. 
 And when we asked him if 'twere true that he was 
 
 once a king 
 Of some forgotten island where the South-Sea maid- 
 ens sing, 
 Lo I Maximilian Marvelous gave us a withering smile, 
 I'll ne'er forget his answer, as it came in vigorous 
 
 style : 
 "I am a king of everything my roving eyes survey. 
 My kingdom's built of sun-lit bowers where little 
 
 children play. 
 My scepter's made of jeweled song that wakes old 
 
 village lanes, 
 
 [114] 
 
My banquet-hall is piled with dreams that romp in 
 
 April rains. 
 The great, wide world is my estate, but here I choose 
 
 to 'bide, 
 I married Lady Poverty, and I am satisfied. 
 I do not work — Kings never work — why should I 
 
 soil my hands? 
 I am the ruler of my time for town or meadow-lands. 
 Perhaps, I am an Artist — then I paint the sunset- 
 sky. 
 Perhaps I am a Poet when the days of Autumn die. 
 I eat one square meal every day, its source nobody 
 
 knows. 
 And he who gives it to me, sees I also get some 
 
 clothes. 
 The sun and rain are friends of mine, the stars are 
 
 my delight 
 They bring me thoughts of childhood, when my 
 
 mother's eyes were bright. 
 I am a King of everything that money cannot buy. 
 The richest man on earth, like me, must some day 
 
 fade and die." 
 Then Maximilian Marvelous said not another thing. 
 And as he walked away we cried : "He's every inch 
 
 a King!" 
 
 [115] 
 
SAPPHO'S FAREWELL TO PHAON 
 
 How soft this night the summer-dusk drops down 
 
 On Lesbos-Isle; know'st thou I said good-bye, 
 
 Yestre'en, to my four friends of girlhood-days, 
 
 Erinna, Atthis, Telesippa, too, 
 
 And her, the last, the cherished one, Megara? 
 
 Yet have I kept one hour of purple wings 
 
 For thee of all the mortals on the earth : 
 
 O Phaon, my Beloved, I have kept 
 
 One hour of the gods to part from thee. . . . 
 
 Let us walk seaward, Phaon ; look. Beloved, 
 Gay Venus throws' her sapphire beams afar 
 Across the violet-flowers ; yea, my heart 
 Grows cold and lonely now against our parting, . . . 
 Didst catch a goodly store of fish this morn? 
 Or, haply, Neptune frowned and stirred the waves 
 To anger; Ah, I would that thou mightst go 
 Through life without the ills that vex men's souls. 
 And bring them pain. O Phaon, I shall ever 
 Recall thy loyal friendship, though thy love 
 
 [116] 
 
The gods withheld from my poor maiden-heart. 
 Within Death's strange and silent shadow-lands, 
 Doubtless the gods will let me dream of thee. 
 
 Kiss me one kiss for parting ; lo, the Night 
 
 Of orange-scented lanes and glittering stars 
 
 Is hushed to hear our parting- words, but we, — 
 
 We shall be smiling, and, to outward view, 
 
 As two bethrothed lovers in the Spring, 
 
 With hearts a-flood with beauty and bright days. 
 
 And eyes that drink rose-dreams of coming years. 
 
 Farewell, O Phaon of my heart, farewell. 
 Remember me as one who made thee songs, 
 And dreamed of love with thee beside the fire 
 On rainy nights after thy work at sea, — 
 Mine arms to hold thy man-child for thy smile, — 
 We three, O Phaon, on the beach at Lesbos. 
 
 Yet was it not to be, — the gods are wise, 
 They shape our lives to Destiny's grim plan. 
 Unmindful whether joy or grief be ours. 
 
 And so, once more, dear Phaon, fare thee welL 
 The gods have willed it thus; into the night. 
 As one who walks in sleep with smiling face, 
 I go. 
 
 [117] 
 
ASPIRATION 
 
 Strike down no more men's monumental dreams ! 
 The doors have crumbled, burst are bolts and bars! 
 Earth's races now are marching to a goal 
 Whose light burns brighter than a thousand suns, 
 Whose flame is super-heated white with Love — 
 The virgin-source of power that spins the world. 
 Hear ye not thunder in men's marching feet? 
 A roar of cataracts is in their song. 
 
 Lift up, lift up your eyes ! 
 Democracy's tremendous lamp shines out — 
 A searchlight thrown across the shores of time. 
 
 Make way, make way 
 For elemental visions in men's eyes ! 
 A mammoth flood of Truth is driving on — 
 A tossing, wide, unconquerable sea. 
 Look, Justice points her sword beyond the hills! 
 From dawn's red birth to moon-embroidered night, 
 As Destiny ticks off^ the measured years. 
 The triumph-chaunt of Beauty shakes the skies. 
 
