Class _P_i_3£Z:J5 
 
 Book X34^7 
 
 Copyright N^ 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 
 
The Crows Nest 
 
 and Other ^oems 
 
 FLORENCE EMILY NICHOLSON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 BOSTON 
 
COPYRIGHT 1912 BY FLORENCE EMILY NICHOLSON 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. 
 
 V 
 
 €CLA3I2432 
 
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MOTHER 
 
 THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS 
 
 DEDICATED 
 
Kow can I limn thee, hotv the least devise 
 To paint the beauty that did dwell in theef 
 I falter with my trembling hands unfree, 
 Unsure; to fail a hair's breadth but implies 
 To miss the radiance of lips and eyes — 
 The soul where blossomed fair and fruitfully 
 The sweet beatitudes, the charity, 
 The love and hope ivhich over death can rise. 
 That dear companionship in which I grew. 
 Could I portray, what gems would I compose — 
 Yet past belief, as one who paints the view 
 Of sunset splendour, gold and burning rose, 
 On some rare eve, yet none will think it true, 
 Though he attempt but part of what he knows! 
 
UUiMJi;i\T». 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNET DEDICATORY 
 
 4 
 
 The Crow's Nest 
 
 9 
 
 Via Longa 
 
 12 
 
 The Scholars 
 
 17 
 
 The Isles of the Blest 
 
 18 
 
 To Demeter 
 
 20 
 
 To the Nuns of Sopwell 
 
 24 
 
 Butterflies 
 
 29 
 
 The Katy-Dids 
 
 31 
 
 I Pass the Beggars All hy Each Day 
 
 32 
 
 The Birthright 
 
 34 
 
 Titles and Heads 
 
 36 
 
 Old Kate 
 
 38 
 
 Vn fulfilment 
 
 41 
 
 Sleep -^ 
 
 42 
 
 Midnight 
 
 43 
 
 After 
 
 44 
 
 Best or Quest f 
 
 45 
 
 Bahy Song 
 
 46 
 
 Spring Song 
 
 48 
 
 Sesame 
 
 49 
 
 My Mother 
 
 50 
 
 To My Mother 
 
 52 
 
 What of Thine Eye 
 
 53 
 
 The Cathedral 
 
 57 
 
 The Magic Ring 
 
 61 
 
 Misfits 
 
 62 
 
 Paraphrased from Victor Hugo 
 
 63 
 
 The Entomologist 
 
 64 
 
 The Nectar of Life 
 
 67 
 
 A Little Child Sat on My Knee 
 
 68 
 
 To the Rook 
 
 69 
 
 To a Roman Latch-Key 
 
 70 
 
 Affinity 
 
 71 
 
 Love's Magic 
 
 74 
 
 To My Sweetheart 
 
 76 
 
 If I Could Choose 
 
 78 
 
I Know My Love is True 
 
 79 
 
 Penumbra 
 
 81 
 
 To My Sweetheart 
 
 82 
 
 Only One 
 
 84 
 
 SONNETS:— 
 
 
 Proscrastination 
 
 85 
 
 Forget-me-nots 
 
 86 
 
 Christmas Sonnet 
 
 87 
 
 To the Men who Proclaimed the Bepuhlic 
 
 
 of Portugal, Oct. 4, 1910 
 
 88 
 
 No Window Tax 
 
 89 
 
 A NoMe Lord Set Sail 
 
 90 
 
 Discordia 
 
 91 
 
 From My Window 
 
 92 
 
 The Poet's Lamp 
 
 93 
 
 To Keats 
 
 94 
 
 To Robert Browning 
 
 95 
 
 To Shakespeare 
 
 96 
 
 ■ The Unremembered Bards 
 
 97 
 
 Within a Mountain Valley 
 
 98 
 
 The Spider 
 
 99 
 
 I Open Doors and Doors 
 
 100 
 
 Immortalitas 
 
 101 
 
 The Voyager 
 
 102 
 
 Would I Return? 
 
 103 
 
 The Over-Plus 
 
 104 
 
 Twilight 
 
 105 
 
 On the Death of Dear Friends 
 
 106 
 
 The Quest 
 
 107 
 
 A Haunting Vision 
 
 108 
 
 The Lilt 
 
 109 
 
 Open Windows 
 
 110 
 
 Memory 
 
 111 
 
 My Childhood Home 
 
 112 
 
 Death 
 
 113 
 
 To the Skylarks 
 
 114 
 
 Fate 
 
 115 
 
 MICHAEL MORE 
 
 116 
 
The Crows Nest 
 
 and Other Poems 
 
THE CROW'S NEST 
 
 Over the wondrous siren deep 
 I sail with never a time for sleep; 
 I hear the winds in the rigging howl; 
 I see in the West the tempest scowl; 
 But I trust my soul may the vigil keep! 
 
 "Still awake?" I cry, 
 
 And the loud reply: 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 Over the oily, satin sea, 
 
 When the zephyrs blow caressingly. 
 
 On the flowing lights is a copper sheen, 
 
 And the white clouds drift on the hyaline, — 
 
 'Tis a fairy ship on a painted sea ! 
 
 ' ' 'Tis a dream ! " I cry, 
 
 And the soft reply: 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 In the waning day, when the sun drops low, 
 And the West is filled with a yellow glow, 
 And a flaming path of molten gold 
 Is traced o'er the blue to my good ship's hold, 
 And the low clouds look like a city so : 
 " 'Tis the bourne!" I cry. 
 And the glad reply : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 When the rosy-red rhododendron sky 
 Is a flowery June where my dream-lands lie, 
 And the lilac sea is a shimmering mass 
 With the pink petals strewn on its liquid glass. 
 Then I shout with joy as I look on high: 
 " 'Tis a bonny sky!" 
 And the same reply : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 9 
 
When the twilight grays all the fading bloom, 
 And the slate sea takes on the growing gloom, 
 When the blinding darkness enshadows all, 
 And the black deep heaves 'neath its funeral 
 
 pall, 
 And the spectral thing would my barque entomb, 
 Then I cry with fear ; 
 But the answer clear: 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 ,1 
 But the stars come out in the ebony night, 
 And they sprinkle the waves with diamonds 
 
 bright ; 
 Or the moon swims clear in the fleecy snow 
 Of the gossamer clouds as they melt and go, 
 And she spills a stream of her dancing light. 
 ' ' Still awake up there ? ' ' 
 And the answer fair : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 When the fog comes up for the wild-rose dawn. 
 In a thick white shroud o 'er the waters drawn, 
 And my garments wet like a heavy dew, 
 With never a bit of the sea in view, 
 And I fear for my ship, should she travel on, 
 
 "Shall we stop?" I cry. 
 
 But the same reply : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 When the wind-swept waves rise to mountains 
 
 high, 
 And my ship dips low, or would scrape the sky. 
 When she groans and creaks as she feels the 
 
 sway, 
 And my face is bathed in the cold salt spray. 
 Then I shout aloud, "We are doomed to die! 
 
 10 
 
"What's the use?" I cry, 
 But the strong reply : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 I found myself on this phantom ship. 
 I know not the maker, nor who let slip 
 Her hawsers tied to some mooring far, 
 No port more near than the evening star. 
 Straight ahead the same let her good keel skip ! 
 "Keep awake," I cry, 
 And the quick reply : 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 O I love the chance that did fall to me. 
 
 So to sail away on this changing sea, 
 
 And I love the sun on the twinkling deep. 
 
 Or the wind-wild waves when my deck they 
 
 sweep, 
 Sure no derelict will she ever be! 
 ' ' Keep a watch, ' ' I say. 
 And the answer: "Yea," 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 Is a port ahead o 'er the heaving main, 
 With no rows of lights in the harbour plain? 
 With a wind-red face, shall I find it lies 
 Farther out and beyond those receding skies? 
 So Columbus hoped, and they called it vain! 
 
 ' ' Speed away ! " I cry, 
 
 And the sure reply: 
 "All's well!" from the crow's nest. 
 
 11 
 
VIA LONGA 
 
 On a sultry morn 
 As I strayed forlorn, 
 From the dust and the lust, 
 From the toil and the spoil, 
 From the city's heat 
 And the endless beat 
 Of the many feet 
 As they tramp the street, 
 As I strayed and strayed, 
 With my soul dismayed 
 I chanced on a cool retreat. 
 
 'Twas a country road 
 That did ease my load. 
 And my heart grew gay 
 With the breath of day, 
 With the scent of hay, 
 In the new-mown fields, 
 And the bright array 
 Of the sweet bouquet 
 That the Summer yields. 
 So I lay me down. 
 Far away from town. 
 In a grassy bed 
 Where the poppies red 
 For my couch had spread 
 An embroidered silken gown. 
 Oh! the sky overhead, 
 Where the white clouds sped 
 In the gentle westerly breeze, 
 Was as blue as blue 
 With a violet hue 
 Of the tranquil tropic seas. 
 And the shade of trees 
 
 12 
 
On the waving grass, 
 
 And the hum of bees 
 
 As they come and pass, 
 
 Filled my frame with blissful ease. 
 
 So from swoon to swoon, 
 
 In the heart of noon, 
 
 I fell into deathlike sleep. 
 
 Then my soul did peep 
 
 From the barred keep 
 
 Of its prison stealthily, — 
 
 'Twas a loosened bar — 
 
 Then out afar 
 
 I fled so silently. 
 
