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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
CITY PASTORALS. 
 By William Griffith 
 
City Pastorals 
 
 and Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM GRIFFITH 
 
 Author of "Loves and Losses of Pierrot" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 1918 
 

 Credit is due to McClure's, Smart Set, Poetry, Thr. Fra, 
 Theatre Magazine, The Poetry Journal, The International, 
 Current Opinion, the Sun Dial editor of the New York 
 Evening Sun, to the editor of The Bang, and to other 
 publications for having published many of these poems. 
 
 COPYRIGHT BY JAMES T. WHITE a CO. 
 1918 
 
 OCy f Q I Q 
 
 '*• : ©CI.A501101 
 
 -w$ I 
 
TO FLORENCE. 
 
GUIDE TO THE TITLES. 
 
 Argument 9 
 
 CITY PASTORALS 
 
 Spring 11 
 
 Summer 26 
 
 Autumn 40 
 
 Winter 57 
 
 OUTWARD BOUND 
 
 At the Door 71 
 
 The Ghostly Hound 72 
 
 Litany of Nations 72 
 
 Hadleyburg 76 
 
 My Dog 77 
 
 Magdalen 78 
 
 overw0rld to underworld 78 
 
 Underworld to Overworld 80 
 
 Enigma 81 
 
 The Hospital 83 
 
 Encounter 84 
 
 ITINERARY 
 
 Invocation 89 
 
 Stageland 90 
 
 On Patrol 91 
 
 Derelict 100 
 
 Bumble Bee 103 
 
 Travel 105 
 
SEA SPRAY and WOOD WINDS 
 
 From an Atlantic Window 109 
 
 Ephemeron no 
 
 The Hunt no 
 
 At the Will of the Moon in 
 
 Oh ! Not the Moon in 
 
 On Chatham Beach in 
 
 War 112 
 
 The Duel 112 
 
 Vigil 112 
 
 A Character 112 
 
 Oubliette 113 
 
 Love and Life 113 
 
 Renunciation 113 
 
 The Haunted House 114 
 
 Mors Omnibus Communis 114 
 
 Spring Song 114 
 
 Serenade 1 14 
 
 Canticle 115 
 
 Autumn Song 115 
 
 Interlude 116 
 
 Requiescat 116 
 
 FANCY FIELDS 
 
 The Making of Spring 119 
 
 The Garden Cinderella 120 
 
 Envoy 121 
 
 Oak Lore 122 
 
 Evening 122 
 
 An Umbel for Spring 123 
 
 Apotheosis 123 
 
 The Sisters 127 
 
 Vale 128 
 
ARGUMENT. 
 
 Rumor A Friend 
 
 Rumor: So this may be considered, in a friendly way 
 and without beating about the bush, as another — an 
 American — word added to what has already been so 
 excellently done with the eclogue? 
 
 Friend: Yes. As the title indicates, it is simply a 
 group of lyrics in dialogue, flavored of the country, and 
 intended to be more or less appropriate to the four 
 seasons. 
 
 Rumor: Although done in verse, do you think that 
 rhyme in dialogue is natural? 
 
 Friend: It may be musical. The world, in its infancy, 
 lisped in numbers — and verse, antedating prose as a 
 medium of auditory expression, would seem to be equally 
 natural. 
 
 Rumor: Exactly. And yet the book does not seem to 
 offer any progressive gospel, nor to urge any specific 
 remedies for such evils as prevail and are more 
 or less clearly indicated. 
 
 Friend: No. It urges nothing, save perhaps the gos- 
 pel of striving to find beauty in daily things. 
 
 9 
 
Rumor: One might say that the author was trying 
 to realize the poetry and philosophy of new-world life? 
 
 Friend: Yes, undoubtedly; but only in so far as 
 others who, with a sort of desperate conviction, hallowing 
 beauty and truth, may realize the same thoughts and 
 share the same outlook. There is no special attempt at 
 characterization. The three persons — Brown, Gray and 
 Green — are voices in shadow, so to say; voices from 
 invisible verandas, conveying hints and aspirations and 
 memories of emotions and pulses that beat, and have 
 probably beaten forever through the world. 
 
 Rumor: How odd — the names of the characters! 
 
 Friend: Hardly so odd as obvious — do you think? 
 
 Rumor: H — m. The fatalism which Brown evan- 
 gelizes and personifies is abstract. A play would seem 
 to be more ample for the development of the idea. 
 
 Friend: Why attempt the impossible? 
 
 Rumor: Impossible? 
 
 Friend: Well, say a play with no other ambition than 
 to be a poem? 
 
 Rumor: Ah! I understand. 
 
 Friend: Yes? 
 
 10 
 
SPRING 
 
 Scene. A New York Club on a side street. 
 
 Time. 19 14. 
 
 Brown. Gray. Green. 
 
 Brown, reading at a table, lays down a daily paper. 
 Gray has just entered the room and is seated near a 
 window. A number of newspapers and periodicals cover 
 the table. The atmosphere is heavy with the depressing 
 heaviness of early Spring, the subtle bondage of the city 
 encouraging thoughts and memories of the country. 
 Above a confused murmur of voices from the outside 
 echoes the commerce of the avenue. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Today, the same as yesterday, 
 The toiling sun goes west. 
 Gray: 
 
 Another joyous roundelay 
 Awakens nest by nest. 
 
 Once more the clean, green April woods 
 Are brimming with the Spring. 
 
 11 
 
Brown : 
 
 And crocuses and mary-buds 
 Are shyly opening. 
 
 But never bud or bloom or bird, 
 
 Or sylvan serenade, 
 Have we on Broadway seen or heard 
 
 Above the din of trade. 
 
 Nothing remains for one to sing 
 
 That was not sung of old, 
 Except that nearly everything 
 
 But death is bought and sold. 
 
 Ay — what is life but something cheap, 
 
 And means of living dear! 
 And what a luxury to sleep 
 Beyond a waking here! 
 Gray: 
 Of course — desires and pleasures are 
 Enhanced by death. 
 Brown: 
 
 The stress 
 Of living seems to grow. 
 Gray: 
 
 We mar 
 Our health and happiness 
 In our own souls and bodies by 
 
 Imagining the worst 
 Precedes the best. 
 
 12 
 
Brown : 
 
 Mere martyrs! 
 Gray : 
 
 Why 
 Aspire to be the first? 
 
 Heaven with hell sometimes agrees 
 
 That man be gay, instead 
 Of vainly coveting the ease 
 
 And leisure of the dead. 
 Bronunx 
 
 Oblivion is failure still. 
 Gray: 
 
 Success is understood 
 By those alone who have the will 
 
 To please the multitude. 
 
 Brown : 
 
 Success is something more and more 
 
 Impossible to gauge, 
 Amid the heavy iron roar 
 
 And thunder of the age. 
 
 Relying on themselves, the strong 
 
 Condemn and criticize, 
 Or damn the weakling in the throng 
 
 Who may not win the prize; 
 
 Or storm the age with mightier deeds 
 Than are for us to try, 
 
 13 
 
Who flourish simply as the weeds 
 That sprout and grow and die. 
 
 Life lingers on in hodden gray, 
 For one condemned to yearn 
 
 And rot ignobly day by day, 
 Being hardly meet to burn. 
 
 My soul has no dynamic force, 
 
 Nor energy divine, 
 To follow any other course 
 
 Than happens to be mine. 
 
 And whatsoever may befall 
 
 Is profitless and stale; 
 My youth has been a prodigal 
 
 At every bargain sale. 
 
 Wherefore my once divine desires 
 Have crumbled into dust, 
 
 Now that all passion in me tires, 
 Confusing love and lust. 
 
 I hear the clamor of the town, 
 As something that pursues 
 
 A fugitive to drag him down 
 And put him in the news. 
 
 Anon a trumpet warning peals 
 And challenges the fears 
 
 That rush and rally at my heels, 
 And gather with the years. 
 
 14 
 
On my despairing gaze, the sun 
 
 Of Arcady and Ind 
 Appears like innocence when one 
 
 Defiantly has sinned. 
 
 Gray : 
 The imagery is as dim 
 As innocence to me, 
 Upon my word ! 
 
 Brown: 
 
 A passing whim 
 To jest at misery. 
 
 Nor may you wholly realize 
 The ghosts that haunt my sight 
 
 Persistently and tyrannize 
 The regions of the night. 
 
 Wanly the stars go swarming by, 
 Like moths upon the wing, 
 
 On whom the Spider of the sky 
 Is ever battening. 
 
 Fairer than lilies in a dell, 
 The Plains of Night are strewn 
 
 With silvery shadows that foretell 
 The coming of the Moon. 
 
 Gray: 
 Good-lack ! 
 
 15 
 
Brown : 
 
 The heavy sable shade 
 Is yonder backward drawn: 
 Behold Her walking like a maid, 
 Far on the starry lawn 
 
 In blossom ! 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Dian is abroad 
 Without a chaperone! 
 
 Brown : 
 
 No, no! 
 Gray: 
 
 Betray and then defraud 
 Yourself — and live alone; 
 
 For you must answer, ill or well, 
 For all you do and see. 
 Brown: 
 With eyes that dwell, as one in hell, 
 On far felicity, 
 
 I still review the simple ways 
 
 Of happy, hallowed years. 
 Of late the sun has led my days 
 
 In very sordid spheres. 
 
 By night a coil of avenues 
 Around a thousand eyes, 
 
 16 
 
Is writhing where the city views 
 Inviolable skies 
 
 Adorned and jeweled with the stars. 
 
 Beneath them, waging stark 
 Rebellion, many a toiler wars 
 
 With hunger in the dark. 
 
 Like ghosts of former lass and lad, 
 
 Are ghoulish shapes that greet 
 And spend themselves upon the sad, 
 
 Gay women of the street. 
 
 By day the sore and feeble stray 
 
 Amid the sights that breed 
 In lanes and avenues — the prey 
 
 Of every crouching need. 
 
 Once — once when, raving in his cell, 
 
 As back and forth he trod, 
 They said the convict prayed to hell — 
 
 I damned and doubted God. 
 Gray. 
 Divinity has been denied 
 
 By many a brooding mind ; 
 And looking on the darkest side 
 
 Drives men and women blind. 
 
 Though Life and Love are bought and sold, 
 
 Remember that the trees 
 Forever mantle, as of old, 
 
 With green embroideries. 
 
 17 
 
Glad April pipes right merrily; 
 
 And when the apples fall, 
 The lanterns of Sainte Eulalie 
 
 Are beacons to us all. 
 
 Hearing the matins and the lauds 
 
 Of heaven chime and ring, 
 The sun still rises and applauds 
 
 The jocund shout of Spring. 
 Brown : 
 
 On Broadway, by a happy chance, 
 
 My eyes have freshly seen 
 The soul of April and Romance, 
 
 Not far from Bowling Green. 
 
 And something came down from the skies, 
 
 Distilling fresh delight, 
 As though a rose in human guise 
 
 Had blossomed on my sight. 
 
 Ah! had it been the Holy Grail, 
 
 Or an old Christian shrine, 
 No greater wonder could prevail 
 
 Than made the day divine. 
 
 For a once dear familiar face 
 
 And presence suddenly 
 Were summoned from the past to grace 
 
 A fading memory. 
 
 18 
 
And like a song that has been sung, 
 
 Or story that is told, 
 My aching thoughts have been among 
 
 The happy days of old. 
 
 Enter Green. 
 
 Gray: 
 What news? Have you been on the mount 
 
 Where grows the herb of grace? 
 And near enough to Spring to count 
 
 The blushes on her face? 
 Green: 
 I? I have overheard the rill 
 
 Rehearse for hours and hours; 
 And witnessed, over dale and hill, 
 
 The marriage of the flowers. 
 
 And learned why Time is fleeting — aye! 
 
