*%¥^^ 'i ^f .-* ^W' '<>*^^^/~^-'^''^-^^AtM^ii'^^:M/f-^»^^ ^^^^^~ DUSK. Qxxty Sonnets [Thoughts and Emotions] S^/k • BY Louis M. Elshemus Author of " Songs of Southern Scenes," " Mammon," etc. t o ^ I ^o£.Tn."r -^ A.11T ^>ivsi Cc | -^ o '^KF^MMuMImss. EASTMAN LEWIS 152 W. 55th Street New York 1 r*^ ?)S" ^of- •'Copyright, 1904, by Louis M. Elshemus. Patteson Press, N. Y. Contents* ntroduction 5 I he Poet 7 'oetry 7 Jenius 8 sbikespeare's Melody 8 re Milton 9 VLystery's Unfolding 9 Dpen and Covert Hell lo Song's Spirit lo rke Bourne to Our Thinking Powers ii [n the Darkness of Evening ii rhe Muse as Saviour I2 Dne Expression of the Soul I2 yiusset and Longfellow I3 \ly Love I3 \ Scene in the Tropics 14 [nspinition 14 rime 15 rhe World's Verdict i5 Salambo's Death (G. Ferriers' Painting) 16 rhe World 16 rhe Thunder Storm 17 rhe Sun as a Magic Painter 17 Sfovember 18 Love 18 Feeling 19 Sonnet 19 Sonnet 20 ro the Mountain Wind 20 Ubiquity of Beauty 21 rhe Sense of Sleep 21 Deception 22 Learn God's Works 22 Fears of Thanks 23 rhe Individual Conviction 23 rhe True Pianist 24 alorious Eyes 24 rhe Inspired Musician 25 \ July Morn 25 \ Brook Seat 26 Musical Themes 26 Songwright and Symphonist 27 rhe Windows of the Soul 27 Popularity Hetares Nature Sways Us After All The Sweetest, Shortest Sonnet Question and Answer Italian Spanish The Saddest Case in Life The Daemons to Love To Dream that the Earth has Thought Sonnet The English Language (Modern) Religion Death Sonnet The Final Sleep .' Thirst for Beauty Immortality of Poetry Introduction. It is with great pleasure that I write a few words of com- lent on Elshemus's works. I have long admired the original one of his verses, that, as he says, come to him all ready-sung irithin his mind. In these days of materialism, it is pleasant to ind a man who holds his own in the world of idealism. Also, to now that he possesses character; and, like Walt Whitman, pities he Philistines; at the same time listens undaunted to the voice •f his inspiration. For what is poetry good for, if it does not ixpress the emotions and the new ideas of a fearless man, who (links beyond the limits of the hypocritic crowds? In these days of hurry and fretting, most books of poetry not inform the reader who the poet is, how he works, and 'hat he has accomplished. The age is too mercenary to think — )0 selfish to heed a new work of thought. Elshemus is one of those complex souls that are exceptions 1 the annals of humanity. He does three things well; he paints, rites, and he can compose music. He has painted landscapes of oetic value; figure-paintings of strikingly original conception; tid has composed musical pictures and songs, worthy of a true lusician. He delights in all three branches of art. It is indeed ire to find a man, who has written about everything the human lind can think of, who at the same time is able to write his own lusic, and then turn to his brushes, and achieve great and charm- [g results in painting. In brief, Elshemus is so many-sided, that is difficult to credit him with so many works, many of them as erfect as those of the masters. Elshemus's methods of work are inspirational. He writes nly when he has thoughts to express, or some novel story to ill. Hence, one can notice the fire, the vigor, the strenuousness f his poetry. He is one with the inspiration possessing him. a painting he is marvelously rapid. It is concentration of mind lat allows him to achieve things with such celerity. One of the onnets in this volume he wrote in five minutes, viz.: The In- )ired Musician. That is phenomenal. What has Elshemus accomplished? He has told me. He is to his credit ten books published, three of which are in prose, e has written over a thousand sonnets — a few plays, dramas, Drettos — countless poems, filling over sixty volumes; many bal- ds, and lyrics. His artistic output is baffling as well: over 300 intings and over 400 sketches. In music he has over twenty •itten piano-pieces — and a thousand themes in his head, waiting be committed to paper. I have not seen all of his works, but bm what he has shown me, I have noticed that, like Shake- leare, Elshemus does not repeat himself. He is so original id his soul utterly inexhaustive. And all of his works are good. T. A. i I SIXTY SONNETS Cbe poet ?he poet is a wondrous piece of clay, Wherein God breathed a wondrous, glorious soul ! Inspired, he hears the far millennium's toll — lees Death and Life contend : a furious fray ! ireat God, in His all-goodness, starts his lay, And showers down calm patience, till the goal Is blooming; — then he hears acclaimings roll — Vhose echo the dull world hear from far away ! ) who may teach the poet what to pipe ! Not even he who pigments words to dreams. For God sends Angels down, with varied themes, Vrit on rosed tablets — with His Archetype — And therefrom poets sing their lays — that flow Like Seraph singing, when God's heavens glow! /^ poetry. ) man, misjudge not poetry ! Not the glow In verse, like diamond, is its fair device — Nor any tiar — nor queen's robe of bice, >amask-inlined ! No glittering turgid row >f Orient words — no pageants ; nor a flow Of tinkling phrases is true poetry — It is strife's solacing; thoughts' ecstasy o bloom death — God ! — it is soul's earnest throe ! "e mighty men, that, not content with gold. Or vermeil-sheen have written heart-wrought verse — Ye are the poets of this universe ! ot Keats is great — 'tis Musset ! Ay, I hold Him poet divine, who, having suffered long. Hath waged life's battle with his heart-sprung song! SIXTY SONNETS Genius* Those talents that enchain the common world They stand and sing upon the tide-lorn beach — They but amuse the crowd — but do not teach. They are like dulse or shells the surf has swirled. They shine within the glow of ardent sun ; But they are washed away when, swell and swell, The incoming tide doth rush ungovernable, And sings so loud and clear to drown each one ! 