 Over brake and brier, 
 
 Through the mud and mire, 
 
 With a mad desire. 
 
 And my zeal afire 
 
 To find some untrod way. 
 
 "We have all gone wrong," 
 
 Was my endless song, 
 
 "And I hate the great white road, 
 
 Oh, I hate to plod from day to day 
 
 And to carry the heavy load ! 
 
 There's a shorter cut 
 
 Than the worn old rut. 
 
 There's a fresher, newer way." 
 
 So I ran and flew 
 
 Till the Summer dew 
 
 And the twilight came apace; 
 
 Till my feet were sore. 
 
 Nor could travel more. 
 
 For it was a thorny place. 
 
 Then the night came on. 
 
 And my hope was gone, 
 
 For the night was black, 
 
 13 
 
And I lost all track 
 
 How to travel back; 
 
 So I laid me down to die. 
 
 Then a voice as sweet 
 
 Did my soul entreat, 
 
 As sweet as a lullaby, 
 
 Or a lark in the deep June sky : 
 
 "Dear love, you have travelled far, 
 
 But in a circle, sweet. 
 
 Shall I tell you where you are? 
 
 The road is at your feet. 
 
 But you might have perished, dear. 
 
 There are marshes where the lilies grow, 
 
 And quicksands where the rivers flow, 
 
 And many a place there is to fear 
 
 Amid the enticing green." 
 
 "But the road was so dreary 
 
 And I was so weary. 
 
 When never the end is seen, ' ' 
 
 I said as I heaved a sigh. 
 
 Then she answered: "I'll tell you why. 
 
 There is many a curve 
 
 Round the hills which serve 
 
 To block the distant view. 
 
 There are many curves. 
 
 But they fall in line 
 
 From the top of the hill. 
 
 If you will but climb. 
 
 And the breeze is wine 
 
 To your shattered nerves ; 
 
 So come with me if you will. ' ' 
 
 And I climbed, and lo ! 
 The road stretched white. 
 Far, far, to the glow 
 
 14 
 
At the uttermost verge, 
 
 Where a shimmering line 
 
 Of the dawning light 
 
 Ran gold where the sun would emerge — 
 
 Red gold in the violet night. 
 
 Then her voice was low 
 
 As the murmur of streams, 
 
 Or a faint far chime 
 
 In the twilight time, 
 
 When the West still faintly gleams : 
 
 " Oh ! they think they know — 
 
 Those who turn away 
 
 From the road the ages go ; 
 
 But they circle back 
 
 If they can essay 
 
 To reach the beaten track. 
 
 And still the bigot has his 'nay' 
 
 To which the weakling joins his 'yea;' 
 
 But the one on the hill-top knows." 
 
 Then I turned to her, and lo ! 
 
 In her face was a wondrous glow, 
 
 And her cheeks like the rose. 
 
 And her hair like the shade 
 
 That the moonbeams throw 
 
 When they flood a fairy glade ; 
 
 And her eyes like the sea 
 
 In the ebony night 
 
 When its mirror is sprinkled with stars ; 
 
 And her garments white, 
 
 In the growing light 
 
 Had a glint like the red of Mars. 
 
 Then a blue mist shrouded her light from me, 
 A mist in the early dawn. 
 Yet there floated to me, 
 
 15 
 
As she gilded away, 
 Such a note as the minstrelsy 
 Of the birds at break of day : 
 "If yon wish to meet the dawn, 
 Go on, and on, and on; 
 Do not stop, nor stray 
 From the great white way, 
 If you wish to meet the dawn. ' ' 
 
 16 
 
THE SCHOLARS 
 
 "We are the gleaners, we, 
 
 And the scattered grain is ours. 
 
 We came in the dawn where the reapers be. 
 
 And we stay for the sunset flowers. 
 
 the buxom day is a lavish one! 
 
 But the reapers are reaping for pay. 
 
 They will have poor wheat when the day is done, 
 
 But many a sheaf for display. 
 
 For the noon is long, and to sleep is sweet, 
 And after the wine there is time to reap, 
 And 'tis only the gleaners who see the cheat, 
 When the pile is made in a showy heap. 
 
 But all day long we have picked the best 
 Till the crystal bell in the distance tolled. 
 When we bend our steps to the burning West, 
 And our armfuls turn into gleaming gold. 
 
 A touch of flame to the turban red, 
 
 And each way-worn gown to enchantment 
 
 yields ; 
 While all of the rest have long since fled, 
 And we are alone in the yellow fields. 
 
 17 
 
THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 
 
 Calm seas, blue seas, 
 Waft me so drowsily on, far ; 
 
 Soft breeze, sweet breeze, 
 LuUingly blow me where Junes are, 
 Gardens where apples of gold glow, 
 Lilies and roses of red grow; 
 
 Tranquilly blow, blow, 
 
 Lullabies low, low, 
 Sleepily so, to the Isles of the Blest. 
 
 Day-tide, on, wide. 
 Over the changeable green-blue ; 
 
 Dawn-dyed, eve-dyed, 
 Tinct is the sea with the sky hue. 
 Pink are the dawns, and the West glows, 
 Golden, vermillion, and rich rose ; 
 
 Banners so gay play 
 
 Over the sea-way. 
 Splendidly ride we to Isles of the Blest. 
 
 White sails, puffed sails, 
 Brimming with breezes of down blown ; 
 
 Hushed gales, soft gales. 
 Zephyrs with spices are sweet sown. 
 Whispering songs that they waft far, 
 Blowing where islands of dawn are; 
 
 Southerly ride we. 
 
 Peacefully glide we. 
 Out to the beautiful Isles of the Blest. 
 
 Moonlight, full bright; 
 Moveless, the shadowy sail gleams 
 
 Soft white, pearl white. 
 Splashed with the silvery moonbeams. 
 
 18 
 
Silvery grey with a faint green 
 Tipped are the ripples with moon-sheen; 
 Shadowy night-time 
 Shimmers with moonshine — 
 Glimmers the way to the Isles of the Blest. 
 
 Mild beams, wan gleams, 
 Floating are we on the moonlight; 
 
 All seems pale dreams, 
 Waking and sleep are the same, quite; 
 Echoes we hear as of harp strings ; 
 Flashing of oars as we pass brings 
 
 Slumberous dip, drip; 
 
 Drifting we slip, slip. 
 Into sweet dreams of the Isles of the Blest. 
 
 Calm whiles, sweet whiles, 
 Nearing the Isles in a dream-sleep ; 
 
 Bright Isles, fair Isles, 
 Scattered like stars on the wine-deep; 
 Oh, what a sight when the dawn breaks, 
 Glistening view when the soul wakes ! 
 
 Jewelled, they all rise. 
 
 Tinted with dawn-skies. 
 Hail! to the marvellous Isles of the Blest. 
 
 19 
 
TO DEMETER* 
 
 Do you still dream of her, 
 You of the sad uplifted eyes, 
 AVhose bliss the fates defer? 
 Long seated on that rock-hewn chair, 
 What do you still await, 
 sad Demeter! hoping that 
 She yet may come, though late? 
 Afar and lone you are, nor may arise 
 The marble cliffs and meadows fair, 
 The hills and fragrant air. 
 The shrine where once you sat 
 When, far beneath you, rolled the sea 
 That danced with laughing wave 
 And garlanded with foam 
 The level sands, the rocks, in jollity. 
 When Hades to your longing gave 
 The sweetest respite, bringing home 
 Your dear Persephone. 
 
 Ah, sad were you on that far day, 
 
 When, there amid the meadows strewn 
 
 With lily, iris, crimson rose. 
 
 And purple hyacinth, at play 
 
 With maidens, all with joy atune. 
 
 She bent to pluck the sweet that grows 
 
 For mortal bane. 
 How pierced your heart that shrill, sad cry ! 
 And she was gone, nor knew you where, 
 
 Nor came to you again 
 All darkly clad, you searched the earth so fair, 
 
 Wide-wayed and far, 
 
 *The seated Demeter, now in the British Museum, 
 was found in 1857 by Sir Charles Newton, near Cnidos, 
 in the ruins of an ancient shrine overlooking the 
 Mediterranean. 
 
 20 
 
Where strangers are, 
 
 In duress dire, 
 With torches, in your hands, afire. 
 And speechless sat in many halls, 
 Sweet-echoing, nor tasted wine nor meat, 
 So deep was your mute agony; 
 And pitiful would strangers be 
 Who knew the sAveet Persephone 
 Had gone where no foot falls, 
 So soft the step of shades. 
 And you, all wasted with your grief, 
 Did doom the earth to blight, 
 And sad the year without a leaf, 
 Or barley blade, when crooked ploughs in vain 
 Turned the fresh earth to light. 
 No spears pushed off the powdered earth. 
 Nor hung with bended ears. 
 Aye, terrible and long the years 
 
 You doomed to dearth, 
 
 A blighting bane. 
 Then Iris came, all wind-wild sped. 
 Swift-fanned through fragrant space, 
 Entreated much and kindly plead 
 That you would bend with grace 
 To favour earth with bloom; 
 
 But all in vain ! 
 Came all the blessed gods, each one, 
 
 To light the gloom. 
 And offered shining gifts to you; 
 But still you did mthhold. 
 For that dear face were boon to view, 
 Beyond the meed of gold. 
 