 And why Art is so long; 
 And on a week-end holiday 
 
 Have made a little song — 
 
 A song that haply has been sung, 
 
 And been rehearsed again, 
 Since Time and Chance and Love were young. 
 Gray: 
 
 Recite or sing it, then. 
 
 Green: {recites). 
 
 19 
 
SONG. 
 
 They have asked me why the flowers, 
 
 Lady mine, 
 Cast a shadow on the hours, 
 
 As they pine. 
 Surely they know not the room 
 In dream-chambers where the gloom 
 May be sweetened by a bloom, 
 
 Lady mine! 
 
 If I plucked the stars for roses, 
 
 Lady mine, 
 And told all that Day discloses, 
 
 As the shine 
 Of the sunlight strikes the shade 
 Round the golden petals laid 
 On your bosom, they would fade, 
 
 Lady mine. 
 
 But if I could run a brook, 
 
 Lady mine, 
 That with chatters through each nook 
 
 Would entwine, 
 In its ebb and surge and flow, 
 All the roses, do you know 
 What the breeze would whisper low, 
 
 Lady mine? 
 
 20 
 
Brown: 
 
 Have done! No solace may be won 
 By taking Love in vain. 
 
 Gray : 
 Love seeks for solace in the sun, 
 As well as in the rain. 
 
 Green : 
 Ah! The heart of Time grows heavy, 
 
 Lady mine. 
 Few that mustered in the levy 
 Are in line. 
 Do you know what age will do 
 To the roses plucked for you, 
 When the sun has left no dew, 
 Lady mine? 
 Gray: 
 Coming with Cupid from the woods, 
 
 The king-cups you have seen 
 Approach and doff their little hoods 
 Before the Fairy Queen! 
 
 Brown: 
 A gross anachronism ! Bow 
 Them out of doors. 
 
 Green : 
 
 I seem 
 To see the fairies even now, 
 As in a boyish dream: 
 
 21 
 
Away down in a wooded dell, 
 Still trooping through the shade, 
 
 Step by step to an elfin bell 
 An eery cavalcade. 
 
 Anon the warriors gather round 
 
 With leafy lances bent; 
 The beetle, with his bugle wound, 
 
 Proclaims the tournament. 
 
 And dimly, as the airy sprites 
 Upraise a muffled cheer, 
 
 The firefly in the grasses lights 
 His swinging chandelier. 
 Gray: 
 
 Since when have you returned 
 From where the twilight veils 
 
 Arcadia? 
 
 Brown : 
 
 And only learned 
 To foster fairy tales 
 Of revelry? 
 
 Green : 
 
 A starry fay, 
 With heaven listening 
 Out on the hills, taught me today 
 A song the thrushes sing: 
 
 22 
 
Something bids the forest hush; 
 
 Little pinions softly whir. 
 Hardly in the underbrush 
 
 Does a leaf or shadow stir. 
 
 Is it playing just in fun, 
 
 Or in tears the forest grieves, 
 
 Ere the happy morning sun 
 Glances in among the leaves? 
 
 Oh, to hear a happy voice! 
 
 Just the angel of the rain, 
 Bidding earth and sky rejoice! 
 
 Sing on — sing that song again! 
 
 Gray: 
 
 What? 
 Brown: 
 
 Green : 
 
 On the hills? 
 
 Yes: let me think. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Think? Never think to pin 
 The angels down. But up and drink 
 A health to Spring! 
 Brown: 
 
 Begin. 
 Gray: 
 Daily there is but little more 
 Than duty to be done, 
 
 23 
 
Nor right to rest attained before 
 
 The setting of the sun. 
 A stout heart is the merry heart, 
 
 Upon a fading trail ; 
 And though it end where it did start, 
 
 I sing the humming ale. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 We sing the humming ale, good friend ! 
 
 But here's a health to you ; 
 With one more, when the trail shall end, 
 
 To turn and start anew. 
 Heigh-ho! the bowl, from brim to brim, 
 
 Lies full. Fill a cup. 
 While now the rosy apples swim, 
 
 Drink deep! Drink it up! 
 
 Green : 
 The sounding city offers some 
 
 Felicity, but oh, 
 Once more at leisure let me roam 
 
 Where prairie breezes blow! 
 Once more the sturdy roving foot; 
 
 And with an ample load 
 Of light hopes and an easy boot, 
 
 I sing the open road. 
 
 24 
 
Chorus. 
 We sing the open road, good friend ! 
 
 But here's a health to you ; 
 With one more to the nappy blend 
 
 Of Saxon in the brew. 
 Heigh-ho! the bowl, from brim to brim, 
 
 Lies full. Fill a cup. 
 While now the rosy apples swim, 
 Drink deep! Drink it up! 
 Brown: 
 
 Shuddering cities fall asleep, 
 
 Obediently still. 
 Bedded in darkness is the deep 
 
 Dream of the urging will. 
 Shirking the burden and the stress, 
 
 The gypsy has to rove ; 
 But still, for hope and happiness, 
 I sing the song of love. 
 
 Chorus. 
 We sing the song of love, good friend ! 
 
 But here's a health to you ; 
 With one more to the hopes that send 
 
 The parting moments through. 
 Heigh-ho ! the bowl, from brim to brim, 
 
 Lies full. Fill a cup. 
 While now the rosy apples swim, 
 
 Drink deep! Drink it up! 
 
 25 
 
SUMMER 
 
 Scene and Persons: The Same 
 
 Evening. The room is lighted by hanging lamps in 
 the center. On a table are pipes and glasses, a jar of 
 tobacco and a crock of ale. The moon shines through 
 an eastern window. 
 
 Green: 
 A clear soprano, filled with sun, 
 
 The thrush repeats his wedding song. 
 Gray : 
 
 Once more blithe summer voices throng. 
 Green: 
 
 Once more the gossip waters run. 
 
 Gray: 
 They murmur of the flowers of hope, 
 That twinkled over fens and lakes. 
 Green: 
 
 Upon a thousand gardens breaks 
 A thunder-shower of heliotrope. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 And daisy-blossoms fringe the lanes. 
 Green : 
 
 And where the drowsy primrose dreams 
 The livelong day, the woodland streams 
 Are brimming with the summer rains. 
 
 26 
 
The robin beats his golden gong 
 With rapture, leading many a band 
 Of woodland minstrels. 
 Gray: 
 
 Down the land, 
 Come thrush and black-bird borne along. 
 
 They say a bird on every tree 
 Is busy with a song. 
 Brown: 
 
 They say 
 A million human voices pray 
 Upon a second Calvary. 
 
 A distant sound of weary feet 
 Arises and assails my ears, 
 As though a fountain-head of tears 
 
 Were playing yonder in the street. 
 
 Green: 
 The owl molests the solemn chime 
 In many a belfry far away. 
 Brown: 
 
 To-whit, to-whoo — which is to say 
 That to be happy is a crime. — 
 
 Dumb, beyond dreaming, who can be 
 Deaf to the ever-clanging bell 
 That registers and rings the knell 
 
 Of faith and hope and charity! 
 
 27 
 
Green : 
 And still the bells of elfland ring 
 In the high turrets of the air. 
 Brown: 
 
 What wonder that the owl must stare, 
 Like one whose wits are wandering! 
 
 Green : 
 
 What wonder that, on nights as clear 
 And bright as this, the elfin folk, 
 Who paint the lilies, on the stroke 
 
 Of twelve, are wonted to appear! 
 
 Brown: 
 
 So far may fancy, rather, stray. 
 
 Green: 
 
 No, no! 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Then bid your fancy go, 
 And be a swallow in the glow 
 Of meadows waving far away. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Turn down the lamps. 
 Green: 
 
 Wait! 
 Brown: 
 
 Turn them out 
 Completely! 
 
 28 
 
Green : 
 
 You may fail to see. 
 Gray: 
 
 Dive deep. We promise secrecy. 
 Brown : 
 
 Begin while silence soothes the doubt. 
 
 Green : 
 Softly the wandering breezes pass 
 
 And whisper something through the years, 
 Disclosing all the green frontiers, 
 As in a magic looking-glass. 
 
 Afar the blue horizon fills 
 
 And mantles with a rosy foam: 
 And now the herds are nearing home, 
 
 As evening gathers on the hills. 
 
 A distant ridge : with shaded eyes, 
 I stand and gaze ; and over all 
 The hills and dales a human call 
 
 Arises fraught with thronging sighs; 
 
 Arises with an echo so 
 
 Melodious and thin and lone, 
 
 The thrushes launch a trembling tone 
 
 On waves of music sobbing low. 
 
 And over hill and over dale, 
 
 As darkness deepens on the land, 
 
 29 
 
Softly the Moon, with cloudy hand, 
 Puts on her lace and silver veil. 
 
 Remotely ebbing — heard again, 
 The sobbing billows faintly break 
 On phantom shores: the zephyrs shake, 
 
 And darkness overruns the plain. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 It is too dark indeed to find 
 Beauty amid such ugliness 
 As one deplores, with less and less 
 
 Despair of ever going blind. 
 
 The city goes from bad to worse, 
 And festers like a running sore 
 That spreads and, growing more and more, 
 
 Is slowly rotting to a curse: 
 
 A discord ! 
 
 Green: 
 
 Could one only see 
 A blue-bird tarry in the street! 
 Gray: 
 
 Extremes, wide-circling, often meet; 
 And discord strengthens harmony. 
 
 So never mope, nor ever dwell 
 
 On direful woes and ancient wrongs, 
 As maddening as the maddest songs 
 
 Of cap and bell. 
 
 30 
 
Brown: 
 
 Beneath the spell 
 
 Of ambushed meanings that dismay 
 My wondering soul, above me leer 
 Devouring eyes — as those of Fear. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Unleash the dogs and come away! 
 
 A danger, wooed in wilfulness, 
 Caps vanity. 
 
 Green : 
 
 Which, capped, avoid. 
 Decisive moments, unemployed, 
 Are swift forerunners of distress. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Who can avoid the human pang 
 That stabs a spirit at the Throne, 
 When many hear the doom of one 
 
 Who dreamt his foolish dreams — and sang! 
 
 Green: 
 Or wise or foolish, let us cross 
 No bridges ere we come to them. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Forever has the rarest gem 
 Been hidden where the tempests toss. 
 
 31 
 
And so, another round of ale, 
 
 And someone sound a sylvan note. 
 Green: 
 
 As once in outland ways remote 
 
 Was heard the whistle of the quail 
 
 Across the lonely miles and far 
 Away where earth and heaven meet 
 On hallowed ground, in dear and sweet 
 
 Communion with the evening star. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 There are no longer any dews 
 In mist or rain, nor any bell 
 To toll me nearer home and quell 
 
 The thunder of the avenues. 
 
 Green : 
 Away from irking toil and town, 
 New hopes may blossom and unfold. 
 Brown : 
 
 Aspire and dream and feel the old 
 Enthusiasm dying down! 
 
 My courage bends beneath the weight 
 
 Of obligations to be met; 
 
 And on me heavily is set 
 The scarlet seal of love and hate. 
 
 My soul is rubbed by every wrong 
 It touches — and is red and raw. 
 
 32 
 
Life rasps me like a rusty saw 
 That drones a lazy, vicious song. 
 
 Art? Nature? Each a heartless bawd, 
 
 Supreme in her indifference! 
 
 They have obsessed my every sense, 
 Save that which deems them but a fraud. 
 
 Ahead are spread the dreary years 
 
 In drab and dull monotony; 
 
 And mine but weakly is to see 
 The rainbows that are woven tears. 
 
 Nor may the Message of the Dawn 
 Be mine to sing or mine to say, 
 When the Great Question bars the way. 
 Green'. 
 The Question? 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Brown (reading) : 
 
 Written here. 
 
 Go on. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Why is the young world weeping, 
 With its heart so full of song? 
 