'Tis thou, O Genius, like the monstrous tide That cometh, faintly heard at first, and seen But as soft foam upon the far main's green — Then strideth, with deep sound and waves shore-wide. To swallow all the beach and rock-isles there — Dost drown all others with thy song so fair ! Sbakespcare'e JMelody* Great poets have I read — but Shakespeare owns A melody apart ! none wield his harp ; — Most strains, although mellifluent, are sharp Compared with William's tuneful, doleful tones — Ah me ! his undersong ! like evening-lones That wail their wonder to the firmament — Or like the air, soon after Luna went To hide abaft the dell where Terra moans ! Those sonnets sound, as though the sea had soared To nebulous heights, and, hearing the sad air Make softer moan, beyond the main's compare — Had lingered ! so to lessen what it roared Around the all-mysterious clififs and leas, To some vague strain, kin to Eternity's ! SIXTY SONNETS Co JMUtoti* O like some self-involving thunder-cloud Whirling upwards, from seething seas to skies, Where lightnings flash with luminous fire-surprise ; Then, low-suspended, glorious in its tortuous shroud, It dashes through the air with thunder loud — Dashes so swiftly like a wild full sail Sped by a phantom's rage o'er ocean's wail, Intensely whirling, of his own wild swell so proud — So thou, eternal Milton, soul sublime ! No man on earth had thy great Michael's voice. Thou wast like star-clash ; ocean's hollow noise. Or, when in thought, a peak in condor's clime. Outtopping mortal doing : a soul of God — A storm, awe-spreading, purging air and sod ! )My6ter/9 Unfolding* Oh ! one by one they do unfold — those thousand Pure petals of the flower Mystery ! Like some Nelumbo on some Indian sea. Spreads out its table-petals, while the sunshine Welters upon the quivering height of earth's air ! Oh ! one by one they burst so beauteously — Those thought-buds — sumptuous, like the lily free Buds gloriously by hymning Indian-Temple ! Oh ! Mystery is blossoming — Spring is showering Her fecund dews upon each sweet unfolding Rosed-petal ! — Mystery is budding fair ! Each moment bursts a bud; O fragrance spending; Each hour flush her blossoming scents round-spreading- And Mystery's Perfumes wander There, oh ! There ! lO SIXTY SONNETS Open and Covert Relt There is a pool, whose sUme is visible To sauntering swains ; another lies away In far recess, where doe and serpent dwell. Whose surface is so clear to show the jay That flitteth overhead ; but deep, deep down There brood the rotten trunks — and algae thrive — The sUme breeds bodies red and green, and brown. All ugly to behold. So some, who drive Away the diamond-hearts with language vile ; And others, with kind features, reflect the skies ; But when aroused — what tongues with filth and guile ! What darkness neath the shining fair disguise. The world hath such — shun thou the frank, vile tongue- But fear the calm one, when his blast be flung ! Song's Spirit. Is there a Spirit that comes silently O as the breath from roses on the hill Comes wafted through the fragrant copse so still ! Comes, as the warm kiss, floating from the lea Of Melos' main to the Italian sea ! Comes to me ; gently guiding thought and quill — Breathes on me, till its whispers overspill — Comes to me wreathing laurels, blessing me ! O as the languorous lily feels Love's aurea, When spiced breezes sing of beauty's glory — So, when at unknown moments, comes that breath — Then heaves my heart — my soul exhales its beauty — As the fair lily, so does my soul its duty — As the queen-flower, my song perfumes at death ! SIXTY SONNETS ii Cbe Bourne to Our Cbinking powers* There is a bourne to all our thinking powers — O Soul, that rulest all our mind, and grieving ! Heaped up before us is a mound of flowers Whose scents we smell, whose form's deceiving. Long laid beyond this bourne's a languid sea, That fadeth in a deep unfathomed sky — No boat we have, to know what yonder be — But tranquil on the strands we long must lie ! There is a bourne that pales our dreams of yonder — We may yet dance with Fancy's children, yet An abysm's there — filled with strange peals of thunder. Nigh to its edge we dally with regret : For there's the bourne to all our thinking powers, To think beyond its realm — we reap Death's Dowers. In the Darkness of evening* Why is it. Sweet ! we sit and sit : from fall Of sun into the radiant west, soon dim. Unconscious that eve's quiet solemn hymn Floats round us, to the dark hour, when night's pall Doth soundless cluster round the tired earth? Why do we sit, and let our dreams enwreathe Each other's souls, while we but love and breathe — Ne'er thinking that the winter-eve had birth? We need no Hght to lume the lonely room ; Thou can'st not see my face, though close before thee. Still, we do sit and talk, while I adore thee As dusky Kings some glow-nelumbo's bloom ! Oh ! that, though darkness us surrounds, we need No light to see our souls, whom Love doth lead ! 