 [118] 
 
Beware, beware the dreams in strong men's souls ! 
 Ev'n now great hosts assail high Heaven's gates 
 With laughter born of love and honest toil. 
 Old orders change — Suspicion falls to rust, 
 Like 3^oung wheat-tendrils gently intertwined, 
 Men's arms shall link in shining Brotherhood — 
 The Brotherhood that springs from Love and Trust, 
 From Sacrifice and Service nobly borne, 
 And not the driven engine-force of Hate. 
 
 As long ago, in days when Earth was young. 
 They'll pass again in ranks, white-robed and fair, — 
 Maidens and youths on paths of Righteousness ; 
 Their bosoms leaping high with peace and joy; 
 The love of man for woman rich again 
 In all its ancient glory; spectred Death 
 Shall come but at the end of fruitful lives. 
 Like flowers, when seeds are blown and bloom is over, 
 When Old Age withers bodies to decay. 
 
 Reach out your hands through Morning's bugling 
 
 hours ! 
 Attune your ears to catch Earth's passionate 
 
 strains — 
 Those hidden chimes that sound on sunset-eves — 
 Great silver strokes on organ-keys of gold — 
 
 [11^] 
 
To overwhelm black chaos-pits of Wrath. 
 
 Fling wide your arms to greet Love's living hosts, 
 
 Yea, let there be a bloodless Victory, 
 
 To heal the restlessness of a wounded world. . . . 
 
 A new-born Light is flaming in the Dawn, 
 A mystic music sweeps across the stars ! 
 
 [12(>] 
 
"EXCELSIOR !" 
 
 Dawns merge with days, earth's sunsets flare and 
 
 fade, 
 Love's rapture dies, leaving a sense of tears ; 
 Into Death's caravanserai of years 
 I would not take the dreams Ambition made, 
 Nor Wealth, nor Power, whose trappings fall to 
 
 rust, 
 Nor Fame, for Fame's' first kiss reeks wet with 
 
 mould. 
 Nay, world-success means naught when men grow 
 
 old— 
 With none of these would I go down to dust. 
 
 But I would crave — some day when Time is flying, 
 And Mother Church is praying for the Dead, 
 When once this mortal frame of mine is dying, 
 And the last rites are sounding o'er my head : 
 That one should say: "Good deeds with him are 
 
 lying, 
 He loved the Poor — God bless his' burial-bed !" 
 
 [121] 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 ("The Moving Finger Writes, and Having Writ, Moves On.") 
 
 The maples stir their weary leaves in sleep. 
 For melancholy haunts the Hoosier streams ; 
 
 The sun-flow'r mourns', and, steeped in sorrow deep, 
 The Wabash fields are liveried in dreams. 
 
 Voice ye no royal eulogy for him 
 
 Who sleeps to-night beside the sumac-lanes ; 
 Nay, let his faithful morning-glories brim 
 
 With fragrance 'round him when the moonlight 
 wanes. 
 
 No cymbals'' clangour loose, nor roll of drums, 
 But let each fair-haired child and sire grown old 
 
 Look on his grave, and when a tear-drop comes, 
 Know ye a tribute's given, pure as gold. 
 
 [122] 
 
The lame, the weak, the poor, the humble soul, 
 The tired hands made gnarled through honest toil. 
 
 These all he placed upon time's flaming scroll — 
 He knew and sang the children of the soil. 
 
 Not from the great ones of the earth shall he 
 Derive the honeyed homage of high praise; 
 
 Nay, he shall keep fame's immortality 
 
 Through kindly hearts that learn his lyric lays. 
 
 Yea, Indiana, though thou weepest now 
 That he, thy best-beloved, is no more, 
 
 Ah, look, the nation touches soft his brow 
 With laurel bright as ev'n Whittier wore. 
 
 Down dim-Ht corridors of distant years 
 
 By many a hearth men shall thy ballads tell — 
 
 Thou poet of homely joys and tender tears. 
 To thee we bid all hail! and yet — ^farewell! 
 
 [123] 
 
IN MEMORY OF MADISON CAWEIN 
 
 To-night Pan strays across Kentucky's hills, 
 Beside him, Lo I his pipes are hanging, mute. 
 For nevermore shall Moschus touch the lute 
 To hold entranced the listening vales and rills. 
 The Zephyrs wail a threnody that thrills 
 The ancient pines to silence — Hesper's fruit 
 Shrivels to dust, and every branch and root. 
 Leaf, bloom and bud weeps with the whip-poor-wilk'. 
 And Pan fares on ; bent as by weight of time. 
 He walks with faltering feet, bound for the sea, 
 Crooning the while some childhood melody, 
 Entwined anon with strains of sad-glad years. 
 Ah! where is Moschus, Prince of Rippling Rhyme? 
 Yea, he is gone: Pan's eyes are blind with tears. 
 
 [124*] 
 
IN MEMORIAM— ROBERT HUGH BENSON 
 
 (Died October 19, 19H.) 
 
 O'er Hare Street House the autumn sky 
 
 Cups' beauty to the brim; 
 Night weaves a tender witchery 
 
 Of dreams for him. 
 