 So turned you from their shining light. 
 For you the day was night, 
 Till that far-seeing one 
 
 21 
 
Who on Olympus dwelt, 
 
 More glowing than the sun 
 
 That ever mortal felt, 
 
 Did with his softest word persuade, 
 
 And Hades then a promise made 
 
 To bring her to your sight. 
 
 O happiness ! What gracious boon ! 
 
 She would be with you soon. 
 
 When fields were flowery sweet, 
 
 joy! dispelling gloom, 
 
 And bubbling o'er the brim, 
 She leapt to you along the meadow grass, 
 
 All high with bloom, 
 And held her garment, setting free 
 The movement of her twinkling feet 
 
 And ankles slim. 
 Scarce touching sward as she did pass. 
 Her crocus-yellow curls did dance 
 And with the sunbeams glance. 
 With outstretched arms, how she did greet 
 Your smiling lips with kisses sweet 
 
 And happy words ! 
 Pier taste of death caused you a fear. 
 Yet she was yours two-thirds 
 
 Of all the year. 
 
 But you are far removed from there, — 
 
 Aye, far indeed ! 
 Blank walls encompass you about. 
 
 No pleasant mead 
 For you, nor can look out 
 For her you long to see. 
 Around you, faces but a semblance wear, 
 Rock-bound in nameless dreams. 
 And mutilated forms whose meaning seems 
 
 A blank to you and me. 
 
 22 
 
Do you still dream of your Persephone, 
 
 Who still is young and fair, 
 
 Who never comes again to you ; 
 
 Of Spring deferred and far 
 
 As your fair lands and temples are? 
 
 A shadow of a memory ! 
 
 Your Avorld departed, too, 
 
 Both men and gods, all gone, 
 
 Long, long withdrawn. 
 From out this world of seasons made, 
 To shadows in the realms of shade! 
 
 23 
 
TO THE NUNS OF SOPWELL* 
 
 pure, devout, but selfish, souls 
 Who did your heaven seek 
 
 By still denying earth, 
 
 As trembling votarists and meek, 
 
 Whom fear controlls. 
 
 Of nectar dearth, 
 You sopped your dry crust 
 
 In the holy well, j 
 
 And closed your doors. 
 
 1 see those faces doomed to dust, 
 
 So fair and sweet, 
 
 With hope replete, 
 And burning cheeks that tell 
 A pulsing heart for purpose high, 
 
 That joy ignores. 
 
 Not knowing why. 
 What springing step ! How looked the white 
 And pink beneath that veil of night, 
 W^hen you first entered there, 
 And heard the bolts and locks, 
 Where never lover knocks; 
 Nor need that you be fair. 
 And then the long, long days ! 
 The fastings, and the prayer 
 
 So often said, 
 
 The meaning fled. 
 The vigils in the night 
 Wlien chastisement essays 
 To make the spirit shine 
 And save your souls from sin, 
 That you might stand in line, 
 With hope to enter in 
 
 *Sopwen Nunnery was founded circa 1140, A. D., in 
 the outskirts of St. Albans, England. The ruins are 
 still standing. 
 
 24 
 
Some far-off pearly gate, 
 And walk some golden street. 
 And all the joys of life's estate, 
 The happy love that makes it sweet, 
 
 Forever were denied, 
 That you might be the bride 
 Of Christ — but not the one 
 Who spoke from mountain height, 
 Who out of doors, in air and sun 
 
 Did dwell in Palestine. 
 How cold you were, austere and lone, 
 All sepulchred in grey, 
 Your memories bleached white. 
 As grass beneath a stone, 
 Your visions barren lay 
 As landscapes of the moon. 
 While kneeling at your shrine 
 You strung your rosaries with muttered tune, 
 And bought yoiu' heaven in a poke, 
 
 With earth for pay. 
 Ah ! did your purchase kick the beam 
 
 With ringing stroke? 
 
 who can say! 
 Your heaven, where, where ! 
 O worlds on worlds, an endless chain ! 
 O time and tide that ceaseless flow ! 
 How little kenned! How very vain 
 To say we know what we but dream, 
 Or but another's dream rehearse, 
 When in this boundless universe 
 Not e'en this little earth we know, 
 Nor guess her secrets hidden there ! 
 
 pure and foolish nuns ! 
 good and selfish ones 
 
 Of bloodless chastity 
 
 25 
 
And fictioned sanctity, 
 Denying joy for empty name ! 
 Could heaven be good and earth be bad, 
 The God of both the same? 
 Could you know sweetness if it came to you^ 
 Long chewing bitter herbs? 
 luscious joy that may be had 
 By living, 'spite the share of pain! 
 And giving joy cannot be vain. 
 
 Nor the relief of pain. 
 But you, disdaining meat, your due, 
 Your hunger long repressed ; 
 No appetite for you disturbs 
 
 An apathy unblessed, 
 
 Unable to be fed, 
 
 Because a life you led 
 
 Of long despising food. 
 
 happy earth, and changing year. 
 
 Where pain and grief are mixed with good! 
 
 The shining eyes of children in the doors 
 
 Of cottages in row. 
 
 Their faces all aglow. 
 Their laugh so full of cheer. 
 Their gambol in the lanes; 
 The skylark singing as he soars 
 
 Above the meadow lands ; 
 The matrons -with the busy hands 
 
 That many blessings yield; 
 The ploughman with his hope for gains 
 From off the red-brown field. 
 Where lapwings rise, a cloud of shade and snow ; 
 And cattle wading to the knee 
 
 In buttercups and grass; 
 The call of milkmen ringing free 
 As down the lanes they pass; 
 
 26 
 
The woods all mauve with tall bluebells; 
 And apple blossoms in the garden plots, 
 With lilac scenting all the air; 
 And every bush and tree holds some bird's nest; 
 And 'long the roads are blue forget-me-nots ; 
 Chrysalides aburst with butterflies 
 
 That shimmer everywhere, 
 And loud the flute notes from the dells, 
 Of rhapsodies the loveliest — 
 noisy earth, what pleasure lies 
 
 In all thy varied tune. 
 In hum of bee and changing call, 
 From cricket to the lowing kine ! 
 Too soon the silence for us all. 
 Too soon the dark, too soon ! 
 
 red ripe earth! 
 
 warm rich blood, 
 Pulsing with Spring and song 
 
 In joyous flood ! 
 To you denied, how long ! 
 So long you scarcely marked the dearth. 
 Or knew the sun could shine. 
 
 Nor were you thrilled, 
 Save with one hope, imagined sweet; 
 As one who in assembly great. 
 Should farther seek a seat. 
 And, missing it, returns 
 To find what he refused is filled; 
 Or one, who seeking flowers, burns 
 To find some other than he sees. 
 And, plucking not, with hope elate, 
 Is stopped with empty hands, dismayed, 
 When he has met the night. 
 
 foolish virgins, with your oil-less lamps, 
 Who dwelt within your greys and damps ! 
 
 27 
 
How could you hope for joy 
 
 You still might get without alloy? 
 
 How could it be, 
 AVith all your joy decayed? 
 O happy toil and human frailty. 
 And pains no need to name! 
 These are the wax to feed the candle flame. 
 The stretch of earth, for exercise. 
 We need while we are here the whiles ; 
 Not prison floors, nor abbey aisles. 
 
 And now your sacred tenement 
 Has for a roof the azure skies ; 
 Your prison walls are open now, 
 And in and out the wild bird flies. 
 Your windows, widely rent, 
 
 Let in the bees, 
 
 And fragrant breeze; 
 And all the walls are ivy-grown. 
 And on their tops are flowers blown. 
 
 And waving grass. 
 For all must still to Nature bow — 
 She opens at the top when doors are barred. 
 No prison bars has she, 
 For they are made by man; 
 Despite his well constructed plan, 
 She, in some sweet futurity. 
 Remakes what he has marred. 
 
 sad lost days and lives, 
 
 And pleasure that survives ! 
 
 Perchance the fragrant kine 
 
 That 'round your crumbling temple pass, 
 
 Your desecrated shrine. 
 Are wiser far, as moving slow. 
 They munch the daisies, as they grow, 
 And buttercups with daily grass. 
 
 28 
 
BUTTERFLIES 
 
 Beautiful butterflies, all in a row, 
 In a curio window were put up for show; 
 When a poet was passing the shop one day, 
 And he stopped by the window to note the 
 
 array. 
 There were scarlet, and amber, and sapphire 
 
 blue, 
 There were purple, and yellow, and orange too, 
 With such wonderful blendings of bronze and 
 
 green, 
 Such marvels of coloring rarely are seen. 
 With a pin in each heart they were rigid and 
 
 cold. 
 They were mummies of poesy, legends untold, 
 Which no purchaser knew as he laid down the 
 
 gold ; 
 But they whispered the poet a wonderful dream : 
 "We flew with the breezes in sunlight agleam; 
 We were cut from the rainbow and sprinkled 
 
 like showers 
 O'er meadows of clover and fields of wild 
 
 flowers ; 
 We fluttered on orchards of pink and white 
 
 bloom ; 
 On breezes which wafted the mingled perfume 
 Of sweet country gardens, of lilacs in plume, 
 Of violets cold in the fresh dewy morn. 
 Of lavender, cowslip, and yellowing corn ; 
 O'er sweeps of lush grasses with sunlight aglow, 
 All powdered with daisies like new-fallen snow ; 
 We flashed a gold sunbeam o'er heather-blown 
 
 hills. 
 O'er buttercups dancing along the bright rills. 
 