12 S IXTY SON NETS Cbe jMiise as Saviour. As those seamen, by winter gales so wild, Had lost their steamer near the coast, were made To take to boats, then on the seas storm-riled Adrift, within the icy airs, they stayed — As one brave sailor kept their spirits sane By singing songs of sheeny days and glow — Or saying soon the far coast they would gain — Or seeing for them headHghts, moving slow — In short, inspired hope though -they were lost Upon the seas and ice-bound, tempest-tosst — So in my lonely life — when hope had flown And on the icy seas of last despair My world-ignored soul rode ruth-lorn on — My Muse saved me with all her songs so fair ! One expression of the Soul* Often my soul felt just like — well how draw The image of the soul's quick feeling strange When unsubstantial it through thought doth range — And is not known to sight by any law — That governs earth or any matter there — So felt my soul — like fitful Spring afly — Like unconcern's sweet ingenuity — Like sprigs of roses kept atremble fair By some bird's breast aquiver from sweet song — But could I think to mould my soul's strange feeling So others could enjoy it — nay — but lo ! This afternoon the hurrying throng among There passed me one young girl whose face did show The feeling that my soul was aye concealing. S IXTY SONNETS 13 JMusect and LongfcUow. Passion's Poet ! whom the Muse lugubrious sought Of lonely nights — to whom thou didst thy heart outpour- More do I love thee, all thy woeful thought ; Thy tears, and thy despair ; thy Hfe so sore. More than the songs of him who, passion free. Delved not in depths where disappointment wails — Who sang calm songs, who knew no misery — Nor called upon the Muse when life-love fails ! O let me read thy anthems to the Muse — Musset, true poet, such a poet loves — For thou hadst dreamed the lofty thoughts I choose When last despair knocks — and so ruthless proves. Longfellow — fluting facile tunes through life — Musset, thou hero in despair and strife. JMy Love. My love is like unto some cloud that specks The midday sky when May peeps forth from fields That gradual fall down to the stream ; — she decks Her banter with such light the May-cloud yields : Soft light that speaks of gentle freshness near — Yet seems to tell that all its brightness bears Not one perpetual prospect of sun-cheer — But in its purpose hides a spring of tears. So is my love when she her accent swells : You think her wish is to enliven all With flowery yield as May the woodland-dells ; But her dear tone some deeper thoughts enthrall : Thoughts, she dare tell not to my anxious face — Thoughts, filled with love and timid maiden-grace ! 14 SIXTY SONNETS H Scene in the Cropics^ My boat I moored upon the coral-reef That forms the blue, deep, Pernambuco Bay — What time the glorious moon, in full array. Rode up the star-strown sky, like famed White Chief Athwart the lone plains, north of Mexico. Olindo, coco-palmed, slept on the hill ; And I sat on the reef, while all was still — And thought of Inez, far at home, when lo ! From out the ocean's darkness flashed a score Of flying fish — their wings bejewelled bright From the resplendent moon's warm diamond-light ! They moved as though some magic semaphore .— Above the treacherous deeps — then dropped into The main, where wait the ravenous dolphin-crew ! /^ Inspiration^ It is a pushing forward in the mind — Indomitably sure to pass great streams ; Or, as we do in our most daring dreams. Snatch at a mountain — till our courage find It gone — and onward gainst a furious wind We once arrive at goal that richly beams With what we saw^ while inspiration deems Us worthy to perform what she designed. Then must I think of Leonardo when he drew That combat twixt two men on horses strong — Or more than marvellous than sublime song When Michael Angelo, by inspiration new Led — made us see those Pisan soldiers' fear And actions, when they heard their enemy near ! SIXTY SONNETS 15 Thou only furtherer of all men know — Fond friend to knowledge, love and pasttimes sweet — Thou Mercury with winged fire-shod feet ! Prometheus with thee to bloom doth grow — Ah [ Time ! without whom never child could go Where fragrant bowers blow for lovers meet, Without whom never god-souled man could greet The smiling face of fame, with light aglow ! Oh! art thou God — Time! thou Creator? For without thee no child would gladden earth — To boy and girl thou art the one elator That lead them on, to love's rose-scented birth — And Time ! without thee God could ne'er have made This universe, whom life and death pervade. /^ Cbc Cdorld's Verdict. Firdausi's singing on his heart he wore — Christ's wisdom long had filled his noble soul — He knew all works — new volume, ancient scroll — In arts adept — in music versed — and more Such knowledge that the Ages give he knew — So went he to new peoples to do good — To teach the worthy — and the fatherhood — But when he had the throng in nearest view And said : *T come to tell you what I know," "Know? — You? — Your eye is dull, and glib your speech." They shouted all in one ; then would they throw Stones at him — cut his lips : "What could he teach?" So was he stoned, like Christ, for one grand vow — Because his greatness shone not on his brow ! i6 SIXTY SON NETS SaUtnbo's Death. (G. Ferriers' Painting.) Thou fanciful fair queen, whose sudden whim Made thee deride Death — scorning his own way To bear thee his dread cup with swoon-herbs shm — Thy soul