 The South Wind weeps from sea to sea, 
 
 And the violets mourn on the mere, 
 For a noble Knight of Chivalry 
 
 Once tarried here. 
 
 The young moon views with saddened eye 
 
 These paths that knew his feet. 
 Where lips were wont to bid good-bye 
 
 And hands to meet. 
 
 Ay, many a spring shall bloom again, 
 
 And many a summer's rose. 
 No more shall this true knight greet men, 
 
 Or friends or foes'. 
 
 [125] 
 
Faithful, his chapel-tapers flame, 
 Christ still smiles from above, 
 
 The very hush cries out his name, 
 For such is love ! 
 
 Yet now a picture crowds mine eyes — 
 (How soft yon meadows sleep ! 
 
 Only the stars' — bright mysteries — 
 Old vigils keep.) 
 
 Ah, see! Christ stretches forth His hand 
 
 A Maiden-Knight to bring 
 Unto His own — His promised land, 
 
 For visioning. 
 
 The world has lost proud Chiefs of State, 
 Famed Heroes of the Sword — 
 
 This' Hero foug'ht — hence doubly great — 
 For Christ, the Lord I 
 
 [126] 
 
THE LAST TRAIL 
 
 (Jack London, Nov. 22, 1916. "His words were silver, his 
 silence now is golden.") 
 
 Nay, it shall never be 
 That sombre requiems are tolled for thee ! 
 But there shall be wild music from the shore 
 Of flowering Wai-ki-ki, and when the door 
 Of Mom opes wide upon blue 'Frisco Bay, 
 
 Then let a rollicking folk'sle song 
 
 Be lilted loud and long 
 To cheer thee, comrade, on thy shadowy way. 
 See ! Where, above the pines, snow-clouds are drift- 
 ing, 
 And Nome's white lights grow weary with the dawn. 
 Hark thou the sledge-dog drivers calling, calling. 
 
 While Winter's' chains are falling — 
 'Tis thee they mark, old comrade, thee they hail, 
 
 With "Mushal Musha !" down the Sitka Trail, 
 But now the wind from off the Yukon's shifting. 
 And thou must hasten on. . . . 
 
 [127] 
 
Thou wert indeed adventurous with life, 
 
 Yea, life was but adventure keen for thee, 
 
 Ev'n as Ulysses on the moonless sea. 
 
 Like Jason, too, thou sawest much of strife. 
 
 Yet earnest home at last 
 
 From all thy journeys vast, 
 
 To domesticity. 
 
 O King of proud adventure, fare thee well ! 
 Master of silvery words, with tales to tell, 
 May thou by day have hunter's winey zest. 
 And by thy nightly camp-fire happy rest. 
 Through sun or wind or rain, or snow-lashed gale, 
 On this, which is' for thee the last — 
 The Unknown Trail. 
 
 [128] 
 
THEODORE ROOSEVELT 
 
 (26th President of the United States, died Jan. 6th, 1919.) 
 
 Ring down Life's mammoth curtain, gold and red, 
 
 On the maj estic Dead I 
 
 Lay laurels on his head. 
 
 Whose eyes went bravely smiling to the strife. 
 
 In peace or war. 
 
 For him no secret door. 
 
 Heart-clean, and with clean hands, 
 
 He fought upon the battle-ground of life. 
 
 Sound ye triumphant bugles, blown by Youth, 
 
 As shibboleths of Truth!' 
 
 Swing out America's banner to the breeze. 
 
 Commemorative of gallant memories, 
 
 Entwined with deeds of his of tongue and pen. 
 
 And the grim hardihood of body's strength, 
 
 Which made of him at length. 
 
 Who had a master-mind, a man 'mong men. 
 
 Let the drums roll! 
 LetthebeUs toll! 
 
 A Soldier's borne along the ghostly ways : 
 
 [129] 
 
Silent in death he cannot hear our praise. 
 The stalwart, storm-tossed oak has fallen low. 
 Defiant to Life's winds', and rain and snow. 
 Death's lightning-stroke came down at even-glow, 
 Wherefore we pay him homage, — we who loved him 
 so. 
 
 Let the guns speak on river, coast and bay. 
 
 And where the stern-eyed, Yankee dreadnaughts 
 
 stray, 
 Let thunderous salvos fleet, 
 
 Let clanging, clamorous, booming partings greet, 
 Let epic tumults of applauding meet 
 T. R., beloved. 
 As he, with hurrying feet, 
 Adventures out upon Death's lonely way. 
 
 Statesman, Patriot, Lover and Liver of Life, 
 From out the haven of peace, and across the mael- 
 strom of strife. 
 We will not say farewell; 
 Nay, visioning the Mystic Lily, white, 
 And stirred by dreams of the Sacred Asphodel, 
 Perpetually bright, — 
 
 We say that even in death, life does not fail. 
 And so we call to thee, 
 
 [130] 
 
Undauntedly and ruggedly 
 
 Armored in Life's good deeds and Love's proud 
 
 shining mail, 
 We call to thee, 
 
 And with a Nation's mass'ed-up, mighty shout, 
 We give thee HAIL! 
 