 29 
 
Then deep into shadows where, quiet and cool, 
 The ferns and rich mosses embroider a pool, 
 Where pale virgin lilies bend over with grace 
 To see in the mirror each spotless white face. 
 We poised on their petals as prisms of light, 
 And flashed in the water as stars in the night. 
 On breezes of dawn when Aurora was rose 
 And saffron in splendour, and all the mead 
 
 glows. 
 In tapestried velvets we floated on air. 
 On incense of blossoms, the earth's morning 
 
 prayer. 
 Our day was all glory, all beauty was ours. 
 We basked in the sunshine, and dined on the 
 
 flowers. 
 But now we are stark and mere specimens all, 
 And who can, who sees us, these visions recall 1 ' ' 
 
 " 'Tis true," quoth the poet, "e'en so, and still 
 
 worse 
 When I catch my fine fancies and pin them to 
 
 verse. ' ' 
 
 30 
 
THE KATY-DIDS 
 
 Before the leaves begin to turn, 
 But Autumn hints are in the air, 
 When winds among the branches yearn, 
 And mellowness is everywhere. 
 The katy-dids begin to sing, 
 And all the woods begin to ring 
 With ''katy-did" and "didn't." 
 
 When dusky grows the copse and glade, 
 Before the stars are gleaming bright. 
 When in the shadows softly laid, 
 The fire-flies are flashing light, 
 The katy-dids begin to sing 
 An endless, endless note they ring 
 Of "katy-did" and '^didn't." 
 
 We sit upon the porch and muse 
 When all the work of day is done. 
 About their still diverging views, 
 For neither yet has ever won ; 
 
 In all the years and years they sing 
 It is the same disputed thing — 
 Of "katy-did" and "didn't." 
 
 And so do we dogmatic prate 
 With yea and nay of things unknown. 
 The why and whence of life 's estate. 
 The whither of the spirits flown ; 
 And all the ages ever sing. 
 But never final answer bring 
 
 To "katy-did" and "didn't." 
 
 31 
 
I PASS THE BEGGARS ALL BY EACH DAY 
 
 I pass the beggars all by each day, 
 
 I, of the empty hands ; 
 It pains me deep, when they feebly pray; 
 I see them haggard and sick and gray, 
 And lame, and drunken forsooth; 
 And I ask myself the truth: 
 If you were a duke and had the sway 
 
 Of so many beautiful lands, 
 Would you break them up and give them away, 
 
 You of the laden hands? 
 
 I paused, then I quickly did answer me, 
 I, of the empty hands: 
 
 yes, I would give of it cheerfully. 
 
 Of hunger and cold they should all be free, 
 For who has a heritage 
 That is his beyond his wage? 
 'Tis only a little would do for me, 
 
 I need not many lands; 
 
 And much is the source of frivolity. 
 
 Better relieve my hands. 
 
 And what would I want of a coronet, 
 
 I who have busy hands? 
 None bend to me nor have ever bent yet ; 
 
 1 would hold out hands for their swift up-get. 
 True rank but implies 
 
 "What you are, to the Avise; 
 The savages guage it by spangles and jet, 
 
 Decking their necks and hands, — 
 So do the civilized savages yet, 
 
 They who boast of their lands ; 
 
 The civilized savage whose armament 
 
 Would buy for the poor their lands ; 
 
 32 
 
To prepare for murder the gold is spent 
 That would send the poor with a glad intent 
 To lands that are rich and new, 
 To squalor and crime adieu. 
 Oh, with what a glory would wealth be blent. 
 
 If all of the poor had lands, 
 And plenty were kept, though the most were lent 
 Out of the greedy hands ! 
 
 33 
 
THE BIRTHRIGHT 
 
 I passed by a bevy of sweet little girls, 
 
 As rosy as peaches they were, 
 With dimples and ringlets of silken soft curls, 
 And playful as kittens that purr. 
 what a happiness, 
 They are so glad ! 
 Would that they never should 
 Ever be sad, 
 But feast upon joy evermore! 
 
 But sad was another, so sickly and pale. 
 
 No darling, for strangers were all, 
 So cold in her tatters, so starved and so frail, 
 No nest for a nestling so small. 
 Hard is the world for her, 
 Cold from the start, 
 Stunting her utterly, 
 Chilling her heart, 
 And old in her playtime is she. 
 
 A curse to such parenthood, curse to a race 
 
 Who live for their freedom alone, 
 Who give to the passions the principal place, 
 And freedom from duty condone. 
 Curse to a pleasure whose 
 ! Dregs is the pain, 
 
 Others must bear, and be 
 Tinct with a stain; 
 The birthright of children they sell. 
 
 Aye, pottage it is for which children must pay. 
 The losers, unasked, when it's paid; 
 
 'Tis forced from the innocent, bartered away, 
 The owner, unknowing, betrayed, 
 Born to a fate which so 
 
 - 34 
 
Blinding' controls. 
 Man has no right in the 
 Barter of souls, 
 Save damning his own, if he choose. 
 
 And what is this birthright belongs to the child? 
 
 'Tis health unimpaired and complete ; 
 The much decried home which shall be undefiled, 
 And full of a love that is sweet; 
 Training the highest shall 
 Fit him to live, 
 Given by parents who 
 Lovingly give, — 
 'Tis sum of all crimes to steal this. 
 
 shame to the sophists, whom time will refute, 
 
 Who, since they have bitten in rot, 
 Would wrench the sweet apple tree up by the 
 root, 
 And all that is good they would blot ; 
 Sham are they utterly; 
 White is still white ; 
 Black shall be black for aye ; 
 Waxes the light 
 From dawn ; and good forever is good. 
 
 35 
 
TITLES AND HEADS 
 
 Said a page to his lord who was writing one day 
 With a hobble and jerk at a miserable lay: 
 ' ' My lord, my own head is Apollo 's round head, 
 With sweets for the gods it ought to be fed. 
 But yours is as flat as a board, ' ' he said, 
 "0 let me compose your lay!" 
 
 And the lord looked up with a watery eye, 
 
 With half a rebuke and part of a sigh, 
 
 When a twinkle he caught from the would-be 
 
 bard. 
 Who would shake off the mask and the slave 
 
 disregard, — 
 "I admit to your sauciness, it is quite hard. 
 Just try it yourself for today. ' ' 
 
 So down sat the page, and he wrote, and he 
 
 wrote, 
 And he dazzled the lord for the words seemed 
 
 to float, 
 'Twas music, as floats on a moon-lighted sea 
 Where Summer is always and storm may not be ; 
 The lord was so staggered he scarcely could 
 
 see: 
 
 "0 that is enough for today!" 
 
 And, later, the duchesses crowded around. 
 As the lord read the poem of wonderful sound. 
 They made him a hero, he sailed in the air, 
 And all said no poet with him could compare, 
 how did he manage to make it so fair ! 
 And they fondled him all of the day. 
 
 But the page in the kitchen was dancing with 
 glee: 
 
 36 
 
"He'll not get another, — ^no, never, from me. 
 He would drop, should I tell, with a thud, and 
 
 be down; 
 And all the great ladies who make his renown 
 "Would turn from him quickly with sneer or a 
 
 frown ; 
 
 I have him in thrall from today. ' ' 
 
 37 
 
OLD KATE 
 
 "And so old Kate is dead, old Kate!" 
 Sneered Julia, as she uttered "old," 
 ' ' Old Kate ! with all her golden hair ; 
 She was so young! Yet not too late 
 (Just take a look!) the secret's told. 
 
 "It was a wig! — I told you so — 
 I stood beside her till she died; 
 She's not so comely," (pointing there, 
 You see the door), "Go in and know 
 To life, but not to death, she lied." 
 
 I stepped within the charnel room. 
 One window tried to face the West, 
 But never ray of sunlight shone, 
 For dingy walls made half the gloom. 
 And smoke and dirt and fog the rest. 
 
 Below, the freight yard, grimy black. 
 With puff, chugg-chugg, the whole day long, 
 And all the night the creaking groan 
 Of cars and engines on the track, 
 A constant moving, tireless throng. 
 
 Poor Kate, for many weary years, 
 
 Had climbed the long and half-lit stairs, 
 
 And laid her tired body down 
 
 Upon her bed with many fears 
 
 For days to come, and faltering prayers; 
 
 And visions of some happy time 
 In flowery fields and sunlit lanes, 
 Far out of any thought of town. 
 In some remote and Summer clime. 
 With joy and love for cares and pains. 
 
 38 
 
The garden of her soul had kept 
 All wrinkles from her placid face, 
 Though youth she never had, nor play, 
 Nor any rest, save when she slept 
 Despite the cold and noisy place. 
 
 Yes, she was vain, but 'twas for love 
 Of something good to come, though late, 
 She cheated Time with gold for gray. 
 Nor ever was she dreaming of 
 The cause of Julia's growing hate. 
 
 But stealthy Death was at the door, 
 And took poor Kate before the blight 
 Of hopes for earthly paradise. 
 But Julia wished to take still more, 
 And waited for the fading light. 
 