 And eyes like pools of vision, 
 Rain-blue and sun-strong? 
 
 33 
 
Nor a broken hope for a pillow, 
 Nor a treasure worth the keeping, 
 
 In view of the gold the morrows hold: 
 Why is the young world weeping? 
 
 Why is the strong world weeping, 
 
 With the thunders in its grasp? 
 And love so willow-slender 
 
 And ready to its clasp? 
 Time, in the middle harvest 
 
 Of sowing days and reaping, 
 Delays to page the Golden Age: 
 
 Why is the strong world weeping? 
 
 Why is the gray world weeping, 
 
 With heaven so near at hand? 
 And with no wish nor wonder 
 
 Elsewise to understand? 
 Drowned hopes have turned to coral, 
 
 And Age comes creeping, creeping 
 Down to the streams of deep day-dreams 
 
 Why is the gray world weeping? 
 
 Gray: 
 Self-flattery and praise withheld, 
 
 Being the base of shallow grief, 
 
 It has become ray firm belief 
 That tears are seldom deeply welled. 
 
 34 
 
Green : 
 If duty has been reckoned least, 
 A song is nobler never sung. 
 Gray: 
 
 Devoutly rosaries are strung 
 For penitents as well as priest. 
 
 Green : 
 Well said! 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Albeit feeble speech 
 May touch the story clumsily, 
 Some haunting Presence follows me, 
 Prodigious in its subtle reach. 
 
 I gaze from heaven, from the gate, 
 Adown the dim, vast starlit hall, 
 Wherein the nations rise and fall 
 
 Like shadows, at the whim of Fate. 
 
 A moment near, a moment gone, 
 And sounding on the iron skies, 
 A Voice of Thunder dwells and dies; 
 
 And so the world moves on and on. 
 
 Crowding the distant starry road, 
 With banners fading one by one, 
 The pageant passes and — alone, 
 
 I dream the solitude of God. 
 
 35 
 
Green: 
 Unreal reality. 
 
 Gray : 
 
 Yes — yes ! 
 The paradox may have a phase 
 Of truth: but come, a health — to raise 
 This siege of growing moodiness! 
 
 Green: 
 A health around! 
 
 Gray: 
 
 One more — and then, 
 Good-night. 
 
 Green: 
 
 You leave? 
 
 Gray: 
 
 My holiday. 
 
 Green: 
 
 And whither? 
 
 Gray: 
 
 England. 
 
 Green: 
 
 What? Hooray 
 For Merrie England once again! 
 
 Gray: 
 For all the English flags unfurled 
 Beneath the sun ! 
 
 36 
 
Brown: 
 
 And why not our 
 Republic, mighty with the power 
 To mold the future of the world, 
 
 With hands as strong and sure as Fate? 
 The emblem of the flag we fly 
 Is peace, to station manhood high, 
 
 Or war, to make a nation great. 
 
 Green: 
 
 And Germany? 
 Gray: 
 
 A feudal folk, 
 Whose blood is surging through our veins. 
 Green: 
 
 Dark Russia? 
 Gray: 
 
 Groaning at the yoke, 
 Still Russia toward freedom strains. 
 
 And France, whom words may not express, 
 Whose glory may not be denied, 
 Still flushes, deeply mortified, 
 
 Behind a veil of loveliness. 
 
 But all are watching, from afar, 
 An empire, born of old distress, 
 Awakening to consciousness. 
 
 37 
 
Green : 
 
 The glory of our rising star 
 Shall never wane. 
 Gray: 
 
 The sword and pen 
 We wield as when our fathers saw 
 The dawn of Universal Law, 
 In England among Englishmen. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 I think of Ireland held in thrall. 
 Gray: 
 
 I think that I have somewhere heard 
 Of freedom as an Irish word, 
 Revered among us most of all. 
 
 Erin, that hungers for a crumb, 
 Like a beloved vagabond, 
 Remains improvident — the fond 
 
 And foolish waif of Christendom. 
 
 Brown : 
 
 For Law and Freedom! 
 Brown : 
 
 Why not, pray, 
 America — and with a cheer? 
 Green: 
 
 Hurrah — stand up ! 
 Brown: 
 
 And let us hear 
 From some one with a wassail. 
 
 38 
 
Gray. 
 
 Stay! 
 
 We have heard the toast to a people 
 
 Who inherit the English tongue; 
 By the men of the far horizons 
 
 Their praises have been sung — 
 Sung by the warder kinsmen, 
 
 Whose cause is a common cause, 
 When the vandal cannon thunder 
 
 Against the iron laws. 
 
 Abroad are the King and the Kaiser 
 
 War-bent on the thin frontier. 
 Under the seas come stealthily 
 
 A rumor and a fear. 
 Shall the nations not be wiser 
 
 Than Goth and Frank and Hun, 
 Till the great gray seas cease chanting 
 
 Under the tranquil sun? 
 
 Blow winds, blow the West good tidings! 
 
 Blow peace to the South and North! 
 And tonight, as the starry cohorts 
 
 Break ranks and sally forth, 
 And the lights of a beacon empire 
 
 Flash clear to the seventh sea, 
 Drink — drink that the sun shall ever 
 
 Be shining on the free! 
 
 39 
 
And peace to the cobwebbed cannon! 
 
 In peace, as brothers may, 
 While the ships of a Whiter Squadron 
 
 Ride on to a brighter day, 
 A health to the Unknown Father! 
 
 To the Universal Plan! 
 And the Law of a kindred children, 
 
 From the States to Hindostan! 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Scene and Persons: The Same 
 
 Entering. 
 Brown : 
 
 Four months? 
 Gray: 
 
 Today. 
 Brown: 
 
 And you are back 
 From overseas to recommend 
 The treadmill and the beaten track, 
 That lead to nothing in the end: 
 
 Where men, who want for daily bread, 
 Are vassals of the phantom will, 
 
 And daily subject to the dread 
 That need and ghoulish laws instill. 
 
 40 
 
Foregoing everything — to think 
 
 Of wandering across the sea, 
 And having time to breathe, and drink 
 
 The nectar of such luxury! 
 
 Ah! to have spent a summer there, 
 
 Before the war hounds yelped and bayed! 
 
 And was the Old World very fair? 
 Or were its edges worn and frayed? 
 
 Green: 
 Was it congenial, as of old, 
 
 To view at ease, on pleasure bent, 
 The parlor countries wherein lolled 
 
 The lords of leisure and content? 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Contentment may waylay the sun, 
 
 And thaw the zones to mellow mirth, 
 Yet coldly comfort any one 
 
 Denied the freedom of the earth. 
 
 Green: 
 What was it like? How did it seem, 
 
 Upon a tramp abroad, to see, 
 Abruptly, like a broken dream, 
 
 A new page turned in history? 
 
 In August to have seen mankind 
 Deliberately stab itself! 
 
 41 
 
Gray : 
 The war? Why, Europe went stone blind; 
 And hell broke loose in search of pelf. 
 
 The vultures, that do commonly 
 
 Haunt the gray edges of the world, 
 Plucked at its heart. 
 Brown: 
 
 Yet you were free 
 To mix and mingle where they whirled. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 And you? 
 Brown : 
 
 I? I have been a slave 
 To ways and woes and written words. — 
 Green: 
 
 Indeed? 
 Brown: 
 
 Not having dared to brave 
 Dismissal and go where the birds, 
 
 Across the dreamy, golden hours, 
 
 Through sunny afternoons took flight, 
 
 And, singing, wakened in the flowers 
 The pulses of a new delight. 
 
 Necessity has made me fear 
 The pinch of poverty and need, 
 
 To drudge and duel daily here, 
 
 With thoughts of other mouths to feed, 
 43 
 
Touching the spirit of it all, 
 
 Is something deeper than distress, 
 
 As now and then I half recall 
 Some old forgotten happiness. 
 
 Maugre the tear that wells and thrills 
 From heart to eyes that strive to see 
 
 The waning wonders on the hills 
 And frontiers of eternity. 
 
 Gray: 
 I have a poem that may cheer 
 
 And lift and take you out of town, 
 And make you hold as something dear 
 
 The green-grass gospel. 
 
 Green'. 
 
 Read it, Brown. 
 Brown (reading) : 
 
 WANDERLUST. 
 
 God, with a dawning gaze, 
 
 Kindles the sun, 
 Forging the iron days 
 
 One after one; 
 
 Shapes and designs the trees, 
 
 And now and then, 
 Fanning the furnaces, 
 
 Labors on men; 
 
 43 
 
Smiting and hammering 
 This from an ape, 
 
 That from a stammering 
 Primeval shape; 
 
 Giving them each the vast 
 Reach of the sky, 
 
 Since the dark ages passed 
 Tardily by. 
 
 Showing the way to choose 
 
 Rest and reward 
 From the green revenues 
 
 Next to the sward; 
 
 Urging and beckoning 
 
 City and town 
 Forth for a reckoning 
 
 Now and anon 
 
 Over the open trail, 
 
 Clean from the din; 
 Sun — stars — a friendly hail, 
 Lights and the Inn. 
 Green: 
 Harken the heavy iron clang, 
 
 Such as the world was built upon! 
 Brown: 
 
 Oh for the time when Homer sang 
 The holy candor of the dawn! 
 
 44 
 
Gray : 
 
 Why brood and browse on Once and Then, 
 
 When Here and Now are full of hope, 
 And women bravely tread with men 
 
 The upward and the downward slope. 
 
 Green'. 
 Or whether in or whether out, 
 
 When Fortune happens down the way, 
 Be thankful for the call. 
 Gray : 
 
 And shout 
 With us who hail the coming day. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 A far cry ! 
 Green : 
 
 No! 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Whom have you met 
 To introduce so much of gloom? 
 In happiness one must forget. 
 Brown: 
 
 My Spring, that left, forgot to bloom. 
 
 And happiness, though erstwhile sweet, 
 Was but as poppies ere they swoon, 
 
 With faces shyly raised to meet 
 A fatal kiss — the kiss of noon. 
 
 45 
 
For days grow long, and one grows tired 
 Of shaping ways and means to fit; 
 
 Keeping ahead of hunger — hired, 
 The latest auctioneer of wit. 
 
 Alas that flattery is sought 
 
 By those who covet and, like me, 
 
 Clutch at the tangled ends of thought, 
 And borrow at sad usury! 
 
 With all the harvest of a youth 
 
 Misspent, I now am left by Art 
 With needless songs, to bear — forsooth! 
 The burden of a wasted heart. 
 Green : 
 
 Crosses and thorns are grievous — though 
 We carry burdens of our own. 
 Gray: 
 As Jacob did, when long ago 
 His harder pillow was a stone. 
 
 The moral is as broad today 
 
 As it is long — and new and true 
 As is our greatly simply lay, 
 That trumpets the Red, White and Blue — 
 Green : 
 
 The flag! 
 Gray. 
 
 The flag that Grant and Lee 
 At Appomattox saw unfurled, 
 
 46 
 
To bid us stand for liberty 
 And be the conscience of the world. 
 Brown: 
 
 What? Bide in any London crowd, 
 Berlin, or Petrograd, amid 
 
 Paris, when Paris thinks aloud, 
 Or in Vienna, Rome, Madrid ; 
 
 And hear the slight and grudging praise 
 
 That scouts our chances to attain 
 What Lincoln dreamt, except to raise 
 
 And crown a shadowy Charlemagne! 
 Gray: 
 Too late. No Caesars need apply; 
 
 And Charlemagnes are overdue. 
 Shining for us to travel by 
 
 Is peace to light the ages through. 
 
 Green : 
 
 Begin again! 
 Brown : 
 
 An antique role, 
 When all about us is the din 
 Of armament. 
 Gray: 
 
 A pipe and bowl, 
 And we are all immortal! 
 Brown: 
 
 In 
 
 47 
 
The breath of war, it does suffice 
 To say that such as we who sing 
 
 Are but as foolish little flies, 
 Or hornets eunuch-fain to sting. 
 