 [131] 
 
PIUS X 
 
 (In memoriam.) 
 
 The lamp lies shattered, the "Burning Fire" is dead, 
 The night wind droops across the darkening sea, 
 No more the Shepherd strays across the lea, 
 
 Whereon his flock in sweet contentment fed. 
 
 Low lies the fallen flower ; its scent has' sped 
 Into the vastness of Eternity, 
 No more the blossom opens on the tree — 
 
 Serene in sleep reclines that noble head. 
 
 Drop ye no sad-eyed tears upon the hier 
 Of him whose calm white form reposeth here; 
 Nay, rather lay a lily on his hrom — 
 He walks with Jesus now. 
 
 The cry of Mars resounds through warring lands, 
 The harvest moon enshrouds her face with tears — 
 Gone from our eyes the Sire of Bounteous Years, 
 
 No more shall be upraised his gentle hands. 
 
 [132] 
 
Nay, at the Nations' thresholds Satan stands, 
 His face enwreathed with hate and bitter leers, 
 His cohorts rend the air with demon-cheers. 
 
 The while the blood of thousands stains the sands. 
 
 Come, lay an olive-branch upon the breast 
 Of him who counseled peace to East and West, 
 Who prayed that North and South refrain from 
 war — 
 Love" Si meek ambassador! 
 
 Alas, the broken lute, the music flown ! 
 
 No more the rainbow paints the evening sky. 
 
 War's thunders smite the valleys angrily, 
 And blood doth run like rivers where men groan. 
 Gone from our eyes the Father we have known. 
 
 Who loved his children unto death's last sigh, 
 
 Yea, till his heart had failed utterly. 
 And shadows fell, and Christ called to His own. 
 
 Strew ye rose-blooms along the garden-ways 
 That knew his feet m life's declvning days; 
 Ay, kiss with holy joy the ground he trod — 
 This Child of God! 
 
 [133] 
 
THE DEAD LABORER 
 
 As one wlio walks with reverend steps and slow 
 
 Before a king laid low, 
 
 And sees the light of greatness flood the room, 
 
 So I approach thee now. 
 
 Freed from life's bitter doom 
 And pitiless array 
 Of burdens thou did'st shoulder night and day. 
 
 Across thy patient brow 
 
 That soon must greet the tomb. 
 No more the snows 
 
 Nor ruthless rains shall stray, 
 Mocking thy face like proud, superior foes. 
 
 Ah, would the world might come 
 
 To thee here, heedles's, dumb. 
 And kiss thy faithful hands, sun-browned with toil. 
 
 Earth's flowering soil 
 That sends its grateful fragrance up to God 
 Through the spring-pulsing sod, 
 
 [134] 
 
Ne'er gladdened thee; the thrush's vesper song. 
 And rapture keen, 
 Where evening lingers long, 
 Were to thine ears an alien mystery. 
 
 Life crooned for thee 
 Some song, perhaps, of sorrow choked with wrong. 
 
 Ah! let from out my heart new fragrance steal. 
 
 Pure as a lily's breath, to feel 
 Of kindly hands commending thee now cold, 
 And one with all thy vanished sires of old. 
 
 Would I might lift a song 
 To pierce the brooding walls of tragic night. 
 Whose roof is gemmed with swinging star-worlds 
 bright. 
 That unborn centuries' 
 Might hear my hymn of praise to thee, a man. 
 
 King of Creation's plan 1 
 That Earth might take and nourish at her breast, 
 Thy children, and their children's children best; 
 That all the universe might hear my call, 
 And in true brotherhood, 'mid work and rest, 
 Men might be turned to love the toiler more, 
 
 And on him justice pour. 
 In creed of "One for one, and all for all." 
 
 [135] 
 
CARDINAL MERCIER 
 
 Amid the flood of chaos, grief and death 
 That swept his brave, indomitable land. 
 He stood and faced the Prussian Command — 
 The Shepherd of his Flock — the Living Breath 
 Of Feariessnes's and Right, which conquereth 
 The Law of Force ; his was the Master-Hand 
 That shaped proud Belgium's soul, and made it 
 stand 
 "The Lord's stern instrument," as Scripture saith. 
 
 Ave f White Chieftain ! see, our words are flowers. 
 Our praise as j ewels cast before thy feet ; 
 
 Thy visit for these brief and fleeting hours 
 Shall rose-like, make our homes, our Country sweet. 
 Between thy smile and Heaven's shining towers, 
 Our mutual joys and benedictions meet. 
 
 [136] 
 
THE VICTOR 
 
 Grown meek, he masters Pride; through Love, slays 
 
 Hate. 
 In lustihood of soul, he conquers Lust. 
 Envy by him is beaten to the dust, 
 'Though poor, he's rich in Manhood's high estate. 
 Unknown to fame, in sight of God he's great. 
 A foe to Sloth and Gluttony, he must 
 Hack daily from the World's envenomed crust, 
 Its false veneer of sin, its deadly bait. 
 