could trust no more to earthly day That scoffed at thy polluted form so white And all voluptuous-grown. At that fire-hour That burst thy soul — the painter's inward sight Saw thee : the python slowly to devour Thy beauty writhing in fierce agony — Conscious that fore-called death hiss at thine ear — Thou feeling his dread coil so torturingly Around thy zone — yet hearing music near : Thy wise forethought, that melody and song Would daze thy mind, so pain be not so strong. /^ Cbe Cdorld- The world is bad, at best. It loves the low And scandalous: a murder or red lust; Mocking at all the valor of the just — Forever honoring shallow pelf and show. It leaves the Christs to their own hallowed dreams And scorns the upright ways of saintliness — Perjures, and, hypocritic loves the dress Of low deceit — foreswearing Honor's gleams. Oh ! therefore, winds that sway this broad-boled beech Overhanging the slow lapping river-waves, I sadden here : none listen when I teach — God-natured souls in vain sing out their staves — Ah ! who would dream here on this log alone — Where birds and winds their merry songs entone? SIXTY SON N ETS 17 ^ Cbe Cbunder Storm* I see the ragged skirt of thee, O Storm — As thou dost wander down the valley there — And see below, where thy dread body warm Is one grey sheet of level cloud and air, Thy filmy tridents brighten suddenly — Then hear I distant roaring of thy thunder. Here all is still, no drop of rain falls free — Then am I wild, and my weird thought doth wonder. Oh ! art thou too a being, fluid, light — That shapes itself above the ocean wide To roam o'er plain and crest, and mountain side, Filling all creatures with a wild affright ? A girdle round thy watery body warm. Thy lightning is thy thought O dreaded Storm ! Cbc Sun as a JVIagic painter. Oh ! is it true those mountain crests are green — This morning when the clouds roam o'er our heads ? For yester eve, just as the sun was seen To bid farewell to vale and watersheds, That pine-clad mountain crest was jasper-sheen, With lines as pink as tints on dahlia beds ; While the near mountain-sides were vibrant gold, And gold the roofs of each fair village-fold. O Sun, thou painter, all our eyes to daze. Ay, strange magician, when thou settest still — O'er mount and tree, and vale and crest of hill — Making of green a living crysoprase — And gilding boles, and giving wondrous glow To all the mounts, ere thou dost from us go. i8 SIXTY SONNET S I^ovetnber. Not one lone floweret peeps above the grass ; But slowly the old turf lies prone to ice — And winds do whistle in the sky of bice — While, at the evening, birds of passage pass Athwart the golden glare of sunset's dying ! The shivering trees abraded of their leaves Stand like a hero when his sore heart grieves — And, all around, the colored leaves are flying ! The cold days rap at autumn's colored door — The fields He bare — all songbirds now are gone — And where the luscious blooms in glory shone Old earth gloats at the wolds and plains so frore — And, like regretful ghosts, athwart the grey And moving sky, the leaves so dreariy play ! Love. The only way to prove that I do love Thee, peerless girl who scorned me all the time. Is showing thee the volumes of my rhyme ; The Dramas that I wrote — inspired from Above. O God — is wondrous nature but the outcome of The works thou didst for that one lovely Power, Whom thou didst love from chaos' frailest hour Till now, when glow thy mounts, thy plain, thy grove ? It needs must be ; for love alone can make Great works have shape and life — so all thine own — We see in nature's grandest scenes — in lake In sea, in mount — in plain — and all they own. O God — Thou must have loved some lovely Power To have created this earth's wondrous dower ! SIXTY SONNETS 19 feeling* Think well before deserting life's rare husk Upon the wondrous treasure life endows — Beyond all senses, dreams, with latent vows Kept for fair praise when life grows like at dusk — One marvellous thing within our wondrous frame : It is sublimest feeling that like scent Lives all unseen, unheard, and wonderment Is unsubstantial like a lightning-flame ! Ah ! subtle Alchemy of God's own make Is feeling — got by touch — or O more rare When love-thoughts make our blood so sweet and fair- Or when in us the visions high awake — Or when slow tears from depths unknown arise, Tears wept in antepast of radiant skies ! Sonnet Like one, who in some seaward chamber pines Shuts up all senses ; locks her inmost heart ; Performs naught that her loving moods demand. Forgetful of the glorious sun that shines ; Of each glow-cap that rolleth to the land ; Deaf to eve's harmony, to morning's start Of vocal liquitude ; — so I these days Oblivious of Her sweet prophetic lays ! But she will be again fond auditor I When o'er the burning wave her lover comes — w ith him to muse as oft on days before ; Dream with the salt-spice as it landward roams. So will I open all those Ears and Eyes — In Nature find surprise on sweet surprise ! 