 So praises be — and let us hear 
 
 How Green has found the countryside; 
 And how the golden fields appear, 
 
 With portaled harvests opened wide. 
 Green: 
 Occultly through a riven cloud, 
 
 The ancient river shines again, 
 Still wandering like a silver road 
 
 Among the cities in the plain. 
 
 On far horizons softly lean 
 
 The hills against the coming night; 
 
 And mantled with a russet green, 
 The orchards gather into sight. 
 
 Through apples hanging high and low, 
 In ruddy colors, deeply spread 
 
 From core to rind, the sun melts slow, 
 With gold upcaught across the red. 
 
 And here and there, with sighs and calls, 
 Among the hills an echo rings 
 
 Remotely as the water falls 
 
 And down the meadow softly sings. 
 
 48 
 
A wind goes by; the air is stirred 
 With secret whispers far and near; 
 
 Another token — just a word 
 
 Had made the rose's meaning clear. 
 
 I see the fields; I catch the scent 
 
 Of pine cones and the fresh split wood, 
 
 Where bearded moss and stains are blent 
 With autumn rains — and all is good. 
 
 An air, arising, turns and lifts 
 The fallen leaves where they had lain 
 
 Beneath the trees, then weakly shifts 
 And slowly settles back again. 
 
 While with far shouts, now homeward bound, 
 Across the fields the reapers go ; 
 
 And, with the darkness closing round, 
 The lilies of the twilight blow. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Cease, cease! 
 Gray: 
 
 Around us rolls and roars 
 The tide of traffic. 
 Green: 
 
 Over trees, 
 On wood and orchard Nature pours 
 Her crimson autumn witcheries. 
 
 49 
 
Brown: 
 
 All day the roaring tide has rolled, 
 On every side, on every hand. 
 Green : 
 And all day have been lavished gold 
 And glory on the autumn land. 
 Brown: 
 A captive spirit is but one 
 
 Imploring something beautiful. 
 Gray: 
 Lanier and Whitman saw the sun 
 As something other than the dull 
 
 Had yet imagined. 
 Brown: 
 
 Artists crave 
 The hidden soul in everything. 
 Green : 
 The vireos of autumn rave 
 With mellow voices carolling 
 
 So sweetly! 
 Brown: 
 
 Art is full of cant, 
 Deluding those who are but wise 
 Enough to crave a stimulant 
 
 Made half of truth and half of lies. 
 Green: 
 Of lies? 
 
 50 
 
Gray : 
 
 No, no ! Men meet and part 
 In droves and flocks; but it is fleece 
 Half clothes the world: and as for Art, 
 The city is a masterpiece. 
 Brown : 
 
 Art surely has gone out of date, 
 
 And Worship has been shot with fear. 
 Alas that it has been too late 
 To bid the old gods reappear! 
 
 Recant nor call it heresy 
 
 To lay the phantom fires of hell ; 
 Nor worship with a cringing knee 
 
 The narrow God of Israel. 
 Gray : 
 Beauty and Truth and Love are still 
 
 The trinity — the polar star, 
 Guiding perchance by starry will 
 
 Such derelicts as mortals are. 
 Brown: 
 
 Truth that in fire and flower has slept 
 
 Since Eden and the dawn of dreams, 
 Is roused nor kept awake except 
 
 By mortals going to extremes. 
 Green : 
 For mortal eyes it is but meet 
 
 That beauty never grows so fair 
 
 51 
 
But that one, searching in the street, 
 May find it lurking here and there. 
 
 In dust and gutter and the whine 
 Of poverty may still be found 
 
 The accent, as of things divine, 
 Lost in a wilderness of sound. 
 
 Yet take us hence and let us hear 
 
 Of knights and kings and seneschals; 
 
 In the gray empires bring us near 
 The moats and mossy castle walls — 
 
 When victor over vanquished stood, 
 
 And men thought chivalry to be 
 A pilgrimage in manlihood, 
 
 Before the shrine of courtesy. 
 Gray: 
 So long ago they went their way 
 
 That but their shadows now remain, 
 Beyond such things as be today, 
 
 With chivalry upon the wane. 
 
 Europe is still across a blue, 
 
 Interminable barricade, 
 And gazes frowning on the new 
 
 Frontier and order we have made. 
 
 Goodly and fair it is the while 
 
 To muse on hallowed shrines, and see 
 As in a vision, slowly file 
 
 The knightly ranks of pageantry; 
 52 
 
When he, the lion-hearted king, 
 
 Was royally a troubadour; 
 And he, of fame still echoing, 
 
 Stabbed France awake at Azincour; 
 
 Or when those early warrior lords, 
 Within the Temple Garden gate, 
 
 Ere Towton was a field of swords, 
 
 Raised the white rose and wrecked a State. 
 
 But life has come to have less room 
 
 For conflict than in ages gone, 
 And much less need of men in whom 
 The ape and tiger linger on. 
 Brown: 
 
 Less room? less need? How reconcile 
 
 The ape and tiger as revealed? 
 The world would kiss Christ with a smile, 
 Clutching a dagger half concealed. 
 Gray: 
 
 The world? 
 Brown: 
 
 Ay — the same Judas world, 
 That never changes or grows old ; 
 In whose heart treachery lies curled 
 And venomous and serpent-cold. 
 Gray: 
 Nay! Catholic humanity, 
 
 Whose ribs are made of rocks and sod, 
 
 53 
 
Remains deep-hearted as the sea, 
 And just about as broad as God. 
 
 And gladly does it hear the gay 
 
 And sanguine voice of Shakespeare sing 
 . Such songs as only singers may 
 
 When joy-bells of a nation ring. 
 Brown : 
 
 I question Shakespeare. 
 Gray: 
 
 Be inclined 
 To doubt the name, but heed the voice 
 And motions of the mighty mind 
 
 That made the morning stars rejoice. 
 
 Green: 
 
 His gaily, gallantly to reign, 
 
 And be, among the men of rhyme, 
 A poet ever to remain 
 
 And cheer the heavy heart of Time. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 His voice the heavens bent to hear! 
 Green : 
 
 His sway is over all romance ! 
 Brown: 
 
 And all reality! 
 Gray: 
 
 I fear 
 No eulogies are left for France. 
 
 54 
 
 
Nor for the deep-toned singing land, 
 Whose passions now are running wild ; 
 
 Rude, rabid, ruthless to command, 
 And simple-hearted as a child. 
 
 Nor for the royal Savoyard, 
 
 Who reigns in Rome, where Caesars reigned, 
 Weighing the chances of reward, 
 
 Victor in name — but not ordained. 
 
 Nor for the Man of Destiny 
 
 Who, in his hour of triumph — lo! 
 
 With unawed will was soon to see 
 The ruined dream at Fontainebleau. 
 
 Br own: 
 
 And life has come to have less room 
 For conflict than in ages gone? 
 Gray: 
 The dawn breaks slowly through the gloom 
 And shadow of Napoleon; 
 
 Breaks slowly through the sombre night 
 That darkened Spain — and that again, 
 
 On Mexico falls like a blight, 
 
 Shrouding the slayer and the slain. 
 
 Nor shall one prophesy the end, 
 
 While Hope and Love continue strong. 
 Brown: 
 
 The most of strength that we can lend 
 It but to tell the Right from Wrong. 
 55 
 
Disgorged on us a motley crowd 
 
 Has surged — a tide no laws do stem. 
 They sap our life-blood. Are we proud 
 
 To have put genius into them? 
 Gray : 
 
 Cuba, that staggered in the dark, 
 
 Hastened the dawn and bade us see 
 Clearly the way ahead, and mark 
 
 The milestones of eternity. 
 
 Lo! now that Europe has been shot, 
 And, hydra-headed, lies half-curled, 
 
 Our glory to have not forgot 
 To be the conscience of the world. 
 
 Green : 
 
 Hope dwells in this young land of ours ! 
 Gray: 
 
 That groping out of darkness grew! 
 Green: 
 
 Her woods are wild with native flowers! 
 Brown: 
 
 In them are rosemary and rue. 
 
 56 
 
WINTER 
 
 Time: 1914-15. 
 
 Scene and Persons: The Same 
 
 Logs blazing on the hearth. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 A merry blaze brings in tfie year. 
 Green : 
 
 The world is blithe and warm 
 In many a home where none may hear 
 The slander of the storm. 
 
 As fabled as the desert suns, 
 
 And very far away, 
 Remains the thunder of the guns, 
 
 Turning the empires gray. 
 
 Remote is Russia, in a trance ; 
 
 And England, Belgium — dazed 
 By the great light that shines in France. 
 
 Is Europe not amazed? 
 
 Gray: 
 
 Amazed can hardly be the word, 
 
 Since Europe is too old 
 To be amazed — and has not heard 
 
 The Message rightly told. 
 
 57 
 
Greater it is than has been said, 
 
 Or dreamt or prophesied, 
 By those who dreamt and who are dead, 
 
 Or dream and have not died. 
 Green : 
 
 Cronies of owlish vision know 
 
 That Right, as well as Wrong, 
 Is swaying empires to and fro, 
 
 And driving them along. 
 
 Gray years and tears are but as one 
 
 Wan dew-drop in a cup, 
 Just brimming over ere the sun 
 
 Forever dries it up. 
 
 Despair and strength we have in kind, 
 
 The sunshine and the showers, 
 Among the elements that bind 
 
 And hold us to the flowers. 
 
 So come — bring on the ruddy ale, 
 
 If only to be sure 
 That hope and happiness prevail 
 
 That men may but endure. 
 
 Once more — a health! 
 Brown: Words — warm and light! 
 
 But warmer, lighter still, 
 Must be the hearts of those tonight 
 
 Who would evade the chill. 
 
 58 
 
For yonder crouching in his lair, 
 Now shrewdly shifting — hark! 
 
 How the keen claws of Winter tear 
 The marrow of the dark! 
 
 Ah! comrades, who may know how wild 
 
 And piercing, incomplete, 
 Is silence when a little child 
 
 Begs vainly in the street? 
 
 By many a hearth, in sore distress, 
 
 The mother, hollow-eyed, 
 Is hiding from a childish guess 
 
 Her deep heart-broken pride. 
 
 Wrestling so playfully with Fate, 
 
 Give pause amid the strife 
 And realize how desperate 
 
 Is each and every life. 
 
 God ! the remorseless pendulum 
 
 Ticks on and tolls the knell 
 Of some who work and pray — and some 
 
 Who wake and weep in hell. 
 
 I hear the Christian curse his birth, 
 
 Jews, Pagans crying out 
 Against the heavens and the earth, 
 
 In blasphemy and doubt. 
 
 59 
 
The deep gulf between Right and Wrong 
 
 Daily becomes a thing 
 That widens, widens — and the long 
 
 Bread lines are lengthening. 
 
 I see Despair traced on the wall 
 Where none knew what it meant, 
 
 In companies ignoring all 
 The smothered discontent. 
 
 Again they meet. I hear the tread 
 
 Of lawless bands — and see, 
 Upon a million faces spread, 
 
 The scowl of anarchy! 
 
 Green: 
 
 Enough — nor dwell on hapless things 
 
 So blighting to our cheer. 
 Alow, aloud the birch-log sings 
 
 A welcome to the year. 
 
 And while we watch the dancing elves, 
 
 Just turn another page, 
 And recollect that we ourselves 
 
 Live in a golden age. 
 
 And living in an age of gold, 
 
 I fear I cannot see, 
 Or sympathize with any scold 
 
 Proclaiming anarchy. 
 
 60 
 
Brown: 
 
 Not anarchy! 
 