 What matters Life, if Virtue's slowly dying! 
 Let darkness come. Truth's torch can never fall; 
 Above the world's mad din is Conscience crying, 
 Stone-deaf, yet must the World hear Duty's call. 
 Who works and prays, on wings is heavenward 
 
 flying, 
 For, conquering himself, he conquers all. 
 
 [137] 
 
MADONNA OF RHEIMS 
 
 (In an out-of-the-way niche in the wall of the Cathedral, 
 almost choked with broken columns, a statue of the Madonna 
 was found, upright and intact, apparently unmarred from 
 the effects of the bombardment. — News item.) 
 
 The mighty Vildered columns round her lie, 
 As if to form a loving barricade 
 Against the fierce, red menace of the sky, 
 For Christ's white Lily-Maid. 
 
 Her gown is splendid as the robe of night. 
 What time mid-summer's stars' are on the wane ; 
 Her eyes, in benediction, linger, bright, 
 While falls the shrapnel-rain. 
 
 Death rides the wind, — he scatters pain and loss 
 With lavish hand across the sullen scene. 
 Till men are minded of the bloody Cross, 
 And nature's brooding mien. 
 
 [138] 
 
The shrieking shells that trail across the dark 
 Mix with the crash as roof and rafter fall ; 
 Out yonder, see I the bodies lying stark — 
 War's savage funeral! 
 
 The mighty 'wildered columns round her lie, 
 As if to form a loving barricade 
 Against the fierce, red menace of the sky. 
 For Christ's white Lily-Maid. 
 
 [139] 
 
HOLOCAUST 
 
 Set but men's hearts to meet God's heart, 
 From whence Love's living force is hurled ; 
 And ye would cause a fire to start — 
 A holocaust^ — to sweep the world. 
 
 The world has burned through lust for power. 
 And blackened ruins deck the state ; 
 What are the echoes of the hour 
 From conflagrations fed with hate? 
 
 'Twere better far the sun might fall 
 And wipe away earth's poisoned years, 
 Than hear forever War's red call. 
 And feel the drip of women's tears. 
 
 From out God's heart Love's floodtide streams- 
 A flame of infinite desire ; 
 Set but the world to drink His dreams. 
 And Love would set the world on fire. 
 
 [140] 
 
VIVA L'lTALIA! 
 
 ("They marched forth gaily, with flowers stuck in their rifles.") 
 
 On Paestum's plain the roses stir, 
 
 Dawn's gold is on the olive trees ; 
 
 Fair Florence dreams of days that were, 
 
 Yet now are dusty memories. 
 
 Bnt see ! Italia's sons are ever brave, 
 
 Though War's stem duty lead but to the grave. 
 
 For this is Dante's Land of Song, 
 Which Verdi's mighty music thrills ; 
 Look ! Garibaldi's legions throng. 
 In ghostly lines, the Tuscan hills ! 
 Bravo ! Italia's Sons shall never fail, 
 What time her enemies the gates assail ! 
 
 See, where Anconia keeps her sleep. 
 Or where Salerno meets the sea, 
 The glad-eyed armies onward sweep, 
 
 [Ul] 
 
Dreaming high dreams of destiny. 
 Like supple steel Italia's' Sons are made, 
 Yes, they shall battle well, nor unfraid ! 
 
 The moon hangs low o'er Naples Bay, 
 The stars her ancient glories tell ; 
 The almond blossoms softly sway. 
 While chimes the midnight chapel bell. 
 Italia's Sons shall fight like warriors all, 
 From out her splendid past her heroes call. 
 
 [142] 
 
EPICEDIUM 
 
 (In memory of America's Dead in the Great War.) 
 
 No more for them shall Evening's rose unclose, 
 Nor Dawn's emblazoned panoplies be spread; 
 Alike, the Rain's warm kiss, and stabbing snows, 
 Unminded, fall upon each hallowed head. 
 But the Bugles,, as they leap and wildly sing. 
 Rejoice, . . . remembering. 
 
 The guns' mad music their young ears have known — 
 War's lullabies that moaned on Flanders Plain; 
 To-night the Wind walks on them, still as stone, 
 Where they lie huddled close as riven grain. 
 Bu^l the Drums, reverberating, proudly roll — 
 They love a Soldier*s soul! 
 
 With arms outflung, and eyes that laughed at Death, 
 They drank the wine of sacrifice and loss; 
 For them a life-time spanned a burning breath. 
 And Truth they visioned, clean of earthly dross'. 
 
 [14^3] 
 
Bu^t the Fifes — can ye not hear their lusty shriek? 
 They know, and now tlvey speak! 
 