 She waited there with evil glee. 
 
 She flung the wig upon the floor. 
 
 That all who came might see and know; 
 
 And then she hid quite silently, 
 
 And listened for the opening door. 
 
 But Alice entered, timid girl, 
 
 "Whom Kate had helped, a friendless child, 
 
 "Who pitied much to find her so. 
 
 Replaced the wig with sunny curl, 
 
 And bent upon her, weeping wild. 
 
 Then Julia came with subtle smile. 
 "0 don't I beg; I pray you, spare," 
 Said Alice, catching Julia 's arm ; 
 She begged that I would guard the while, 
 And tip-toed out and down the stair. 
 
 39 
 
I waited ; then she came with flowers 
 To put in Katey's hands and hair, 
 Still looking round for fear of harm 
 To her she loved, and watched the hours 
 In that lone room so cold and bare. 
 
 Then in the dawn came one so dear, 
 Who never had his love betrayed: 
 "What, dead?" he said, "it cannot be!" 
 I led him, helpless, to the bier; 
 He wept and wept, his body swayed. 
 
 She looked so young, so very fair ! 
 Then Alice came and took his hand. 
 But could not speak her sympathy ; 
 For her no irony was there. 
 But simple creed to understand. 
 
 We buried her not far away; 
 And how she got it no one knows, 
 But Julia brought a lock of hair 
 And laid it in his hand that day : 
 'Twas gold, but fear within me rose. 
 
 He bent and kissed the hand that gave, 
 But not a word she said the while ; 
 She turned and left him standing there 
 Beside the rounding, new-made grave. 
 But as she turned, I knew her smile. 
 
 40 
 
UNFULFILMENT 
 
 "I should like to see the silver sea," 
 
 Said a little waif on the street, 
 
 "And the great big ships that they're telling me 
 
 Do make the sailors' fleet; 
 
 I should like the fields and the honey-bee, 
 
 And the flowers that are so sweet ; 
 
 Oh, how I should like to pick from the tree 
 
 The fruits that I'd like to eat!" 
 
 * >i< :4j ^ >t; ^ 
 
 But a cheerless spot 
 
 In the pauper's lot 
 By a dusty and noisy street, 
 Just such as he daily knew, 
 Holds his aged hands and feet 
 That never strayed where the flowers grew 
 Nor plucked the fruits that were sweet. 
 Does it hold his dream-lands too ? 
 
 41 
 
SLEEP 
 
 Sleeping far are the shadowy seas and moun- 
 tains — 
 Slumber sweet, for the winds lie still, 
 Still, so still, not a leaf to a leaf may whisper ; 
 Darkness sifts over vale and hill. 
 Bees are hived, and the birds have folded their 
 pinions, 
 Songless they, while the earth is chill. 
 Lambs lie curled that frisked in the daisied 
 meadows. 
 Stopped is the whir of the water mill. 
 Petals closed as hands that are pressed for a 
 blessing. 
 Flowers sleep while the dews distil; 
 Cradled are babes that played in the fragrant 
 gardens, 
 Prattle hushed that the day did fill. 
 Farmers' carts and the sweeping swish of the 
 sickle. 
 Silent they, at the sleep-god 's will. 
 Hushed, — like a room where the dead lie sleep- 
 ing. 
 Night steps softly, and all is still. 
 
 42 
 
MIDNIGHT 
 
 The moon is set, and the Pleiades ; 
 
 Keep still my heart and sleep ! 
 No sound, no hint of a breath of breeze 
 
 Does o'er my forehead creep. 
 
 To sleep fall all when the darkness bids, 
 
 But I still lie awake. 
 Come, drowsy one, come and press my lids, 
 
 My busy thoughts, come, take ! 
 
 'Tis midnight now and the owl is still 
 That perched against the moon. 
 
 hark, list, to what seems to fill 
 The night with solemn tune ! 
 
 The bells, the knell, 'tis the abbey chime! 
 
 Ah, they within the crypt 
 Once heard that mark of the flight of time, 
 
 From whom all time has slipt ! 
 
 43 
 
AFTER 
 
 After naked Winter, 
 
 Leaves and blushing blooms ; 
 After tossing voyage, 
 
 Sweet the harbour looms ; 
 
 After cloud and tempest, 
 Crimson glows the sky; 
 
 After night and darkness, 
 Morning hovers nigh; 
 
 After work and turmoil, 
 Comes refreshing sleep ; 
 
 After toil the sowers 
 Golden harvests reap; 
 
 After pain and sorrow, 
 Comes a day of peace ; 
 
 After let and hindrance. 
 Comes a sweet release ; 
 
 After hate and discord. 
 Brothers clasp the hand; 
 
 After distant travel, 
 Home, the happy land ; 
 
 After death what cometh? 
 
 After death, aye, what 1 
 If I've done my utmost. 
 
 Then it matters not. 
 
 44 
 
REST, OR QUEST? 
 
 O balmy breeze 
 
 On placid seas, 
 
 So calm at last 
 
 When storms are past! 
 
 We drift afar 
 
 Where gates ajar 
 
 Invite to pass 
 
 O'er bays of glass 
 
 To golden sands 
 
 In sunny lands. 
 
 To rest for aye at ease. 
 
 A sweet reward for weary task — 
 
 To rest in peace 
 
 In sweet release. 
 
 Aye, may we rest 1 I ask. 
 
 For some say rest 
 
 With kindly ruth, 
 
 And some say quest 
 
 With hope of youth; 
 
 But who of all can speak the truth ? 
 
 45 
 
BABY SONG 
 
 Go to sleep, my darling, 
 Go to sleep, my dear ; 
 Little seraphs guard thee 
 With attentive ear. 
 
 Folded are their pinions 
 For the dewy night. 
 Waiting but to spread them, 
 Should a dream affright. 
 
 Closed your little eye-lids, 
 So are daisies white, 
 Saving sweetest sparkles 
 For the morning light. 
 
 Little mouth is quiet, 
 Prattled all the day, 
 With a bubbling fancy, 
 All your world a play, 
 
 Dolly is alive, dear, 
 Hug her very tight ; 
 So are all the ark, dear, 
 You are very right ; 
 
 For the poet's fancy 
 Is your own, my dear; 
 Solid world is fiction. 
 Ours but veneer. 
 
 Chubby little arm, dear, 
 Still to hold her fain, 
 Dimpled as the water 
 With a drop of rain. 
 
 46 
 
Sweeter still than Cupid, 
 All to you incline ; 
 All your world is docile, 
 Tamer infantine. 
 
 Never prince nor princess 
 Had so wide a sway ; 
 Nor such jewelled pleasures 
 As bestrew your way. 
 
 You have faith unbounded, 
 You have none to fear, 
 'Tis the Heaven's kingdom, 
 Christ desired here. 
 
 Could I travel backward 
 Through each closed door. 
 Picking only sweetness 
 From the days of yore, 
 
 Though I piled them high, dear, 
 Luscious, fragrant, too. 
 They would lack the sweetness 
 That belongs to you. 
 
 For I could not see them 
 With your happy view. 
 To the wider vision 
 Comes the sorrow, too. 
 
 47 
 
SPRING SONG 
 
 The sap is flowing, 
 The buds are showing, 
 And Spring is on the way ; 
 The cold is going. 
 The breezes blowing 
 Are soft to earth today. 
 
 glad is earth today, my dear, 
 For Spring is nearly here ; 
 We'll go a-straying 
 
 Where lambs are playing, — 
 Why should we not be gay'? 
 
 The sun is glowing. 
 
 The cocks are crowing. 
 
 The robin's come to stay; 
 
 And Spring tip-toeing 
 
 Is sweetly throwing, 
 
 Each side her on the way, 
 
 The flowers from her arms, my dear, 
 
 1 see her tripping near ; 
 There 's no delaying, 
 'Tis time for playing, 
 Come ! meet her on the way. 
 
 48 
 
SESAME 
 
 The happy earth is sweet with Spring, 
 Her warm heart beating true, 
 
 All j'-ellow-green and blossoming, 
 
 In morning sun a- glittering, 
 And fresh and cool with dew. 
 
 I scent the lilacs once again. 
 
 They waft me far away. 
 To pleasant visions linked with pain, 
 That what I loved could not remain, 
 
 Of my dear yesterday. 
 
 fragrance rare, and sweeter far, 
 
 Your perfume brings to me. 
 From gardens never frost may mar. 
 Of which you but the semblance are — 
 A passing image, — Sesame ! 
 
 49 
 
MY MOTHER 
 
 " 'Tis rest," they said, "sweet rest. 
 She lies in Earth's motherly arms, 
 As free as a babe from alarms. 
 So still on that fostering breast." 
 
 Then over her dear, dear head 
 The lilies they lovingly strewed, 
 And their eyes with tears were dewed 
 As they bent o'er her flowery bed. 
 
 " 'Tis a sweet, sweet rest," they said, 
 
 But bitter it was to me, 
 
 That sweetness should cease to be : 
 
 They were words, mere words, for the dead. 
 
 Dead ! — my heart was stone, 
 And no more came tears to my eyes, 
 Than springs in a desert arise 
 All burnt in the torrid zone. 
 