 Green : 
 
 What else? 
 Brown : 
 
 No! No! 
 It was a passing mood, 
 An idle fancy. Now the glow 
 Of flame-flowers scents the wood. 
 
 Gray: 
 A nibble! Surely, to insist 
 
 Upon a glowing scent 
 Is marking Brown an anarchist 
 Or else a decadent! 
 
 Green: 
 Decadency but serves to blur 
 The candor of the skies. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Its service simply is to stir 
 And waken some surprise. 
 
 Gray: 
 Proceed and tell us how you write 
 
 With hope or with despair, 
 Spending yourself but to invite 
 
 Age, poverty and care. 
 
 61 
 
Brown: 
 
 The tale is less than many think 
 
 Who reckon it divine, 
 With no emotions taught to drink 
 
 Remembrance as of wine. 
 
 Beauty is mine to seek and chart, 
 
 With Nature as a guide, 
 Amid the lilies of the heart, 
 
 Through fibres pushed aside. 
 
 Wherefore I cull me here a rose, 
 
 With lilies in between; 
 And reap but where Another sows, 
 
 To sow where others glean. 
 
 And, plucking blossoms now and then 
 
 For Love alone, I know, 
 Alas! nor how nor even when 
 
 Another one will grow. 
 
 By hour and day and month and year 
 
 I do become a mark, 
 And am shot through with killing fear 
 
 And horror of the dark. 
 Green: 
 A truce to such depressing moods, 
 
 And pipes and glasses bring! 
 Lo! in my fancy now the woods 
 
 Are carpeted with Spring. 
 
 62 
 
Like fugitives from fairyland, 
 With dewy gems impearled, 
 
 The flowers begin to understand 
 And range the forest world. 
 
 As gay and reckless as of old, 
 
 Still rollicking with fun, 
 The dandelions spend their gold 
 
 Carousing in the sun. 
 
 Oh, never any daffodil 
 
 But heeds the vernal call, 
 Divinely pulsing with the thrill 
 
 And wonder of it all! 
 
 Just yonder do the pansies peer 
 Around the passing herds, 
 
 Awakening as if to hear 
 Some carol of the birds. 
 
 And back and forth the kingcups skip 
 
 About the blossom queen, 
 All watching now the crocus trip 
 
 A measure down the green. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Already drifting is the snow 
 
 On roof and square and street, 
 With muted echoes from the slow, 
 
 Sad tramp of weary feet. 
 
 63 
 
They pass who duel with the stern 
 
 Necessities — and grope 
 With failing strength who only learn 
 The hopelessness of hope. 
 Green: 
 
 Hark! midnight slowly tolls. 
 Gray: 
 
 Time leaps 
 The hurdled universe 
 Once over. 
 Brown : 
 
 While the city sleeps 
 Securely on its purse 
 Of luxury. 
 Green : 
 
 No more, for lo! 
 I only see the woods; 
 As, down the year, beyond the snow, 
 An April orchard buds. 
 
 Wherein by many a spreading tree, 
 
 Descending far away, 
 In clean forgetfulness I see 
 
 The little children play. 
 
 And vocalized the air now shakes 
 
 As, hurrying along, 
 The punctual bobolincoln breaks 
 
 Into a world of song. 
 
 64 
 
Till gathering from far and near 
 The wondrous lyrics ring, 
 
 Arousing violets to hear 
 
 The leaping laugh of Spring. 
 
 Daring and urging many a rose 
 To burst in crimson showers, 
 
 Already faintly stirs and flows 
 The best blood of the flowers. 
 
 And over tree and tower and town, 
 With night and darkness gone, 
 
 Around the lily stars are blown 
 The roses of the dawn. 
 
 Gray: 
 
 The dawn? 
 Green: 
 
 Aurora bravely pins 
 On high a starry page. — 
 Brown: 
 
 Illegible. 
 Green: 
 
 Whereof begins 
 Another golden age. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 Born with an instint to destroy, 
 
 The vandal ages pass 
 As heedlessly as any boy 
 
 Who stones a window-glass. 
 65 
 
Why make a mockery of things, 
 
 Excusing it as Art? 
 Green : 
 A mockery — when Joy still sings 
 
 Deep in the common heart? 
 
 Brown: 
 
 I fear the songs know much distress. 
 Gray: 
 
 Above the darkest night, 
 The stars still shine. 
 Brown: 
 
 For happiness? 
 Gray: 
 
 Immortal souls shall light 
 
 On earth forever and for aye, 
 
 With their magnificat, 
 While lad and lass together stray. 
 Green: 
 
 The heavens echo that: 
 
 For it is Love makes life divine. 
 Gray : 
 
 A million systems move, 
 With thronging suns and moons that shine 
 
 Beneath the rule of Love. 
 
 Brown: 
 
 The war-worn world begins to tire 
 And bend beneath the load 
 66 
 
That burdens it — and to inquire 
 The distance and the road; 
 
 Begins to question and to doubt 
 The guide-book and the Guide, 
 
 Who lit the stars and blew them out 
 Ere heaven was descried. 
 
 Its faith is gone! 
 Green : 
 
 But something more 
 Than faith is making plain 
 The highway to the Secret Door, 
 Since Hope and Love remain. 
 Gray: 
 
 Since Hope and Love remain, the great 
 
 World, reeling, bludgeoned, hurled 
 From God, is master of its Fate. 
 Green : 
 
 Bludgeoned ? 
 Brown : 
 
 Alas — 
 Gray: 
 
 The world! 
 
 67 
 
OUTWARD BOUND 
 
 TO 
 
 EDWIN MARKHAM 
 
 69 
 
AT THE DOOR. 
 
 HERE at the door are visions unfulfilled, 
 Dreams to be dreamt, and voices — voices stilled, 
 As Eden darkly was ere the first bird 
 In the ancestral silences was heard. 
 
 And here are songs midway in homing flight, 
 That hover on frail pinions and alight 
 Softly, less audibly than is the quake 
 Of spirits tremulous, or hearts that break, 
 Here at the door. 
 
 Here at the door are many messages 
 
 Of cheer and lurking faith — a folded kiss, 
 
 A sealed desire, a sigh, a memory 
 
 Of things that were as rainfall on the sea. 
 
 Thronging are shapes and shadows near at hand, 
 Cast by the sun of some lost fairyland. 
 And in the air are rumors and the stir 
 Of meetings and long partings to occur, 
 Here at the door. 
 
 71 
 
THE GHOSTLY HOUND. 
 
 STRETCHED on the threshold of the night, 
 No neighbors spy 
 The heavy jaws but shun the sight, 
 On passing by: 
 
 The heavy jaws that sag and yawn 
 
 With hungry guile, 
 Until the coming of the dawn , 
 
 Blurs them awhile. 
 
 O Hound of Death so darkly still, 
 
 Haunting the door! 
 Sniffing in silence at the sill, 
 
 Forevermore! 
 
 Gray ghostly house! Shall lurking fears 
 
 Sigh through the hall, 
 Until the last lone tenant hears 
 
 The hushed footfall? 
 
 * LITANY OF NATIONS. 
 
 The nations shall rush like the rushing of many maters 
 . . . and shall be chased before the wind. — Isaiah. 
 
 GREECE. 
 
 AEONS of old were wandering down the seas, 
 When Homer sang at Chios — and the sweet 
 Tranquillity of marching silences 
 Was broken at my feet. 
 
 * Written in 1913. 
 
 72 
 
Great dawns have shown the way, 
 
 When we have wandered. 
 God, in the battle sway, 
 
 Wliat have we squandered? 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 Avid and Roman-born in soul and sense, 
 
 Master of all else but myself was I, 
 When, bound by silken cords of indolence, 
 I saw the world go by. 
 
 FRANCE. 
 
 Ravaging, roystering and repenting — save 
 
 In story and the regions of romance, 
 Rises the moon on whom more mad and brave 
 And beautiful than France? 
 
 GERMANY. 
 
 Once German arms and German armies hurled 
 
 Thunders on Rome. Than mine no readier hand 
 Would wake the violin and woo the world, 
 Were it a fairyland. 
 
 AUSTRIA-HUNGARY. 
 
 Mine is a house divided but upheld 
 
 By the sheer force of many hemming powers. 
 Ages, like forests, have been hewn and felled 
 To build my crumbling towers. 
 73 
 
RUSSIA. 
 
 Gray winters flourish and old empires fail; 
 And still the starry watchmen sally forth, 
 As wardens, with me, of the frozen grail 
 And ramparts of the North. 
 
 BALKAN STATES. 
 
 Stabbing the skies for stars and air in which 
 
 To bask awhile and breathe — shall we remain 
 Simply the little brothers of the rich? 
 God! have we fought in vain? 
 
 SPAIN. 
 
 Strong was my soul in war and wise in peace. 
 
 On whom else was the Moslem vanguard hurled? 
 Ay, but for me had any Genoese 
 
 Sailed and brought back a world? 
 
 SWITZERLAND. 
 
 High noons and sunsets pass while I repeat 
 The world-old secret of the endless quest: 
 And with the nations ageing at my feet, 
 I overlook the West. 
 
 GREAT BRITAIN. 
 
 Flecking the seas where war and tempest brew, 
 And biding till the gonfalons are furled, 
 
 74 
 
My British sails have dared and driven through 
 Thunders that shook the world. 
 
 AMERICA. 
 
 Never so many millions have been free, 
 
 As to my shores have come from pole to pole. 
 A by-word have I made of liberty, 
 In giving them a soul? 
 
 JAPAN. 
 
 Amid the warring peoples I, that slept 
 
 And dreamt of wide dominion — confident, 
 Ambitious, urging, conquering — have stept 
 Out from the orient. 
 
 CHINA. 
 
 Glory and power for ages had been mine, 
 
 Until upon me fell a sudden night, 
 Such as makes beacon-star republics shine: 
 And my eyes saw the light. 
 
 TURKEY. 
 
 In infidel debate on whence and why, 
 
 They hiss my God, and know not whether hale 
 And wise, or worn and withering am I, 
 Behind the crimson veil. 
 
 75 
 
Great dawns have shown the way, 
 When we have wandered. 
 
 God, in the battle sway, 
 What have we squandered? 
 
 HADLEYBURG. 
 
 Hadleyburg was the most honest and upright town in all 
 the region round about. — Mark Twain. 
 
 JOHN BARLEYCORN he said the town 
 Was half a knave and half a clown, 
 Nor saner than the law allowed: 
 
 With all its stiff restraints and prim 
 Observances, the place, he vowed, 
 
 Had too much starch in it for him, 
 And kept itself upon the jump 
 
 To whip the devil round the stump. 
 
 That crooked souls and crooked knees 
 
 Distinguished men from walking trees, 
 Was sagely then and there agreed: 
 
 But bent on laughing them to scorn 
 Mad John, denying them a creed, 
 
 Resolved to stray amid the corn, 
 And eavesdropping from stalk to stalk, 
 
 To hear some goblin money talk. 
 
 76 
 
And peeping from behind a bee, 
 
 He fell into a reverie, 
 Beholding them so smugly housed, 
 
 And pondered what would happen had 
 Some sudden thunder been aroused! 
 
 Thinking of which the silly lad 
 Collapsed beside a brawling brook 
 
 And laughed until the welkin shook. 
 
 MY DOG. 
 
 TODAY hell chuckled at another lie, 
 That gave no human being any pain, 
 Except one temporary soul. Nor Cain 
 Was more heart-heavy when he came to die. 
 
 I branded him a cur that by-and-bye 
 Would go the way of mongrels and be slain, 
 By man nor God regretted; clear and plain 
 
 Were the reproaches written in his eye. 
 
 He bridled slightly ere he slunk away 
 An hour ago and perished in a bog, 
 
 Saving two children who had gone astray: 
 Since when the sirens sounding through the fog 
 
 Are Gabriel horns that thunder me to pray, 
 Or to be damned for slandering my dog. 
 