 The lazy drift of cloud, the noon-day hum 
 
 Of vagrant bees ; the lark's untrammeled song 
 
 Shall gladden them no more, who now lie dumb 
 
 In Death's strange sleep, yet once were swift and 
 
 strong. 
 But the Bells that to all living listeners peal, 
 With joy their deeds repeal! 
 
 They have given their lives, with bodies bruised and 
 
 broken. 
 Upon their Country's altar they have bled; 
 They have left, as priceless heritage, a token 
 That Honor lives forever with the Dead. 
 And the Bugles, as their rich notes rise and fall — 
 They answer, knowing all. 
 
 [IM] 
 
THE GHOSTLY FLYERS 
 
 (In Memory of the American Aviators Who Died in the 
 
 Great War.) 
 
 Sweep clear the skyey avenues of Mornt 
 
 No cringing clouds forlorn 
 
 (Ye hastening heralds of Earth's exulting spheres,) 
 
 Let loiter now as baleful barriers 
 
 Against the mighty pageant of the Sun 
 
 —The Kingly One— 
 Who leads to-day these swift-winged charioteers, 
 Decked out in brave exuberance of youth. 
 Symbols, afire, of Chivalry and Truth, 
 At Dawn, in one last, grand review and flight. 
 Innumerable shafts of living light 
 Let fall across the Marne's immortal vale. 
 
 All hail to them ! All hail ! 
 
 For these are ghosts of Yankees over-bold. 
 The fearless flyers', who battled, not for gold, 
 
 [145] 
 
But that the cause of Freedom might not die. 
 
 These said Good-Bje, 
 And, harkening to Duty's clarion call, 
 Upon Fair France's' altar laid their all. 
 
 And so, while Autumn's face smiles down the hills. 
 And Victory's refreshing breath distills 
 A dream of old-time beauty for men's souls. 
 See! now the sun's gold vista swift uproUs, 
 Lo, Autumn's song is leaping on the breeze I 
 Let no hearts mourn through bitter memories. 
 For these were gallant knights who skimmed the ways 
 Of flower-bordered triumph; crowned with bays. 
 They went to sleep in Youth's flood-tide of days. 
 Sing out, ye happy-throated larks a-wingl 
 Make now a merry music, ravishing. 
 For these artificers of towering dreams. 
 
 Who plumbed Uranian streams. 
 Yes, crystallized with diamond-shotted fire. 
 For them the peak of Morning's blinding spire 
 Shall gleam with living rubies, like the sea. 
 When sunset rests upon it lovingly. 
 
 Let all the Universe greet them with Song! 
 In dauntless rapture strong 
 
 [146] 
 
 # 
 
Earth sends a JUBILATE to the sky, 
 
 Blue ves'titured and high, 
 For these untrammeled lutanists of life, 
 Who gloried so luxuriously in strife. 
 Unfold, unfold, ye blossoms of the Dawn ! 
 Make bright the path their eyes now look upon. 
 With royal pomp let Eastern Halls be spread, 
 
 Imperishably red — 
 
 They are not dead: 
 Nay, troops of Time's great warriors flaunt each 
 
 name — 
 Lufberry, Chapman, Roosevelt, they acclaim, 
 Of that young, shining company who came 
 To keep alive Fair Freedom's' sacred flame. 
 Look ye aloft where Love has kissed their eyes^ — 
 
 Comrades in Paradise! 
 
 [147] 
 
THE FALLEN 
 
 (In memory of Sergeant Joyce Kilmer, poet and soldier, 
 killed iU action, August 1, 1918.) 
 
 When last I gripped your hand, 
 
 Endeavoring by words to let you understand 
 
 My admiration and respect for you, 
 
 Outside the stars of autumn-time burned blue, 
 
 Bright as your eyes that ranged the lecture-hall. 
 
 And I was glad becaus'e of your success, 
 
 And pleased to notice your shy nobleness, — 
 
 The tender look that lighted up your face 
 
 When some one spoke your name ; there was no trace 
 
 Of pain or trouble on it, only this : 
 
 A smile to hold men's eyes, or draw a mother's 
 
 kiss. 
 And when the audience clapped for your recall, 
 We said good-bye, and that was all. 
 To-night, once more, dear Autumn looms afar, 
 But you — you lie where Death and Silence are, 
 Who sang so well of life's elusive joy, 
 
 [148] 
 
With all the ardor of a laughing boy. 
 Hardly can I believe that you are dead,v 
 And these blue stars keep vigil o'er your head. 
 You would not care to have me sound your praise, 
 Yet you went down to sleep, fresh-crowned with 
 
 bays. 
 Your eyes were alien to the form of Fear, 
 You would not tarry with us "Over Here," 
 But, heeding swift our Country's urgent call. 
 Forsaking paths of peace, you left home, friends 
 
 and all. 
 And so, from out the gracious-handed year, 
 I know you'd like ripe goldenrod to fall 
 In some moon-fres'coed field, across the spot 
 Where you lie with the brave, and know it not. 
 I think you'd like a mating-thrush to call 
 And sing above your grave a song of love, 
 In memory of old days I'm dreaming of. 
 You drank the drink of death that we might live, — 
 No greater thing could your clean manhood give. 
 What can I add, who once did grip your hand, 
 Endeavoring by words to let you understand 
 My admiration and respect for you. 
 While overhead the autumn-stars burned blue. 
 Except that Death, 
 Who took away your breath, 
 
 [149] 
 
Has sanctified and raised your spirit high, 
 
 Imperishably sweet and free from stain — 
 
 Far, far above us all who still remain. 
 