 "We were sure that her love was proved," 
 I felt was their secret thought, 
 "She should wither with grief o 'er- wrought, 
 But she stands as one unmoved." 
 
 to force the tears ! I thought. 
 As I covered my face from view. 
 Lest a shallow mind construe 
 Some slight to her memory sought. 
 
 O the years, the long drawn years, 
 Of that crushing, lingering pain. 
 Till the tears would come again, 
 The long-lost river of tears ! 
 
 50 
 
Not the surface tears, but the deep, 
 Not the sob for a transient woe, 
 Which may come today and go. 
 But the fathomless tears to weep. 
 
 Could they rise and be wrung from my soul? 
 
 If I reached for hope at all, 
 
 I struck at a prison wall, 
 
 And the damp through my being stole. 
 
 The long years passed, and I stood 
 By one they would bear away 
 To another bed of clay, 
 And a mother she was, and good. 
 
 When I saw her white hand there, 
 Blue veined it was and so thin, 
 With a drawn, transparent skin, — 
 'Twas so like, — and the snowy hair! 
 
 Uprose the flood from within, 
 I wept at the heart's heart-core, 
 O'erflowed as a low-laid shore 
 When the full flood tide comes in. 
 
 51 
 
TO MY MOTHER 
 
 Still I travel the world's weary stages, 
 
 Though aching and dusty my feet, 
 
 And the faith of my first pilgrimages 
 
 Is lost with the hopes that were sweet ; 
 
 And the aureoled saints of the morning, 
 
 When the dawn-mist melts into day, 
 
 No longer my temple adorning. 
 
 Are paper and paint and clay. 
 
 But the light of your face still is luring, 
 
 My saint that is saint alway. 
 
 Your love, that forever enduring, 
 
 Surviveth the worm and clay. 
 
 My halting hope re-assuring 
 
 With smiles so sweet to my soul, 
 
 My lagging faith re-ensuring, 
 
 And turns my prow for the goal, — 
 
 A goal that is lifting and shifting 
 
 Like light on a distant shore. 
 
 Your voice still speaks when I'm drifting 
 
 And urges me on evermore. 
 
 52 
 
WHAT OF THINE EYE 
 
 what of thine eye 
 
 With the blue of the sky, 
 
 And thy cheek of a delicate rose? 
 
 Will the blue mount high 
 
 To its place in the sky 
 
 When thy lily-white eyelids close? 
 
 And the pink of the rose 
 
 To a clod decompose, 
 
 And then garland a Summer glade, 
 
 Or might float on a pool, 
 
 When the morning is cool 
 
 And the East is of peach bloom made? 
 
 And thy yellow bright hair 
 
 Be a part of the glare 
 
 When the gates of the West are ajar, 
 
 Or diaphanous flare 
 
 Of a comet's hair 
 
 Whose tresses are caught with a star? 
 
 one may find all, 
 
 They will come at the call. 
 
 They are beautiful bits of thee, 
 
 When they lay the pall, 
 
 To the grave a thrall, 
 
 And thou art an absentee. 
 
 That the violet bloom 
 
 On the dust of the tomb 
 
 Which in aeons may spring from thee, 
 
 Is a thought of gloom, — 
 
 'Tis a scanty room 
 
 For the something that mounted free. 
 
 53 
 
Out of the hiving swarm 
 
 Of laden impressions warm, 
 
 There arises the transient "thee," 
 
 Or the whirl of a storm 
 
 That shook into form 
 
 An eddy of leaves but to be 
 
 In the wake of the gale, 
 
 Or the pelt of the hail. 
 
 Reduced to the level at last; 
 
 And never to sail, 
 
 Nor a wind e'er avail 
 
 Though it swept o 'er the earth in a blast. 
 
 'Tis a note here and there, 
 
 Afloat on the air, 
 
 That was caught in a tune of thee ; 
 
 'Tis a melody rare. 
 
 Nor may any compare 
 
 In the variant harmony. 
 
 'Twas a chord that came 
 
 From a soul of flame, 
 
 A wind that swept over thy strings. 
 
 That is gone without name, 
 
 "With no match for the same, 
 
 Though all the bright universe sings. 
 
 There is none like thee, 
 
 Nor shall ever be : 
 
 Thou hast come as Excalibur. 
 
 Like the rose on the tree 
 
 Any rose may be, 
 
 But thou shalt never recur. 
 
 'Tis a transient face 
 And a fleeting grace, 
 
 54 
 
Like the haze on a distant hill; 
 
 'Tis a moment's space 
 
 In the shifting race, 
 
 That dwindles each way to nil. 
 
 On a point are we, 
 
 In infinity. 
 
 Do we drop apart for aye? 
 
 And my love for thee. 
 
 And thy love for me, 
 
 Can it bind us beyond the day? 
 
 And what is the need 
 For the bud and the seed, — 
 Is it earth and air of to-day? 
 Should they fail to feed, 
 'Twould the fruit impede, 
 And all of it shrivels away. 
 
 Is fruition all; 
 
 Do the parents fall 
 
 To the earth, as withered leaves? 
 
 Is there no recall 
 
 From the blinding pall? 
 
 Are we straw in the garner's sheaves! 
 
 'Tis a sadder thing 
 
 Than all pain may bring, 
 
 'Tis the acme of human woe, 
 
 That our loves but spring 
 
 For a banishing, — 
 
 And the whither, ah ! who may know \ 
 
 But then answered she, 
 
 " 'Tis thy simile 
 
 That leads thee to leaves and clay. 
 
 55 
 
For the makers be 
 
 Not the destiny 
 
 That is bound by the night and day. 
 
 ' ' Not for seed are we ; 
 
 For our entity 
 
 The seeding 's the mortal part; 
 
 Immortality 
 
 Is the gift, which we 
 
 May bestow, of the mind and heart. 
 
 "And no blight nor ill. 
 
 Save it be our will. 
 
 Can quench its eternal bloom; 
 
 And no frost can chill. 
 
 Nor the Winter kill, 
 
 For its roots are not in the tomb. 
 
 " 'Twill renew for aye, 
 
 Though we pass away; 
 
 What we make — is it more than we? 
 
 That shall not decay 
 
 Which did life convey 
 
 With the bloom of eternity. 
 
 "There's a hope for me. 
 
 As a rhapsody 
 
 Whose notes I have partly heard, — 
 
 To the melody 
 
 They may be the key, 
 
 Though I know not a single word." 
 
 56 
 
THE CATHEDRAL 
 
 Within a little town there lies 
 
 An ancient Gothic pile; 
 Its noble spire, Babel-wise, 
 Is reaching still to touch the skies, 
 
 While past the ages file. 
 
 The architect with dizzy eyes. 
 
 With vision full of gleams. 
 By balanced thrust, to neutralize, 
 Has made the heavy stone to rise 
 
 In gossamer of dreams. 
 
 The walls inert were spun to thread 
 
 By inspiration of his plan ; 
 The lofty vault was poised o 'er head 
 Where pointed arches upward led 
 
 To reach an airy span. 
 
 Relentless rock, the wave defies, 
 Was bended into melting curve, 
 
 And gravity its name belies, 
 
 Though pulled to earth was made to rise, 
 The master mind to serve. 
 
 The muUioned windows, jewelled, shine 
 
 In sapphire blue and ruby red; 
 Aslant the aisles the rays incline. 
 Of sunbeams turned to limpid wine, 
 A tinted twilight over-spread. 
 
 The march of piers adown the aisle, 
 
 Though massive, slender to the eye, 
 For weight to height they reconcile, 
 And from the ground the soul beguile 
 To vaults that aim the sky. 
 
 57 
 
A spark enkindles lifeless stone 
 Which bursts in lavish bloom, 
 With flora, fauna, not alone, 
 But saints in niches to enthrone, 
 Arisen from the tomb. 
 
 And griffins, monsters, imps as well, 
 
 When fancy had her play. 
 And every phase of life compel 
 To fall within the master's spell, 
 
 His purpose to obey. 
 
 No hackneyed sickness dwarfed his mind, 
 
 In stupid faith decayed ; 
 Unsatisfied, he strove to find 
 Some way the infinite to bind 
 
 In marble, mystic made. 
 
 The glowing glass the blower bends 
 
 In shape unto his will; 
 In growing cold the fever spends; 
 In other forms he then intends 
 
 To shape new beauty still. 
 
 But he, the builder, could not square 
 
 With years his primal plan : 
 Beyond all compass did he dare 
 To build more beautiful and fair 
 
 Than time allows to man. 
 
 Here some o'erwhelmed aspire with awe 
 Who with the master-mind immerse, 
 
 Beholding beauties without flaw, 
 
 Assembled unto magic law, 
 As is the universe. 
 
 58 
 
Not so the sleepy celebrant : 
 
 His hopes are all attained; 
 His heaven sure, he reads the chant, 
 And they are safe who hold his cant, 
 
 Because his god is chained. 
 
 By bells and beads his prayers are made ; 
 
 His soul is satisfied; 
 He dwells in damp, sepulchral shade, 
 And shadows on his soul are laid 
 
 From light he has denied. 
 
 The swinging censer fills the air 
 
 With heavy mist of myrrh, 
 With fragrant gums and spices rare. 
 And sculptured saints, who glory wear. 
 
 Are lost amid the blur. 
 