20 S IXTY SONNETS Sonnet My score-stringed lyre I tune to peaceful song ; To ditties heard by meadow streams in May ; — To madrigals for bridals on fair day ; To melodies that flow for Sunday's throng — But rarely will my lyre sound the fray That made tumultuous cannonading long Through hours, where Santiago's mounts among The echos rang, the blare of war's dismay. To Peace, the solacer of mankind frail — To her, the comforter of all man's woes, My tunes reverberate in splendent glows — Ignoring all the strifeful nation's wail — The reign of Kings, whom Murder sought as spoil — The great campaigns, that seemed one bloody toil! Co the JMountain Odind. To thee, O glorious mountain-wind, a meed More precious than the scents they burn in Ind, When for their temple's Lakshmi-feast they find Fit sacrifice whom they to altar lead With cymbal, dance, and song, and flower-trains ! For thou dost blow so strong that I must sing Though in my mind is only sorrowing — Yet thou dost sweet invoke joy's brilliant strains. What mystic influence hath thy joyous blast O mountain-wind ! that while the trees are loud With joy — the sun-kissed air shouts at thy coming— Within my mind forlorn hope songs are blooming ; And, though I would to curse man's life so proud, At once I would earth-life with thee could last ! SIXTY SONNETS 21 Ubiquity of Beauty. When Lilian said farewell, methought, no more Her equal I could find in town or plain. I rued her absence from the knoll or shore ; I thought I would be searching all in vain ! When, while I travelled to far scenes all strange I There, there, in each new town her face I found, * Her shape voluptuous — and her gaze profound. Where'er I went her semblance there did range ! So is fair nature wondrous kind to man She makes her various types full hundred times Again — again ! and though we wander to all climes The face, the shape, the glance, the whole sweet plan We find in every place ; for nature's heart • Is kind to show our loves in every part. ' Cbc Sense of Sleep* O I had felt the sense of sleep that happy hour When flesh to flesh in sweet embracement warm we lay I felt each curvature of her voluptuous clay And I was thrall to Love's so tender drowsy power. We lay sweet lost in cither's lines, so closely bound — No weft the spider weaves could sorcerer lay between. Then closed our eyes, and soothingly the Poppy Queen Breathed on our minds so we heard not one sound. Sleep came so drowsily within my mind, it seemed The drowse of summer's noon lay o'er our loving souls. I felt sleep come, as when on woodland lawn there streamed The languid heat from flower-strown and wooded knolls. And then I lost the sense of life, for sleep came soft As dreamy wafts of summer from the mountain-croft ! 22 SIXTY SONNETS Deception. My soul v/ent out to wander o'er the fields Of universal space ; and there it found a flower, Rare, radiant like fresh dew in morn's glow-bower. Pressed in my brain, this perfume new it yields : How nature doth deceive humanity ! The sun, that dwells farther than stars of night, We see so large, it fills dark earth with light, When millions of brightest stars shine in night's sky, Yet spread no light on darkness-doting earth. So were our long-dead sires, that feared death ended All, all, assured of other worlds, soul-blended — When awe-astonished at night's wondrous birth Their raptured eyes saw all the gold-sparkles bloom O'erhead, that sang : there's life beyond man's tomb ! Learn 6od^6 Hlorhs. How self-sufficient, proud, and vain is man ! The flute, or clarionet may never ring So liquid-toned, as when the thrushes sing! Man tries to take his pride to workman's plan — But never praises that which God best can ! For God hath formed the thrushe's throat to bring Such lubric gurgle, and such marvelling. Without man's bettering His higher Plan ! O man ! praise, praise ! O listen more ; and learn That God surpasses all our art and skill. No one can imitate the concert-thrill Of many bulbuls, when the morn-stars burn. No skill of greatest man can imitate The thrushes' flute-call by the forest-gate ! SIXTY SON N ETS 23 Cears of Cbatihs. I would my eyes had tears to shed. O why Must man be so renounced of feeHng's best And sweetest Alchemy ? I would to cry The long day through, till evening's balmy rest — O weep as mothers do, when their new child Is held before their glistening eyes ; O weep. Till all my thanks had rushed their praise, so wild — O wild as mother's first kiss, when asleep. In rosy sleep, her firstling be ! I would tears shed, Till all my tears filled the pure evening-skies — Till all my thanks would be like scent, new-wed With tranquil roses, when the new-moon dies ! O weep the long day through, as trees of balm — For Angels give me dreams, and thought and spalm. Cbe Individual Conviction. Whoever, at the call of slanderous talk. Hath will sufficient to keep checked his wrath ; And take unto his higher self the path Of superiority of mind ; and walk Unmoved to the high mount of thought's own calm — He hath gained victory sublime, and knows The feeling of strong soldiers in army-rows ; And can sing well to Will-power a fair spalm. seems that all of us think that we have More knowledge than our neighbor ; thus when guile Besets us ; or low slander for the while ; We mind it not; but we its sting do brave. And to the inner, higher conviction call ; Then truthful say : 'T am above them all !" 