 And I am proud to-night, remembering 
 
 So unforgettably a human thing. 
 
 How you last flashed a parting smile to me. 
 
 So cheerily. 
 
 While autumn-stars burned in the quiet sky. 
 
 The night we said good-bye. 
 
 [160] 
 
FRANCIS LEDWIDGE 
 
 (Poet of Meath, Ireland, — Lance-Corporal in the British 
 Army, killed in action on the Flanders Front, July 31, 1917.) 
 
 To-night the South Wind's' moaning over Meath. 
 The plover tells her mate : "Lo ! he is gone — 
 Softly he went as stars that fade at dawn. 
 Our happy minstrel of the hawthorn hedge, 
 Who loved Glen-moira by the silver sedge, 
 Has left us for the stern-eyed halls of Death — 
 No more his laugh shall cheer us on the heath." 
 The Little People cry: "Will he not come.?" 
 And Faeries answer: "Nay our friend lies dumb, 
 Withered and dead like wilted funeral-wreath." 
 
 Across' the moonlit vales of Innisfallen, 
 
 The night thrush wings his silent, lonely flight. 
 
 While clover blossoms shiver in their fright. 
 
 And ghostly white 
 The brooding birches drop their tears 
 In memory of him who through the years 
 Companioned them on many a merry night. 
 
 [151] 
 
Lo ! he is gone — Poet of Sun-kissed Fields, 
 Drinker of joy that lovely Nature yields. 
 Who made his songs of birds and trees and flowers, 
 And growing things that color Life's' gray hours. 
 Of him let it be said in very truth — 
 
 Yea, let the record be: 
 He offered up the chalice of his youth 
 
 To Liberty. 
 He shed his blood to fight a Mighty Wrong, 
 And left the world far richer by his song. 
 
 [162] 
 
THE POET OF THE FOREIGN LEGION 
 
 (Alan Seeger, American Poet, member of the Foreign Legion, 
 killed in action at Belloy-on-Santerre, July 4, 1916.) 
 
 "/ Have A Rendezvous With Death'' 
 
 So young he was to keep Death's baleful tryst, 
 To drink Life's cup of pain down to the lees, 
 Whose dauntless spirit surged with memories 
 Of girls and love, and skies of amethyst 
 Close-folded to the Night. 
 How oft, perchance, his eager feet had gone, 
 At the blue, budding dawn, 
 Across his native heath, his eyes alight, — 
 His soul athirst for beauty, old as earth, 
 Hearing Pan pipe a glad-wild melody 
 Beside some quiet, sun-transfigured stream. 
 Or, wandering by the moon-showered sea. 
 Haply his heart held dream on shining dream. 
 
 Alas for Youth and Mirth, 
 
 And hopes that fade like frail, frost-blighted flowers. 
 
 And golden-footed hours! 
 
 [153] 
 
For, like a bugle blaring through the street. 
 Shrill-blown by one whose motor-car is fleet. 
 The call of duty pierecd his listening ears, 
 A hand showed him the path that led to War, 
 And beckoned him — Song's true ambassador. 
 
 Lo, he is gone; star-crowned and clean of tears. 
 With Fame's' immortal blossoms on his hair. 
 He met Death's kiss ; to-night the fields are fair 
 In peace-lit Avalon where poets rest. 
 And he is latest guest. 
 
 Young Keats is with him — silver fountains play 
 A tender threnody for men of earth, 
 Whose eyes are sealed with darkness, and whose birth 
 Foreshadows pain and grief, and deep despair, 
 Yea, everywhere. 
 
 Scatter ye roses — skyey trophies bring, 
 And let the night be shattered with your cheers 
 For him whose sacrifice outlives the years ; 
 The seeds of whose proud songs 
 Shall work to right Earth's federated wrongs, 
 By flowering to a mighty harvesting. 
 
 [154] 
 
Song wed to Chivalry and 'twined with Love 
 Of Liberty that sheds' a sacred flame, 
 Enshrines his mem'ry bright as stars above, 
 And glorifies his name. 
 
 [155J 
 
HE LEFT ME DREAMS 
 
 (In memory of J. W. H., despatch bearer in the Rainbow 
 Division, killed in action in France.) 
 