 The organ thunders rise and fall, 
 
 Resound to airy vaults; 
 The choirs sing antiphonal, 
 The richly robed processional 
 
 Before the altar halts. 
 
 Embossed with gold and jewels rare, 
 
 The priest in scarlet fine, 
 Lifts up the host with muttered prayer, 
 And calls on Christ to enter there 
 
 The golden chaliced wine. 
 
 (The Carpenter of simple creed 
 Who supped with fishermen, 
 Himself from ceremony freed, 
 His ethics drawn from human need, 
 And not beyond their ken !) 
 
 59 
 
The congregation, stunted, sit. 
 
 Nor ever raise their eyes; 
 For saints alone are candles lit; 
 For men a pleasing counterfeit 
 
 Of buying Paradise. 
 
 Unheard the words of muttered lore, 
 
 Unseen where jewels deck, 
 To some poor sitter at the door — 
 So vast the nave, — the pillars soar — 
 The priest a scarlet speck. 
 
 60 
 
THE MAGIC EING 
 
 To all the secrets earth would keep, 
 
 Brave men are finding key; 
 They break her laws the air to sweep, 
 And into holies fearless peep 
 Where men have bent the knee. 
 
 And all who spurn the magic ring 
 
 Inert are they as stone, 
 For knowledge gives to soul the wing 
 To pass the bars which limit bring 
 
 To wishes, weak alone. 
 
 And what the age prefigureth 
 
 The seers strive to see, — 
 To rein the forces, hamper death. 
 And all the seekers holding breath 
 
 At glimpse of what shall be. 
 
 61 
 
MISFITS 
 
 If we had never made the creeds 
 
 That now misfit the growing needs, 
 
 If gowns, before, were never planned, 
 
 Though pigmy to our large demand, 
 
 We might be that from which we sprung 
 
 And find ourselves prehensile hung 
 
 Within the forest green; 
 
 With scent of nostril over-keen, 
 
 And finger fashioned with the claw, 
 
 With fangs to bite a diet raw. 
 
 And manners of the jungle law, 
 
 With no decisive mark of mind 
 
 Between ourselves and other kind. 
 
 O it is making garb too small 
 
 That we have learned to make at all ! 
 
 The pattern helped to make anew. 
 
 And ever making nearer true. 
 
 Discarding, and retaining, too, 
 
 Unto a larger realm we grew, 
 
 For in that far essay to think 
 
 We made the gap of ' ' missing link. ' ' 
 
 62 
 
PARAPHRASED FROM VICTOR HUGO 
 
 Alone with the waves and sky am I, 
 By a sailless sea and a cloudless sky. 
 Still farther I peer than worlds real; 
 With wood and mountain I seem to feel 
 The question they ask the wave and sky. 
 Threading the ether, stars of gold, 
 Voicing harmonies manifold, 
 Making the infinite their lyre, 
 Say, as they swing their lamps of fire, 
 "It is the Lord, the Lord God." 
 
 63 
 
THE ENTOMOLOGIST 
 
 In stilly night, when candles most were out, 
 O'er treasures garnered from his travels far, 
 An insect-lover bent his reverent head 
 And glanced his searching eye around about 
 The rows of beetles, each a shining star. 
 Each one he fondly handled, green or red, 
 Or other hue, with bright metalic sheen. 
 The lamp-light fell upon his noble face. 
 Framed in the scattered locks of shaggy hair. 
 It warmed the tan, revealed the sweet, serene, 
 And childlike soul which lent a gentle grace 
 To rugged features, lines of pain and care 
 And overwork. A tender curve of joy 
 Caressed the corners of his straight-set mouth. 
 His eye would sparkle as he talked to each 
 Hard-won and many-coloured gleaming toy. 
 The product of his journeys North and South, 
 Of many places near, or hard to reach : 
 "And you, my tiger-beetle," thus he said, 
 "You green and bronze and yellow spotted one, 
 I caught upon the dusty road; so still 
 You stood, you rascal; then away you sped 
 Like lightning, but you faced about (for fun?) 
 Before alighting. Yet it was my will 
 That I should get you, whatsoe'er you do. 
 And you, my shining black, from 'neath a stone 
 Did scamper (like myself at fire alarm). 
 And you, my beauty, gold and violet-blue, 
 With hints of green and copper, bright you 
 
 shone 
 Upon that tree, though bent on doing harm. 
 And you, my warrior, blue and orange hue. 
 You, whom they call the brave bombardier. 
 Who fired your pop-gun in my very face ; 
 
 64 
 
Your smoke and sound might well avail 
 For lesser foes, — but not that fatal day. 
 (Before the step of Time we too give place; 
 Our false alarm and smoke will sadly fail 
 "When he comes on his depredating way.) 
 And you, my devil's coach horse, dull and black, 
 With elevated head and tail, with jaw 
 Distended for a snap at passers-by, 
 1 took you 'spite the chip upon your back. 
 (Just so, some folk will always find a flaw, 
 They bristle up at all the world awry.) 
 And here's my tumble bug, so like to me. 
 Who roll my troubles into such a heap, 
 I rarely reach the top in all the wide 
 Circumference, — a funny sight to see. 
 If God should turn and slyly take a peep. 
 And you, my ladybird, so neatly pied. 
 Your scarlet coat ; I do admire your taste. 
 Amid the dusky gleams, a stagnant pool 
 With fragrant ferns and rushes on its shore, 
 A child, I watched my whirligig which traced 
 His waving curves with all his jolly school 
 Of social followers, who swim, and more, 
 Who fly, have eyes to see above, below, 
 As either element demands, (as I 
 Would see the world and yet the spirit too.) 
 And you, my firefly, who flash and go. 
 So like the thoughts which might reveal the sky 
 Of empyreans I have longed to view. 
 And you, my moulten iridescent one, 
 My golden green, with many a changing hue, 
 WTiose fine emotions often make you glow 
 Like melted rainbows in the dripping sun, — 
 Alas! they fade away at death, 'tis true. 
 (Shall all my treasured colours perish so? 
 Or form is naught and they alone are real, 
 
 65 
 
And I am they, my own of all that's here, 
 And mine to take when thither I shall go? 
 These bugs I can bequeath ; can I reveal 
 The colours of my soul, both rare and dear? 
 Lo ! in my book are all your forms arranged, 
 Your evolutions and your habits all. 
 Could I impart some glow of what you mean, 
 Some flush of life, so that the whole were 
 
 changed 
 To living drama, all the scenes recall — 
 A bit of sky, of country road, or forest green — 
 So like to ours the world of insects grows ! 
 Would I could leave the flash that here and 
 
 there 
 Reveals a larger truth, amid the night 
 Of ignorance, and though I take the rose, 
 Could leave within the page a fragrance rare !) " 
 
 66 
 
THE NECTAR OF LIFE 
 
 give me the rich red wine ! 
 
 1 thirst for the purple juice, 
 For the nectar of life divine, — 
 For gold I have scarce a use. 
 
 For gold, should I lay it away, 
 Is gold to the end of time, 
 But richer grows wine each day, 
 As rich as the tropic clime. 
 
 It clears like to stained glass. 
 And glows as the sunset glows. 
 For the lights that through it pass 
 Are tinct to the deepest rose. 
 
 All through me it burns and thrills, 
 And dancing there comes a throng 
 Of words into tunes and trills — 
 Shall I leave the gold, or a song? 
 
 67 
 
A LITTLE CHILD SAT ON MY KNEE 
 
 A little child sat on my knee, 
 
 With curly hair of sunny hue, 
 
 With cheeks as pink as peach-blown tree, 
 
 And eyes forget-me-nots of blue. 
 
 I held my watch close to her ear, 
 That she might note the steady click, 
 All wonder-wrapt the sound to hear, 
 She said to me, "What makes it tick?" 
 
 "My dear," I said, "I cannot tell; 
 You are too young to understand; 
 When you are older, very well 
 I can explain by speech and hand," 
 
 So, too, we bend to earth the ear. 
 To catch the pulse-beat of all time, 
 And ask the why, with half a fear. 
 For answers that are too sublime. 
 
 We are too young ; when aeons ring 
 Their circles through our changing zone, 
 The very outermost may bring 
 Reply with no uncertain tone. 
 
 68 
 
TO THE ROOK 
 
 The lofty elm is your eyrie, 
 On top of the topmost bough ; 
 What makes your note ever cheery ;, 
 Your clan and you never weary 
 With your caw, caw, caw? 
 
 You dip and swing with the breezes, 
 Against the blue of the sky ; 
 You have no guile nor diseases; 
 And storm or hail only pleases, 
 While you caw, caw, caw. 
 
 Your little ones are so cosy. 
 And rocked so safe in the air ; 
 Beneath your mate they are dozy, 
 When all the West is so rosy. 
 And you caw, caw, caw. 
 
 Your work leaves you never jaded, 
 Though digging grubs all the day; 
 You raise a cloud if invaded. 
 And greedy man is upbraided 
 With your caw, caw, caw. 
 
 The earth is your freehold ever, 
 Not parcelled out as to man; 
 You all make equal endeavour; 
 Your friendly league will not sever 
 At a caw, caw, caw. 
 
 A jolly time is your season. 
 You take the world as it is; 
 No cause frets you, nor a reason ; 
 You never fear there is treason 
 In your caw, caw, caw. 
 