 77 
 
MAGDALEN. 
 
 T) LINDED > O Dante, by love at first sight, 
 
 ■*— " Her face did yet betray what beauty meant! 
 
 Beauty, that always is so imminent, 
 And fugitive and plumed for sudden flight. 
 
 Sappho nor Beatrice was she whose slight, 
 Frail spirit was a candle not yet spent. 
 Her body, worn with passion, had not bent 
 
 Nor broken on the rough coasts of the night. 
 
 Why did they look askance? She was not wise, 
 Or worldly, in not wishing any crown, 
 Such as a queen might covet — or a clown. 
 
 Why did they look askance? She and the skies 
 Were witnesses against the craven Town, 
 That held her by the hair lest It should drown. 
 
 OVERWORLD TO UNDERWORLD. 
 
 GOD went to sleep one day in quiet, 
 And had a dream of bee-folk swarming, 
 With stingers whetted for a riot; 
 
 His work so needed some reforming. 
 
 And since bee-folk are very human, 
 
 Both as to virtues and to vices, 
 They settled down as man and woman 
 
 Engaged in making laws and prices. 
 
 78 
 
And some, with both hands on the Bible, 
 Were not above clandestine sinning, 
 
 Refraining meanwhile, as a libel, 
 
 To praise the work from the beginning. 
 
 The healing balm of better wages 
 Drew others to condemn the revel 
 
 And recreations of the ages, 
 
 As strongly smelling of the devil. 
 
 Who breaks as well as makes the laws h 
 Since then as zealously as ever 
 
 Resigned to remedy the causes, 
 And rock the cradle of endeavor. 
 
 Amid the stress and strain and tension, 
 And rot and rust and sloth and shirking, 
 
 It baffles human comprehension 
 
 How well the old machine is working. 
 
 Working? Sheer heresy nor schism 
 The face of honest labor blanches. 
 
 The Tree? A spray of socialism 
 
 To kill the roots and save the branches? 
 
 Each day a Sabbath! Who would falter 
 
 In sanctimony or in sighing? 
 Nor hope to blunder past the altar, 
 
 And plunder heaven without dying? 
 
 79 
 
UNDERWORLD TO OVERWORLD. 
 
 GREAT is the age, so vainly great! 
 That strives to quench and quell and hew 
 The springs and pillars of the State: 
 If greatness knew! 
 
 Brief power and passion so abound 
 
 As to enthrall the very few, 
 And go on hedging them around, 
 Who cared nor knew. 
 
 Who rightly reckons any more 
 
 The seasons wherein darkly brew 
 The dissipations of the poor, 
 
 Who dared nor knew? 
 
 Say who of them knows right from wrong! 
 
 Or gives a damn for me or you ! 
 Or heeds the heavy undersong! 
 If they but knew! 
 
 Gray, writhen masses coiled and curled! 
 
 Half-hooded eyes that glitter through 
 The thunders of the underworld! 
 
 If God but knew — if God but knew ! 
 
 80 
 
ENIGMA. 
 
 WHERE shall the ant spend the night, 
 The last night of all? 
 Or the bee, or the bird, 
 
 Whose song was a prayer hardly heeded or heard? 
 Or the serpents that crawl, 
 Panic-stricken of light? 
 Or the soaring untameable things 
 That have wings? 
 Shall they fall, 
 Or abide? 
 Shall they hide 
 In the skull ... in the husk 
 Of the bat-haunted void ... in the dusk 
 That is falling like fine 
 Sifted ashes on that which has strangely been yours 
 
 or been mine? 
 Shall the tomb 
 Be a quickening womb? 
 Or worms be the anchoret ivies that twine 
 In the hair of a friend, 
 Loved and lost, 
 At what cost, 
 In the end? 
 
 Answer and say, 
 
 As one may, 
 
 That the riddle is slight. 
 
 81 
 
But in sight 
 
 Of the ultimate day, 
 
 On the eve of the night, 
 
 Shall the jungles be gay? 
 
 Shall they thrill at the stem? 
 
 Shall the roar in them be one of fright? 
 
 Or the trumpeting thunders in them 
 
 Be a plea for the light 
 
 Fading out of the sky? 
 
 Shall the stars, that were once traveled by, 
 
 Flicker high, 
 
 Blown by winds, each of them but the sigh 
 
 And regret of a god? 
 
 Or shall heavily nod 
 
 Every head, 
 
 Weighted down by the ominous dread? 
 
 Having loved, having died 
 
 Glorified, 
 
 Shall man, on the anvil, have quailed 
 
 At the frost in the fire, 
 
 And God! to the dark be resigned, 
 
 When the last spark of hope 
 
 He could find, 
 
 Shall be ashen — and nothing have scope, 
 
 Or escape from the doom of desire 
 
 For the light that had failed, 
 
 In a world gone to bed? 
 
 82 
 
THE HOSPITAL 
 
 I. 
 
 APPROACHING near and nearer now the old, 
 Inexorable tyranny of dread 
 Assails the soul. Death smiles and counts the co^l, 
 Clear stars that thrill and shudder overhead. 
 
 II. 
 
 The pouring darkness seems to close around 
 Another world forever. Something calls 
 
 Across an age of silence — and the sound 
 Is dying, dying slowly down the halls. 
 
 III. 
 
 She stands with eyes adread and watches them 
 
 Prepare the table — sees them place the cone 
 
 Upon the smooth white marble, clean and chill. 
 
 Receding voices hover here and there, 
 
 And die away in calm. The surgeons wait 
 
 With quiet confidence. Already cuts 
 
 The sudden menace of the glittering blades; 
 
 And stealthy as the shadow of a fear, 
 
 The opiate is creeping on the brain. 
 
 O cool, delicious languidness . . . such as 
 
 The leaves must feel beneath the early rain 
 
 Of April . . . and the gasping spirit falls 
 
 Into the yawning anaesthetic night. 
 
 83 
 
IV. 
 
 Drenched and submerged, the senses grope and swim 
 
 Up from oblivion: a second birth 
 Among the living magnifies the dim 
 
 Magnificence and glory of the earth. 
 
 V. 
 
 So now they say the end is very near; 
 
 The feeble pulse still flutters with the same 
 Dim human fire — and one may almost hear 
 
 The Moving Finger searching for the name. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Once more the smell of earth and rich warm wood, 
 
 With rain and air and sunshine, as of yore. 
 Wayfaring in the hand of God, where all is good, 
 Once more. 
 
 ENCOUNTER 
 
 I MET my dead self on the street, 
 And we both bowed, 
 As strangers do who would not greet 
 Dead men aloud. 
 
 Startled ... we passed . . . with ghostly eyes, 
 
 Condemned to stare, 
 Not having time to recognize 
 
 Each other there. 
 
 84 
 
Reflected in dull eyes, that were 
 
 The eyes of Spring, 
 Autumn he saw ... in me . . . the blur 
 
 Of withering: 
 
 Bay leaves ... he saw . . . that might have been 
 
 Less sere and brown, 
 And hope ... an ember smoking in 
 
 The dream burned down. 
 
 Fancy the soul of Caliban, 
 
 Ashen desire, 
 Virgin of any breeze to fan 
 
 The sunken fire! 
 
 Around us many in the throng, 
 
 With ghostly tread, 
 Were strangely spirited along, 
 
 As are the dead. 
 
 Faces in legion bore no sign 
 
 Of having found 
 Beauty nor anything divine, 
 
 In sight or sound. 
 
 Had but to them some word revealed 
 
 That life and land, 
 In a new world, so long concealed, 
 
 Were near at hand! 
 
 85 
 
. . . God has mute spies — and one of them, 
 
 In youth arrayed, 
 Could find no language to condemn 
 
 The trust betrayed. 
 
 I met my dead self on the street, 
 
 And we both bowed, 
 As strangers do who would not greet 
 
 Dead men aloud. 
 
 S6 
 
ITINERARY. 
 
 TO 
 
 WILLIAM CANTON. 
 
 87 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 CONJURE nothing else to darken 
 The already cloudy passes; 
 Vocal in the thunders, harken 
 To the gospel of the grasses/ 
 
 Reedy tongues and eery voices, 
 Hushed amid the daily drudging, 
 
 Say that long life to the naiads 
 Still is hardly worth begrudging: 
 
 Say that Time and Change have taken 
 Grace and beauty much as pillage, 
 
 Leaving sense and soul forsaken 
 As a world-forgotten village. 
 
 Ravaged by the vandal strollers 
 Is the garden-close of beauty, 
 
 Where the flower of truth once grevj in 
 Stately faith with love and duty. 
 
 Why not just believe in fairies'? 
 Or that something still discloses 
 
 89 
 
Wonders wrought wherever there is 
 Grass or star or grace of roses? 
 
 Say nor sing that grief comes never 
 Until pleasure has departed, 
 
 Nor the dusk to any forest 
 But a bird dies broken-hearted. 
 
 STAGELAND. 
 I. 
 
 UPON a stage as ghostly near 
 And real as you and I, 
 With now a smile and then a tear, 
 The ages idle by. 
 
 II. 
 
 For grudging fame or drudging shame, 
 
 The strolling company 
 Is masquerading in the same 
 
 Old human comedy. 
 
 III. 
 
 Anon the Critic seems to gauge 
 
 Performers by the way 
 Their predecessors on the stage 
 
 Did honor to the play. 
 
 90 
 
IV. 
 
 By night a throng of starry eyes 
 
 Is crowded in the hall, 
 Endeavoring to realize 
 
 The meaning of it all. 
 
 V. 
 
 Amid the waiting and suspense, 
 
 Does anybody know 
 That many in the audience 
 
 Were players long ago? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Rehearsing rumors in the wings 
 Since Eve and Adam sinned, 
 
 Was Eden haunted by the things 
 They whisper in the wind? 
 
 ON PATROL. 
 
 I LOAF and invite my soul. 
 How curioTisf How real! 
 Underfoot the divine soil — 
 Overhead the sun. — Leaves of Grass. 
 
 I reckon it a luxury, 
 
 Such as the sky, 
 To be here at the door and see 
 
 Him idle by. 
 
 91 
 
So slowly does he come and go 
 
 Around and round ; 
 A comfort it would be to know 
 
 Where he is bound. 
 
 An optimist beyond a doubt, 
 
 Whose faith inspires, 
 But counsels reticence about 
 
 His own desires. 
 
 Contrives to loiter and explore 
 
 From day to day, 
 Observing wonders more and more 
 
 Along the way — 
 
 Grass and the sun, the moon, a star, 
 
 A human face, 
 Becoming so familiar 
 
 In every place. 
 
 I marvel to myself that he 
 
 Has ever grown 
 Engrossed in them — he seems to be 
 
 Mostly alone. 
 
 By day he hears the shouts and cries 
 
 That fill the town 
 With stress and thunder, as the eyes 
 
 Go up and down. 
 
 92 
 
But dark and devious are his ways. 
 
 Who ever heard 
 A secret when a fellow says 
 
 Hardly a word? 
 
 Droll as a mummy on the Nile, 
 
 That dumbly thinks 
 Enough to petrify a smile 
 
 Upon a Sphinx. 
 
 As though awaiting tardy news, 
 
 Day in and out, 
 Haunting the busy avenues, 
 
 He strolls about, 
 
 Soliciting a word, a glance, 
 
 Or just the hand 
 Of an old crony who perchance 
 
 May understand 
 
 The sudden touch of loneliness 
 
 That comes again 
 Amid the shouting and the press 
 
 Of many men. 
 
 They look at him askance — heigh-ho! 
 
 His purse is slim; 
 And few have leisure to bestow 
 
 Or waste on him. 
 
 93 
 
Lacking is he in much — and still 
 
 He makes ends meet. 
 His presence in the autumn chill 
 
 Has warmed the street. 
 