 He left me dreams, — bright, starry shafts, unbroken, 
 
 Rose-decked and sweet, as sign-posts down the 
 years ; 
 A wreath of gallant memories for a token 
 
 To 'twine within the tribute of my tears. 
 His songs were sheafs of triumph, proud, unbending, 
 
 A glory unforgettable, to trace 
 Upon my life — ^my children's lives — nor ending. 
 But, like Dawn's sacred flame, forever blending 
 
 With Honor sprung from Love's high dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 The sunset's' ruddy kiss, the moon's brave wonder, 
 
 In merry messages he sent to me; 
 His words were silver bells amid the thunder 
 
 Of death-commissioned guns across the sea. 
 He left me Faith and Hope and smiles immortal, 
 
 [156] 
 
And thoughts that flung stern challenges to 
 
 wrong ; 
 A knight he fought, and stormed the tyrant's 
 
 portal, 
 His deeds like seeds shall flower into song. 
 
 The Night's cool whisper, when the Dawn is 'waking. 
 
 And ghostly hands unclasp, yet clasp again, 
 He knew ; and drank, like wine, for spirit's slaking. 
 
 The bubble-crested music of the rain. 
 He left no gold, he sent no earthly treasure, 
 
 His sacrifice is hidden deep from fame. 
 Forsaking home and friends and peace and pleasure, 
 
 He sent me Love in Friendship's hallowed name. 
 
 [157] 
 
AT THE GRAVE OF RUPERT BROOKE 
 
 (Young English Soldier-poet, killed by Sun-stroke in the 
 Dardanelles, and buried on the Greek Island of Scyros in 
 April, 1915. He had admired the spot only a few days before 
 his death.) 
 
 Above his head shy olive-blooms are bending, 
 To kiss the brave young glory of his face ; 
 
 The rose and asphodel — ^their perfume blending — 
 Make beautiful the place. 
 
 The Moon, robed for Night's nuptials, flings him 
 splendor, 
 
 In silver showers, from blue ^Egea's strand, 
 For soon again Endymion shall attend her 
 
 Through Pan's Arcadian land. 
 
 Star-sentries keep for him a watch undying — 
 Here he doth sleep, where he would wish to be: 
 
 With laughing Fauns, and Dryads' light feet flying, 
 And yonder, lo ! — the Sea ! 
 
 [168] 
 
Look! Sappho waves him greeting — Lethe's River 
 Shall wash away Love's wounds of Earth's mad 
 years ; 
 
 No more for him sharp grief or wistful quiver 
 Of eyelids gone to tears. 
 
 War's clangor's hushed for him ; the bloody morrow 
 Was not to be his heritage at last; 
 
 Death touched him softly, fled are Pain and Sorrow 
 Into the curtained past. 
 
 The Sirens call with wonder-music, wooing. 
 
 Yea, Venus speaks — her lips like ruddy wine- 
 To bid him ride with Phoebus, gold-bestrewing, 
 Unto the Muses Nine. 
 
 Ay, he hath now a world to fit his dreaming: 
 The old high gods and heroes of romance ; 
 
 Calm woodland-ways, where Bacchant-eyes are 
 gleaming, 
 And gentle Nereids dance. 
 
 Across the purple sea-line Neptune's calling. 
 Far south upshines Minerva's temple-piles ; 
 
 The orange-breeze blows sweet — the tide is falling 
 Around the Grecian Isles. 
 
 [159] 
 
Ye dreamers all, and poets glad with singing, 
 Idlers at inns and gatherers of fruit — 
 
 Weave ye Song's coronal, with blossoms springing, 
 For one whom Death made mute. 
 
 [160] 
 
THE DEAD ASTRONOMER 
 
 (In memory of Percival Lowell, late Head of the Lowell 
 Observatory at Flagstaff, Arizona. 
 
 Across the gentle night stars bud and bloom, 
 
 Tolling the ebb and flow of cycling time; 
 Spun out from the Creator's mighty loom 
 
 They sing for evermore the Ancient Rhyme. 
 Purple and gold and bluish-white they gleam, 
 
 Above these crags and canyons, thunder-sown. 
 The garden-paths of Pollux lie a-dream, 
 
 While Death — the Sentinel — ^keeps watch, alone. 
 
 Lo ! he is gone — the Searcher of the Skies ! 
 
 No more the mountain breezes stir his hair, 
 The while he marks, with genius-flaming eyes, 
 
 The hills on Mars, or some young comet's lair. 
 Great curving streams of suns and wreaths of stars 
 
 That swung before him in that fiery sea. 
 Now play his funeral march on viewless bars — 
 
 Aerial Ocean's proudest pageantry! 
 
 [161] 
 
Yea, he is gone! yet somewhere, with the Sun 
 
 That scatters far the laggard mists of morn, 
 His' spirit soars, like Rigel — Silver One, 
 
 Whose colors oft blue eastern Night adorn. 
 Not by lone trappers' trails, nor on the sea. 
 
 Nor in the woods when Evening's lamp burns dim, 
 Shall he be met, but 'mid the galaxy 
 
 Of Suns and Moons and Stars, look ye for him! 
 
 [162] 
 
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 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
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