24 SIXTY SONNETS Zhc Zrw pianist Not as the gale its power doth display — The pianist must his arms develop strong — But supple as the reed, where lilies throng, They must be, so they mellow all the lay. Thus Chopin was so like an evening reed — That, sinewy, sways to every breeze its stem ; So soft of touch, he could interpret them Whose rich, fair tones were hke a minstrel's meed. Not powerfully muscular must he be. The fair musician — but his hands must press Upon the keys with dream's own loveliness ; And thrilled with passion's softer poetry. Then think I of pale Chopin, evening-dreaming. When from his fingers tunes divine were streaming ! /^ 6lonou8 eyes. I know her eyes — full oft' I've seen them play With mine at love-tag. Oh ! how quickly fell Her languid lid to hide those orbs that spell — Two moments so upon their glow would stay; Then opened both — oh ! hast thou seen the day Burst fulgent through a vale of asphodell — So glowed they — and I walked so dearly well Within their glory as on jewelled way ! So glorious rolled they, like some chariot's glow Whom an ound radiant Amazon doth guide ; It seemed some flower wreathed portal opened wide : Out burst the festant fulgence — and, in row Or blaze-confusion, shone the thousand halls — Like sun-lit foam on vernal water-falls ! SIXTY SONN ETS 25 tibe Inspired ]Mu9ictaii. There, see him at the piano seated, dreaming — His eyes tight-closed, his fingers Hghtly borne Over the keys, while to him tunes come streaming As fleetly as the Zephyrs of the morn. His head now bent — now proud he rears his head, As solemn chords he strikes to thought religious — . Then hangs his head, while sweetest strains, that, wed I With harmonies divine, show him prodigious, Purl languorous. He dreams, with eyes well closed — His soul hears lays unwonted — then he plays them ! Now rapt he grows, as all his soul is rosed From whispering Spirits ! — And then he humbly lays them Before the dull proud world, that deems him worth No slight reward — he, god upon this earth ! H 3uly JMorn- It is so still, you hear the oar-lock sound ; Each stroke, each word the fishermen do say — The clouds scarce move within the clear profound. They but expand — but never drift away. The river doth reflect each twig, each leaf. The birdsongs from afar sound as if near. You hear the rustle of the shore-grown sheaf — The fish leap from the river-shallows clear. juch July-morn is full of deep repose ; Too still for one who bears a sorrow yet. But now the trees are filled with lisping tune : A plaintive note of life ; and who but knows That such a stillness will not last — for soon The winds will rise, and all will storm or fret ! 26 SIXTY SON N ET S 3 Brooh Seat This seat between two tall pine trees I love — Not as 'tis near the rhododendron bushes, But as beside its edge the mount brook rushes : Its braided or soft-swelling wavelets prove So cool when o'er the bench's back I lean To see the sparkle and hear the brooklet's sound. How glad I was when chance and poetry found This seat sequestered, in midst of woodlands green ! But strange, there are so few who love its dell ; Full often I have come to seek its shade. But never once I found some others there ! Here dally spring-cool breezes in the air — The murmurs soothe the mind — the brooklet's swell Lets me bear plaints that man's proud nature made. ]VIu9ical Cbcmes* Sweet girl, just thirteen summers breathing here, Sit near me, when my fingers touch the keys. For gazing at thee, sudden melodies Come to my mind. But if thou art not near, No wondrous theme comes purling to my hands — Strange, strange, my young girl, that, when seeing thee, My soul is glowing with new melody — A song, whom but a genius understands ! Sit, so I may thy features contemplate — Then will I gaze into thy dreaming eyes And from the keys new glowing melodies Will sound, that will thy young soul elevate To thoughts too deep for thee, yet dear to me — For thy dear presence wrought the melodic ! REVERIE. SIXTY SON NETS 27 Songwrigbt and S)mipboiii8t Like flitting birds above the rushing brook at day — (Gray crest on head — long tails rare tipped with gold)- So easily the songwright writes his tripping lay — His thoughts flit fain above song's happy fold. But he whose symphonious works delight the world — He, like some alchemist, with varied fluids Evolving gold, composes harmonies that swirled I In seas of yore, inspiring hoary Druids ! Winged sweetness flitting on a soft June morn. So trip to him sweet tunes like fairies bright and rare ; The vanguard of the storm in summer's thunder air — So from the symphonist his work is born. One playing with the ripples of the meadow stream. The other gloriously evolving a mighty dream ! Cbe Cdindows of the 8out Where lilacs lull the bees with purple song Lowly the cot's small windows gaze, half-hid : So, eyes, not bold, peep from the lowly lid — And back of them there is no pageant-throng — But commonplace doth prattle all day long. Yon dome-framed windows give to kings sun's light ; Within rare ornaments, sweet learning bright — i So the full eye, whose soul is sumptuous, young. I Therefore to me, when dying, let those eyes I That seem like temple-windows, gaze at me — Behind them lives a wondrous soul, world-free — Yet those of poets have huge homes, like skies ; Radiant with varieties, and nature's store : Thrilled with the Touch of Him Who's evermore ! SIXTY SONNETS popularity* Unknown he soared through song's supremest air A wise Apollo, sowing good for all — Yet no one on the earth, did, 'stounding, fall To reverence a god beyond compare ! Then down upon the glebe he fluttered low ; And picked upon the strings of commonplace. Full quickly gazed the world upon his face, Though he but hummed a tune with no true glow ! Thus may one win the plaudits manifold Of popularity by trick and gold. And though you be as high as God — no man Of worldly heart will give you worthy praise. But be the image of world's