 Ay, and moreover, what he had 
 
 To give away, 
 Would hardly keep a cherub clad, 
 
 Observers say. 
 
 Is he oblivious of that 
 
 Inquiring gaze 
 That turns to disapproval at 
 
 His idle ways? 
 
 His fool philosophy is just 
 
 The sort to give 
 An arrant wanderer who must 
 
 Have time to live. 
 
 Securities nor any land 
 
 Has he at all ; 
 Nothing for payment on demand 
 
 His own to call. 
 
 Wherefore he is particular 
 
 To recommend 
 Another course as better far 
 
 To comprehend 
 
 94 
 
Than such a one as he pursues; 
 
 Because you might 
 Be with him day by day — and lose 
 
 Him in the night. 
 
 Has such aversion to a stir! 
 
 The dogs of war 
 Have habits that the common cur 
 
 Is noted for. 
 
 War — is it aught but selfishness 
 
 And greed gone mad? 
 Its hungry body in a dress 
 
 Of nettles clad. 
 
 Has conflict any noble end, 
 
 Save as the spark 
 That flashes and reveals a friend? 
 
 Dawn after dark. 
 
 Meanwhile, in seeking liberty, 
 
 He finds no home 
 Commodious as having free 
 
 Expanse to roam. 
 
 Asks nothing else. He is, or seems, 
 
 So far away 
 From all the customary themes 
 
 Of every day. 
 
 95 
 
Appearing usually above 
 
 Familiar 
 Surroundings as acquaintance of 
 
 Another star. 
 
 On speaking terras with Jupiter, 
 
 One might suppose ; 
 And Venus? intimate with her 
 
 As with a rose. 
 
 The planets to him certainly 
 
 Are populous, 
 As nether regions of the sea 
 
 Appear to us. 
 
 Acquainted with much goblin lore 
 
 Is he withal. 
 And sh ! may have forgotten more 
 
 Than some recall. 
 
 To him no Sphinx or Pyramid 
 
 Can be so old 
 But that the secrets in them hid 
 
 Shall yet be told. 
 
 (Is one to arrogance inclined, 
 
 Who would but know 
 What the Creator had in mind 
 
 Ages ago ? ) 
 
 96 
 
His quests in search of knowledge are 
 
 Astonishing; 
 Truth, like a candle, shining far 
 
 In everything — 
 
 Glimmering, luring him along 
 
 From dread to dread, 
 While the fixed stars of right and wrong 
 
 Burn overhead. 
 
 Hence bear with me a moment more; 
 
 Or better still, 
 Come in the house and shut the door: 
 
 They judge him ill. 
 
 And at his habits roll their eyes, 
 
 The neighbors here, 
 Who deem him something less than wise 
 
 And more than queer. 
 
 The secret passions and the surge 
 
 Of lust acquire 
 Divine momentum in the urge 
 
 Of heart's desire. 
 
 Nothing that does a human wrong 
 
 Is less divine. 
 How deeply wounded are the strong, 
 
 Who show no sign! 
 
 97 
 
Strength is the duty of the oak, 
 
 As of the dike. 
 The city and the forest folk 
 
 Are much alike. 
 
 Among them hardly has been seen 
 
 Or found the mark 
 Of difference that lies between 
 
 The skin and bark. . . . 
 
 Such thoughts of course are quite enough 
 
 To queer a saint. 
 His Pan is something much too rough 
 
 To carve or paint; 
 
 Is something such as one may seek 
 
 And find in trees, 
 Half Dutch or Spanish, and half Greek 
 
 Or Japanese. 
 
 Foolish? When April comes around 
 
 To his abode, 
 This fellow feels in duty bound 
 
 To take the road: 
 
 But meanwhile rummages the town, 
 
 Remains a boy, 
 And turns traditions upside down 
 
 In search of joy: 
 
 98 
 
And idolizes every child 
 
 Within his ken, 
 Albeit wholly reconciled 
 
 Never again. 
 
 I saw him only yesterday, 
 
 Shred-worn and thin 
 With pity and passion — men say 
 
 Looking like sin. 
 
 But that, sir, can that be the word 
 
 Of the right ring? 
 His heart was as that of a bird 
 
 With a broken wing. 
 
 So has he grown to be a friend ; 
 
 In time of need, 
 Ready to challenge and defend 
 
 With word or deed. 
 
 A wayfarer so valiant gay 
 
 Can be a boon 
 Companion any idle day 
 
 Or hour in June. 
 
 When all the drowsy purple land 
 
 Is full of sun, 
 His hope is yet to understand 
 
 Thy will be done. 
 
 99 
 
Content to win, resigned to lose, 
 
 Yet on release, 
 To find, beyond the avenues, 
 
 The ways of peace. 
 
 DERELICT. 
 
 I STRAY at ease from street to street, 
 Imposing on the town ; 
 Contented with enough to eat 
 
 And just enough renown 
 To satisfy the public eye, 
 And dislocate a frown. 
 
 Oddly approved, on every hand, 
 
 Is such fantastic strife, 
 That I have come to understand, 
 
 While dancing to the fife, 
 The comedy, the greatness and 
 
 The littleness of life. 
 
 My clothes may claim to be akin 
 
 To cousin-german shreds; 
 And often chalkily the skin 
 
 Shows through the latticed threads; 
 Seeing success is more or less 
 
 A game of tails or heads. 
 
 Which makes me wonder just how much 
 My fault it was to leave 
 
 100 
 
The road and fall in love and clutch 
 
 An angel by the sleeve. 
 But all the same my purse became 
 
 A thing an elf could heave. 
 
 Straightway my course was toward the last 
 
 Resort of poverty; 
 Sickness and debt came crowding fast, 
 
 And I went on a spree, 
 Cursing the present and the past 
 
 And the lean years to be ; 
 
 Cursing the woman and the man 
 
 Who had begot me poor; 
 Cursing the heavy iron ban 
 
 Of poverty the more 
 Because, by chance or circumstance, 
 
 My drift was low and lower. 
 
 And she, the Missis, fell away, 
 
 Flickering like a flame, 
 And dwindled slowly day by day, 
 
 Until the kiddie came 
 And bruised our souls for that his gray 
 
 Outlook would be the same. 
 
 101 
 
On me a thieving passion stole; 
 
 Thinking perhaps to save 
 The only one in all this whole 
 
 Creation who forgave 
 The little sin of nature in 
 
 A somewhat feeble slave. 
 
 She died. And God seems more and more 
 
 Remote since then to praise. 
 Being numb and weary and so sore 
 
 In very many ways, 
 My will remains but to deplore 
 
 The sad or happy days. 
 
 And still the moments slip and slide 
 
 From winter into spring; 
 And foam upon the countryside 
 
 Is breaking when I bring 
 Across the mart a foolish heart 
 
 To hear the thrushes sing. 
 
 As darkness deepens on the town 
 
 Of carriages and cars, 
 And roaring thoroughfares that drown 
 
 The birds — their happy bars, 
 I go to find a bed far down 
 
 Under the quiet stars. 
 
 102 
 
BUMBLE BEE. 
 An April Reckoning. 
 
 SINCE Jason and Magellan 
 Or Raleigh made a stir, 
 Was ever such a felon 
 And sheer adventurer! 
 
 Resolved to reconnoitre, 
 
 Ere May shall come to pass, 
 
 Sealed orders bid him loiter 
 About the flowerless grass. 
 
 By an instinct unerring, 
 
 He shapes his course to hear 
 The soft and sudden stirring 
 
 That strikes no mortal ear. 
 
 His raids across the border 
 He plans as one inspired, 
 
 Nor ponders on the order 
 And energy required. 
 
 Wise? A more knowing rover 
 Cocks eye on land nor sea! 
 
 The fourth leaf on the clover 
 He deems no rarity. 
 
 103 
 
His decalogue imposes 
 
 No promises to keep, 
 Made ere the great red roses 
 
 Had wakened from their sleep; 
 
 Made ere the first field daisies 
 Grew wide-eyed wondering 
 
 To see that which amazes 
 Narcissus in the spring. 
 
 Outbound to raise a rumpus, 
 He drones a rumbling song, 
 
 Nor boxes any compass, 
 
 Nor recks of right and wrong. 
 
 A rough rogue of a fellow, 
 Half fickle, half sincere, 
 
 Withal may reach the yellow 
 Seas and across them steer — 
 
 And find his sins forgiven, 
 At anchor where the rills 
 
 Flow honey in a heaven 
 Of golden daffodils. 
 
 104 
 
TRAVEL. 
 
 {Ante Bellum.) 
 
 I WENT to Europe, said my friend, 
 Expecting wonders rare 
 To open vistas without end, 
 And lay the future bare. 
 
 Paris, of course, would be in style; 
 
 And Berlin, London, Rome, 
 Would show me something more worth while 
 
 Than anything at home. 
 
 And then to hear them cheer a crown, 
 
 Or praise some rusty thing 
 That the dark ages handed down, 
 
 Was — was astonishing. 
 
 IU5 
 
SEA SPRAY AND WOOD WINDS. 
 
 TO 
 
 EDWARD J. WHEELER 
 
 107 
 
FROM AN ATLANTIC WINDOW. 
 
 MY window looks upon the sea, 
 Where white sails hover and appear 
 Like gulls that idly float and veer, 
 As in a vision quietly. 
 The sun has dwindled to a beam, 
 Going behind the Camden hill, 
 And vanishes: the sea is still, 
 As in a dream. 
 
 Above, the trailing galaxies 
 
 Frame the full moon that comes to gild 
 
 The sea graves where the wrecks are stilled, 
 And are one with the silences. 
 On worn and wasted frontiers dwell 
 
 War echoes — dying, dying down, 
 
 In hollow rumors of renown, 
 As in a shell. 
 
 Night: and the sea-marks faintly shine. 
 The gulls are gone, the sails are furled; 
 And rocking is the drowsy world, 
 
 109 
 
Cradled in dreams and airs divine. 
 Night: and the stars resume control, 
 
 And patiently their vigils keep, 
 
 Till weary hopes have gone to sleep, 
 As in a soul. 
 
 EPHEMERON. 
 
 THERE was a famous city long ago, 
 With sun-bright wharves and streets that nn » by 
 noon 
 Have emptied and grown still: and there are no 
 
 Familiar voices mingling with the croon 
 Of rocking seas and tides that ebb and flow, 
 Droning and chanting a continual rune. 
 
 THE HUNT. 
 
 HARKEN the hounds on the waters tonight, 
 Baying the stars as they hurry and flee! 
 Stirring remembrance and blurring delight, 
 Triumphs the trumpeting sea. 
 
 Gale upon gale rises foaming and fills 
 
 Sail after sail sweeping into the lee ; 
 While in the darkness, now calling the hills, 
 
 God goads the galloping sea. 
 
 110 
 
AT THE WILL OF THE MOON. 
 
 JOY has come with a word from the sea, 
 And has brought to my cabin door 
 A hope for the dream, and one more 
 When the dream is a memory. 
 
 Joy has gone . . . and red leaves are astir; 
 
 Ay — and gone like an ebbing thing; 
 
 Is all of the glory of Spring, 
 That can only return with Her. 
 
 OH! NOT THE MOON. 
 
 OH! not the moon, nor forest minstrelsy, 
 Conjures and stirs the clear, shy voice of Song; 
 Nor all the thunders of the clarion sea, 
 
 Even as yonder dim, far, heart-loud thundering human 
 throng. 
 
 ON CHATHAM BEACH. 
 
 SOFTLY the gathering shadows finger and release 
 Star after silver star — and with a crimson kiss, 
 Warmly the molten moon burns down the dreaming seas. 
 Dear God! what heaping thunders have been spent 
 for this! 
 
 Ill 
 
WAR. 
 
 CHARGE upon thundering charge an army sweep.* 
 To crimson victory beneath the rain 
 Of storming cannon, and a nation leaps 
 To glory — scarred with curses of the slain. 
 
 THE DUEL. 
 
 OSONG that ends before it has been sung! 
 And theme that breaks before the tale is told ! 
 When soul and body — one so gray and old, 
 Stabs one so hale and young! 
 
 VIGIL. 
 
 SEARCHING the seasons for a secret presence, I 
 Must watch and wait: 
 She may come late, 
 
 She may be passing by, 
 As the wind does viewlessly: 
 And such is fate. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 THEY said — and it was credible — the whole 
 Hot host of hell was clamoring to see 
 One mutinous, indomitable soul 
 Duel with destiny. 
 
 112 
 
OUBLIETTE. 
 
 THINK how the felon in his cell 
 Must love the smallest thing . . . 
 The fly, the spider! God! how well 
 He knows the human sting! 
 
 LOVE AND LIFE. 
 
 Love. — I have known all worth knowing, and have wept, 
 And wondered what to give worth giving more, 
 And been betrayed . . . and with my tears have 
 slept, 
 Till life again came knocking at the door. 
 
 Life. — I have made merry, and much zest have found, 
 And celebrated, duelling with lust, 
 And relished love . . . and shuddered at the 
 sound, 
 As of hearts breaking . . . crumbling into dust. 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 LOVE built a house and strove with might to weave 
 Something that faded and was hardly more 
 Than hieroglyph. Then sadly taking leave, 
 
 Love said good-bye to hope — and shut the door. 
 
 113 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 VACANT? The house is filled with vacant eyes; 
 Is like a grave that leaks in sudden showers. 
 Outside — the garden, under dripping skies, 
 Is filled with green and rusty iron flowers. 
 
 MORS OMNIBUS COMMUNIS. 
 
 HERE in the sun, warm winds and waving grass 
 Are full of sighs and whispers. One by one, 
 With solemn faces, men and women pass, 
 Here in the sun. 
 
 SPRING SONG. 
 
 SOFTLY at dawn a whisper stole 
 Down from the Green House on the Hill, 
 Enchanting many a ghostly bole 
 
 And wood-song with the ancient thrill. 
 
 Gossiping on the country-side, 
 
 Spring and the wandering breezes say 
 God has thrown Heaven open wide, 
 
 And let the thrushes out today. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 THE Moon puts on her silver veil 
 And shawl of lace: and with far lutes 
 
 114 
 
And violins in many a dale, 
 
 The thrushes blow their woodland flutes. 
 
 Quickened by many a ghostly cheer, 
 Under the Moon the forest heaves 
 
 And sways with ecstasy to hear 
 The eery laughter of the leaves. 
 
 CANTICLE. 
 
 DEVOUTLY worshiping the oak, 
 Wherein the barred owl stares, 
 The little feathered forest folk 
 Are praying sleepy prayers. 
 
 Praying the summer to be long 
 
 And drowsy to the end, 
 And daily full of sun and song, 
 
 That broken hopes may mend. 
 
 Praying the golden age to stay 
 
 Until the whip-poor-will 
 Appoints a windy moving day, 
 
 And hurries from the hill. 
 
 AUTUMN SONG. 
 
 ONCE more the crimson rumor 
 Fills the forest and the town ; 
 And the green fires of summer 
 Are burning — burning down. 
 
 115 
 
Oh, the green fires of summer 
 
 Are burning down once more! 
 And my heart is in the ashes 
 
 On the forest floor. 
 
 INTERLUDE. 
 
 SINCE yesterday has been no word, 
 Nor voice of anything 
 To thrill the forest; and no bird 
 Has any heart to sing. 
 
 Since yesterday has been no track 
 
 Of Pan, nor any power 
 To lure the gypsy summer back, 
 
 And fool a single flower. 
 
 REQUIESCAT 
 
 GRAY are the sentry leaves and thinned 
 That whisper at my cabin door, 
 Sighing and mourning as the wind 
 Worries and walks the forest floor. 
 
 O leaves, O leaves that find no voice 
 In the white silence of the snows, 
 
 To bid the crimson woods rejoice, 
 Or wake the wonder of the rose! 
 
 116 
 
FANCY FIELDS. 
 
 TO 
 RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 
 
 117 
 
THE MAKING OF SPRING. 
 
 UPON a day in April 
 There came a sudden hush- 
 The silence of the forest, 
 Expectant of a thrush. 
 
 Hardly an aspen quivered, 
 
 Until a breeze and rill 
 Were startled by the rumor 
 
 Of daisies on the hill. 
 
 Sudden — a gust of passion 
 
 Developed in the air, 
 As though the Little People 
 
 Were thronging everywhere. 
 
 And lo ! the spell that deepened 
 On larch and pine and fir, 
 
 Was broken. In the maple, 
 The sap began to stir. 
 
 119 
 
Softly the doors of silence 
 Were opened ; and set free, 
 
 Were voices full of wilding, 
 Prophetic mystery. 
 
 Had some world been discovered? 
 
 Or had Pan misbehaved? 
 Or was it but a nation 
 
 That needed to be saved? 
 
 The thrush came with a question, 
 
 Adventurous to find 
 Some remnants of the wonder 
 
 That God had left behind. 
 
 THE GARDEN CINDERELLA. 
 
 THINK the hermit thrush had spread 
 The tidings with a vocal wand, 
 As dawn came with a dappled tread 
 So softly on the garden land. 
 
 Souls of the roses one by one 
 
 Went palely through the garden skies, 
 
 Like ashes sifting from the sun, 
 Or the stray ruins of butterflies 
 
 120 
 
And with a rosy sisterhood 
 
 Of blossoms dreaming in the dawn, 
 
 Demurely nodded one that stood 
 Behind a dewy curtain drawn. 
 
 She dreamt her dreams, and never gazed 
 Beyond the curtain, it is told, 
 
 Until the Twilight came and raised 
 A wondering little face of gold. 
 
 It may have been a fairy face 
 
 Thrilling the garden with a smile, 
 
 Or just a primrose sent to grace 
 The darkness for a little while: 
 
 Fleeing perhaps a nunnery 
 
 Of blossoms very softly furled, 
 
 Confessing her desire to see 
 The beauty of the garden world. 
 
 Envoy 
 
 Veiled Princess! In the morrow land 
 That gathers nearer hour by hour, 
 
 Beneath the Secret Shadow Hand, 
 Is any face or any flower? 
 
 121 
 
OAK LORE. 
 
 I WENT into the Wood 
 Of the Green Mystery, 
 And sought for the secret 
 Abode of Hidden Glee. 
 On a tomb it was written 
 
 That ye who seek shall find, 
 Though the owl have vision, 
 Or the bat be blind. 
 
 I went into the Wood 
 
 Of the Green Mystery, 
 And felt for the secret 
 
 Repose of every tree. 
 Sealed in them was the message 
 
 That ye who strive are sure 
 Of desire that only 
 
 Prevails to endure. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 THERE is only a star in the sky; 
 On the wandering waters the breeze 
 Dies away in the ghost of a sigh. 
 
 Over meadow and marsh comes the cheep 
 
 Of the frog: and adream in the trees 
 Are the wren and the robin asleep. 
 
 122 
 
Now rises the moon like a frail 
 
 Floating bubble just over the hill, 
 At the far keening call of the quail. 
 
 All the dark brooding forest is still, 
 
 Save the aspen so shyly astir, 
 Or the hidden and hesitant rill. 
 
 Then the moon slowly wanes, and the gray 
 
 Forest deepens as softly as night, 
 And the rivulet dreams on its way. 
 
 AN UMBEL FOR SPRING. 
 
 NEARER now and ever nearer, 
 Wing to wing, 
 Come the swallows with a clearer 
 Twittering. 
 Everything 
 Wakes and bourgeons as though straying 
 In adventure, hoping, saying 
 It is Spring. 
 
 Breezy ripples dance and quiver 
 Riotously on the river. 
 
 Skipping 
 Deftly now and tripping 
 
 Hand in hand, 
 Over sea and over land 
 
 123 
 
Gather oaf and elf and fairy, 
 Shyly vigilant and wary 
 
 Of the sere 
 Sentry leaves and bastion grasses, 
 As the season blithely passes 
 
 Down the year. 
 
 Thronging couriers of the air 
 
 Stir and start and would be going. t 
 
 Eery trumpets, softly blowing 
 
 Everywhere, 
 Echo faintly and declare, 
 
 Surely, surely 
 It is April so demurely 
 Tipping every voice and tossing 
 Flowery purses as of old, 
 Spilling minted marigold 
 As a fee at every crossing. 
 
 Quietly the hosts of June 
 Strike their dewy southern tents, 
 Delicate with woven scents; 
 
 Breaking camp 
 
 With muted tramp; 
 Marching nearer past the gleaming, 
 Idle rivers southward dreaming — 
 
 Weird and quaintly, 
 
 Very faintly 
 Chanting unto Spring 
 Songs that men may never sing. 
 124 
 
Buds are boldly peeping out 
 Of the tents now pitched about 
 
 In the grasses; 
 Feeling safe and very sure 
 Of themselves — and so secure 
 That the reckless ones are finely 
 Gossiping: and so divinely 
 
 Is it done 
 That the breezes guard the passes 
 
 In the sun. 
 
 Happy, happy ever after 
 
 Are the shout and lyric laughter 
 
 Echoing 
 Over hill and rill and valley, 
 With the rout and rush and rally 
 
 Of the Spring. 
 
 Never any living thing 
 In the mad and merry season 
 But rejoices beyond reason: 
 Cows are lowing; 
 Waters flowing ; 
 Lambs are bleating; 
 Birds are greeting; 
 Everything that has a voice is 
 In the chorus and rejoices 
 In the mere delight of giving 
 Pleasure and in simply living. 
 
 125 
 
Hush and hear 
 Yonder mighty army stirring 
 
 In the grasses ; 
 
 Cheer on cheer 
 Rises as the season passes 
 
 Sheer 
 Overhead on pinions whirring 
 
 Far and near, 
 Winging, winging, winging down the year. 
 
 APOTHEOSIS. 
 
 LAST night the world died. 
 How the imps skurried! 
 Some souls were enskied ; 
 Some of them buried. 
 
 Others who were as tall 
 And strong as seven, 
 
 To the surprise of all, 
 Fell short of heaven. 
 
 Many who stormed the gate, 
 
 Bent on acquiring 
 Glory at any rate, 
 
 Soon began tiring. 
 
 126 
 
Some took the time to ring, 
 And were anointed. 
 
 How many hurrying 
 Were disappointed ! 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 NIGHT, in the chambered east, 
 Sits with Dawn at the door. 
 Dropped from her golden feast, 
 Star-crumbs scatter the floor. 
 
 Mice from behind the sun 
 
 Patter along the sky; 
 Nibbling the crumbs they run, 
 
 Touching with footprints shy. 
 
 Echoes of purring sound 
 Over the world below ; 
 
 Nothing more to be found, 
 Scamper — away they go! 
 
 Dawn, in the chambered east, 
 Rises: and through the door, 
 
 Night has gone from the feast 
 Over an azure floor. 
 
 127 
 
VALE. 
 
 AN idle wayfarer, it may be said, 
 Did briefly reverence the roadside flowers, 
 Wherein the roses burned from white to red, 
 Crumbling in crimson showers. 
 
 And on the upward and the downward slopes 
 
 Are embers now of many a cheerful fire, 
 Hardly alive beneath the smoldering hopes 
 And ashes of desire. 
 
 So, at the quiet going out of day, 
 
 And as the little brooks at vespers tell 
 Their pebbly rosaries — comes one to say 
 Good-bye and wish you well. 
 
 128 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
 Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
 
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