sordid plan : For you sweet fame, and opulent glory-days ! Retares* Girls beautiful, in world's great lupenar, You are the roses, violets, and flowers. That most invite to them sweet Flora's showers, Culled in the fairest grove neath brightest star. Yet you are pinned upon the bodice red Of Vice — to fade there as some posy rare That peeps from forth a bosom young, half-bare, With no fruition ; with perfumes gone and fled. Some tears I shed for you, fair Hetares. For though your perfect flower-shape was meant For beauteous issue, passion pure forspent Her golden hours, and no sweet face was born. O world ! your beauteous women, fair as morn, Are posies pinned on Vice's bodices ! SIXTY SONN ET S 29 feature Sways Os Hf tcr Hit 'Twas yesterday the muggy air oppressed My brain — so that no Hfe would stir in me. No song would flow, for not a breath so free Of wind did even float. All seemed distressed, And heat pervaded all the hazy scene. Dull lay the air, and duller seemed my brain ; All was like a calm tropic Summer-main. But this new morn the wind was on the green — On mountain low, and through the valley blew; So that its music flushed my brain to song, It seethed in songs of lulls and floods along ; It flowed heroic as when battles brew. Till I, bathed in its high and songful wave, Felt spelled — and thus new songs to me it gave ! Cbc Sweetest, Shortest Sonnet Dove! Bliss Is Love. Prove This? Kiss, Love! Life Seems Sweet : To meet Wife- Dreams ! so SIXTY SONNETS Question and Hnswer. "Muse ! shall I take my lyre to touch its strings To songs too fair for mortal man to hear ? For these are days when no high tones ring clear — But poets voice the lowest themes and things. The poets of this hour forsake the glow That Milton or that Shelley once inbreathed — A hurly-burly songster now is wreathed — A God-like singer lives alone in woe. Then, shall I sing again those splendent songs Those songs I sang when Angels whispered me In hours of flowery youth, when all seemed free ?" *'Fond Child, keep aye what to thy soul belongs — Though most may love the trivial tune, that dies ; Sing thou the song that lives ten centuries !" Italian* The mellow flow of Tuscan-tales is full Of low sounds, lingering in a grot of old, Where bubbles fall upon the smooth pool cold, And mosses lone each birdling's tripping mull ! Low sounds, Hke brooding winds o'er heros' stones — Like echoes in a vale of rose-lulled hills — Like songs of saints where one lone fountain spills On vines her sacred sprays in soothing tones ! I love to hear thy heart-tongue flowing there — In view of sapphire lakes, from Arrogno's heights. Where chapels sleep, and wander eremites ; And thrushes tune the languorous fragrant air Like mellow waters in moss-glooms, from one. Whose pensive eyes lume her lips suave tone ! SIXTY SONNETS 31 Spanish* Much richness in thine emollient speech prevails — Rich as a whispering thrush-tuned garden-close, When soft night tells a love-tale to the rose. Melodious, tender syllables, and wails — Like Azuelas' mourning, in deep dales, Prankt with rare luscious blooms so myth-perfumed : And sweet, as gracious light that sweetest bloomed. Where languorous nymphs lolled in Dawn's dewy pales ! But fairest, when thy dark-eyed beauties pause Within some rose-hedged park — atiptoe — telling To their adored what in their hearts was swelling — Or tender, that, methinks, when Moors, in gauze And clinking hauberts draped, had dumb thy towers- One word made them forget their war-sworn powers ! Cbe Saddest Case in Life. Man in his love-lorn solitude may rave ; But he's alone — no life does claim his powers ; He yet may work and reap some years' joy-hours. His manhood's strength his wretchedness may save. 'Tis well with him. But woman in her woe — Her last woe, when forlorn, outcast, she be. And when she carrieth frail progeny — Ah ! there's no word to tell what paineth so : Forsaken by her lover ; forced to stay In some low house where love is trafficked for And there to do what mothers should ignore, Yet must, to earn a pittance for a day : Alone, with life new-blooming in her frame — As friends, her black despair, and man-wrought shame ! 32 SIXTY SONNETS Zhc Daemone to Love* She loved her bonnie boy ; sweet Jessie's eyes Gazed rapturous on his stately figure fair. She vowed to be all true and everywhere — And prove in love to stay his dear surprise ; Till when a spinster came and whispered low To Jessie that she was a fool to love him deep And ever him within her heart to keep — 'Thou hast rare sweetness — on ! to others go — "And draw them to thy charms — love them as well !" Then Jessie changed ! — She thought no more of him As oft of yore — ^but gave herself to whim And fancy, till she grew a maid of hell — And thus it was that her own sisters made Of her a habitant in Vice's glade ! ^o Dream that the Garth has ^bought How pleasant, lie upon a valley's sward, That gloometh in the upward grove of leafy Endogenous growth ; to loll, as ancient bard. Upon the fay's sweet flowers ; and flee those reefy Unprofitable pleasures of the world. O gaze With head, that hath a mossy pillow, up To the far, deep, high, concave azure blaze Of ether ; — dream, while rustling breezes drop Upon the silent leaves ; while o'er the hill An eagle screams ; or, by a rivulet. The blue-birds drink their vigor ; then all's still ! So that you hear the bursting violet. O while in such dreams, dream the earth is nought But life, with soul, and feeling, and a thought ! S IXTY SONNET S 33 I Sonnet. How must those gods above us smile and smile To see what tortures men and women bear When loving those who for them do not care ! She who seems like a lass from Ischia-isle — She said she loves a man — and loves him deep — , When he's away her heart grows sad and sore — Though he neglects her — cares for her no more — She loves him fond — for sadness she must weep ! What is that sense, that fires deep longing aye — Why must we love those who can love us not — Yet they will ever haunt our daily thought — O are there gods that show us smiling May — Yet when we seem to wreathe love-flowers round From those we love comes no sweet countersound? Zht €ngU8b Language. (Modern.) Sweet sprung from simple sweetness — soul-adored In Engelland thy words were warded well and true — Pure speech was thine — fair as thy maidens grew And feehngs fond in thee were sweetly stored — Till thou didst voyage to far countries strange And there didst learn new habits — and new speech — Then to thy young ones thou, at home, didst teach The mixture — till from them new words would range. O English, though thou art so proud to hold All nations ^neath thee — thou their beggar art — And takest to thy self what they to thee impart — For thou hast stolen from all nations old Their words — so thou hast grown full rich — yet shame On thee, to keep aHve thy simple name ! I rvfn 34 SIXTY SONNETS Religion. I know the sun's small orbit is controlled By some vast power greater than the sun — Yet that same power should have but begun Its power through might that had anterior hold Of power absolute — and so till dizzy grow Our thought's conceptions of an endless chain Of powers creating powers and powers again — This do deft science and rare logic know — But in our heart or in our musing soul There is a sentiment that seeks for God — Some mystery that shaped all on earth's sod Some vast omnipotence that knows our goal — So in the quiet hours below the skies We feel — and tears fill both our doubting eyes ! Death. O Death, O solemn, quiet, cheering Death ! Death, at whose dim portals, pictured faint Upon our soul's wide-waving common plaint — (Thou, Death ! Come tender me thy palm ; thy breath Waft o'er me, as the eve its woe o'er wreath Of bride expectant !) all this world's grey taint Will vanish ; we shall know life's end ; the quaint Solution of our struggles ; Death, fond Death ! O Death, acquaint me with thy nature's mood ! 1 shudder at myself ! Is it the advent Of that fair festival with Thee — that flood On flood of hoary lore, and whispered words Find in me their tumultuous sea ! ! O words All men speak — yet their meaning's from Heaven sent. pd 9.2 SIXTY SON N ETS 35 Sonnet How few do stand aghast to see her move : Huge Astarte ! she rising full and calm Up from the lands of eastern giant-palm ; Or wait, to know the trees of evening's grove Seem fallow in her gold glow ; then, above The trees, she wanders woe-wild on ; while balm — Imagination's incense, heats my palm. That would clutch the wild gloaming in wild love ! Who gazes at the star that shines, so far, Within the spreading liquid lily-gold Of the slow-rising winter-moon ? Who stands In awe to see Orion, giant old, Drag his great Dog up to the zenith-star — Then fall; — ^vanish below the southern strands? Zhc final Sleep. O we are only mirrors, wherein all. What nature has, reflected lies. We live Through day — at night, at unknown night — we give Our whole, whole life to fate ; our powers fall. Like lightning-struck eagles through the blast ; no call We hear ; we are no more ; we cannot shrive. For any sin — Death tells us legends ; give Him all thy secrets — thou art His own thrall ! To man, as to this globe, all things are given. The winter quieteneth all — sleep feigns us dead. Each morn we feel a spring arise ; each night An irresistible spell draws us to Heaven — We must die while we breathe in warmth ; why dread The final sleep, that wakes us to fresh might ! it ^ 24 1904 36 SIXTY SONNETS thirst for Beauty^ Though hills are wooded ; and the river flows So peaceful through the winding valley green ; Though here the chestnuts' blossoms glow in sheen Of summer-sunshine by the wild rock-rose ; Though here fond nature laughs, and shouts and glows My Orient-soul thirsts now for seventeen Fair Almehs, dancing ; while sweet in between Young children sing, dream-grouped in winding rows ! Not nature's varied charms alone my mind Entice these days, but there should here recline A maid voluptuous, garbed with flowers and vine ; Then rise in glory ! and her dances wind In languorous ease, so I behold how she The prize of woman's sinuous beauty be ! IininortaUty of poetry. They say 'tis vain to write the song that glows Within the soul, inspired in stiller hours. Doth pelf soothe sorrowing hearts? Do regal powers Enchant the world when creep those slimy woes — Rise solitary moments of soul-throes? Rome's Colosseum crumbles ! yet song-showers Refresh, through life, the heart's long-wilted flowers- Sweet idylls please ; an epic lore bestows. So write those epics bubbling from thy soul ! If soul, love, passion, sincerity abide. Thy song, thy work, will spread o'er countries wide Touch all men's hearts — as where San Giovanno's toll To Venice heralds morn's awakening The gondoliers yet Tasso's epic sing ! ?>°--^. 4 '^ -^^ ^^ 7 ^ '^^.^ oS s^. .^'% .^V^^ ;• ^^ ^^ <^°-^ OCT 70 ^*\.. % •».»' ^0^ V •-■•',**' "^o