 69 
 
TO A ROMAN LATCH-KEY 
 
 A rusty bit of metal now, 
 
 Fit for the curio. 
 
 And yet I can imagine how 
 
 You turned the latch for friend, 
 
 Or guarded from the foe. 
 
 Some villa at the city's end 
 
 Where togaed Romans used to wend, 
 
 And sandaled matron entertained. 
 
 Where charmed guest had oft remained 
 
 For feast or pleasant game. 
 
 Some gracious lady in her flowing gown 
 
 With beauty and a high renown, — 
 
 And now without a name, 
 
 Nor villa for the key, 
 
 Nor town, nor avenue. 
 
 A void reality. 
 
 But sadly true ! 
 
 And our philosophies. 
 
 Of which we were so sure, 
 
 Our mighty creeds for which we held the keys, 
 
 And which were built so well 
 
 We knew they must endure, 
 
 Of that we could foretell ! 
 
 We have the rusty keys 
 
 Writ down in dusty books 
 
 On shelves in shady nooks 
 
 AVhich every age in passing sees. 
 
 We keep them there 
 
 And prize them, too. 
 
 For what they once were said to do. 
 
 But where the well-built houses, where ! 
 
 70 
 
AFFINITY 
 
 Somewhere, my love, forevermore, 
 
 Far, far, within my dreams, 
 Beyond the farthest misty shore. 
 All Gothic-carved in legend lore, 
 
 My fairy palace faintly gleams. 
 
 Aglow, in splendour, dazzling white, 
 
 Its towers rise above the mist, 
 And break in curves of flashing light. 
 Where ripples run in gay delight 
 Across a lake of amethyst. 
 
 About it all the woods are sweet 
 With hyacinths of purple hue, 
 A waving carpet for the feet 
 Which never down their petals beat, 
 But are as light as morning dew. 
 
 A yellow glow is on the glade, 
 
 Like Summer evening after rain; 
 And through the dark-green velvet shade 
 Are strips of sunshine softly laid 
 In bands as gold as ripened grain. 
 
 Through rosy meadows, daisy-pied, 
 
 Like silver threads the rivers run, 
 Or sun-lit through the clearings glide. 
 Where daffodils spread far and wide 
 A cloth of gold to match the sun. 
 
 As dazzling showers cool the air. 
 Though Summer sun is shining still, 
 
 The meadow larks spring everywhere 
 
 To warble music, liquid, rare, 
 
 And all the meads with rapture fill. 
 
A misty blue, the hills and dells ; 
 
 The mountain peaks are virgin snow; 
 As Sabbath morn the valley dwells, — 
 The hush, before cathedral bells 
 
 Ring out the chimes to all below. 
 
 As fresh as after rain the breeze. 
 
 Or on the violets the dew. 
 On wafted fragrance float the bees 
 To sip the sweets upon the leas 
 
 From bending blooms of every hue. 
 
 Assembled in my palace halls 
 My guests are gossamer as air ; 
 
 In painted story are the walls; 
 
 From pointed window slanting falls 
 Each rainbow tint upon their hair. 
 
 As breezes soft on southern seas 
 
 Becalm the v/aves to melody, 
 As through the pines the zephyr breathes, 
 Or gentle showers on the leaves. 
 
 Their voices Avhisper poesy. 
 
 A hint, — and I am wafted there, 
 
 Past sun and moon and distant star ; 
 A picture, music, fragrance rare, 
 A word, a thrill, and then I fare 
 To where my dream-possessions are. 
 
 A sweet mirage, a glimpse sublime, 
 
 I catch within your beaming eyes, 
 Of some enchanted lovely clime, 
 Beyond the bounds of space and time, 
 Beyond my farthest faint surmise. 
 
 72 
 
I feel your heart beat when I fold 
 Your body to my warm embrace, 
 Your spirit still escapes my hold 
 And slips beyond me free and bold 
 To some forbidden, happy place. 
 
 Sometimes I try to travel there — 
 
 You give the hint, I feel the glow, 
 When waves are warm and weather fair, 
 I feel the spray and scent the air, 
 But bars forbid, I cannot go. 
 
 Perchance, when we are body free, — 
 The bars removed that lie between 
 
 The visions that we dimly see, — 
 
 We then shall prove affinity. 
 
 That yours and mine are one demesne. 
 
 73 
 
LOVE'S MAGIC 
 
 O I might sing of rivers, dear, 
 
 That flow into the sea; 
 Of winds that softest kisses give 
 
 To flowers on the lea ; 
 
 Of Summer, wedding snn and shade 
 
 To buttercup and violet ; 
 Or he that draws the smiling sea 
 
 With crimson blushes ere he set; 
 
 Of hills that wear a bridal veil 
 
 To wed the jewelled field; 
 And all the loves of happy birds, 
 
 Their similes to yield. 
 
 But there are double stars, my dear, 
 
 From kiss of fiery suns. 
 Which ever round each other spin. 
 
 And far their orbit runs. 
 
 The one a precious sapphire blue, 
 
 The other ruby hued. 
 Nor in the circle, magic made, 
 
 May yellow suns intrude 
 
 To turn the red to scarlet flame, 
 
 The blue to jealous green. 
 Self-lighted suns, they thread the vast 
 
 And limitless demesne. 
 
 Chromatic is the light and shade 
 
 They mutually bestow ; 
 The shade is wrought of violets, 
 
 For light the roses blow. 
 
 74 
 
And far beyond the thought of time, 
 Beyond the thought of space, 
 
 Their loving revolution bounds 
 In never ending race. 
 
 75 
 
TO MY SWEETHEART 
 
 Out of the gate of dreams we speed, 
 
 Hands joined in ecstasy, 
 Far through the gleaming paths you lead 
 
 To where we used to be. 
 
 How gay the path with blossoms hemmed ! 
 
 How sweet, as long ago ! 
 All rainbow tints with dew-drops gemmed 
 
 The sunlight sets aglow. 
 
 The air's so clear and bracing here. 
 Your cheeks are tinged with red ; 
 'Tis poetry, enchantment, dear. 
 Where'er you turn your head. 
 
 But do not all turn back again 
 When they have gone so far? 
 
 In waking, there's a touch of pain 
 This sweetness sure to mar. 
 
 For who turns back is sure to find 
 
 It fades a misty past ; 
 And those about him all so blind 
 
 To joys that ever last. 
 
 But you and I, ah, you and I! 
 
 Gro on, and on, for aye. 
 With heart to heart and spirits high 
 
 As in that yesterday. 
 
 Those distant, dream-blue hills that lie 
 
 'Neath peaks of snowy crest, 
 Against a violet arch of sky 
 
 Where sinks the sun to rest ; 
 
 76 
 
And far beyond through realms of light, 
 
 On — through Eternity, 
 All gleaming day, no thought of night, 
 
 Are paths for you and me. 
 
 I look into your loving eyes 
 And feel your warm clasp, so ; 
 
 Our hearts are beating, visions rise, 
 As hastening on we go. 
 
 I know that death and pain and fret 
 
 Are incidents for us. 
 But after them, together yet, 
 
 I'll feel your warm hand, thus. 
 
 Through maze of spheres on airy tread. 
 Through worlds we do not know, 
 
 Together still, we shall be led 
 Where only love can go. 
 
 77 
 
IF I COULD CHOOSE 
 
 If I could choose, 
 I would not lose 
 One moment from thee, 
 Sweet, my own, 
 
 And all the days 
 Be seeking ways 
 To bring thee pleasures 
 Still unknown. 
 
 But I must work, 
 I cannot shirk 
 Because I love thee, 
 Sweet, my dear. 
 
 Our love would pale, 
 Its charm would fail, 
 Unless we earn it 
 Very dear. 
 
 78 
 
I KNOW MY LOVE IS TRUE 
 
 I have such faith in him I love, 
 I do not watch him from above, 
 As if he were a creeping thing 
 With fangs to give my heart a sting; 
 I know my love is always true, 
 And never fear what he will do. 
 
 I need no bars for my own love, 
 So I will not his fetter prove, 
 For love belongs to flying things, 
 Alas, for me to clip his wings ! 
 
 let him soar and touch the blue ! 
 He will come home for nesting, too. 
 
 When dangers threaten, and some one 
 Must guard or fight, I know 'tis done. 
 When tempters come I know the word, 
 Though I were far and had not heard; 
 
 1 am content, and need no clue. 
 For well I know what he will do. 
 
 When fads and follies have their sway, 
 And some new lordling has his day, 
 And prates that all the world is wrong, 
 I know my love will answer strong; 
 Nor all their silly retinue 
 Can block the road he will pursue. 
 
 No other's word for his I take. 
 For on his truth my all I stake. 
 If any fail to find him true, 
 'Tis fault of their 's and not his due ; 
 For aye, 'tis I who know him true 
 And can predict what he will do, 
 
 79 
 
He reads my thought in hand and eye, 
 And scarcely need we make reply, 
 For words are slow and cumbrous things, 
 And swifter, thought, than flight of wings. 
 And softly swing the windows, too, 
 To visions closed to colder view, 
 
 what a home his heart to me ! 
 A nestling I could always be ! 
 Though others shift, and pay the toll, 
 
 1 know what garden for my soul 
 
 Is still as sweet with honey dew 
 As when the tender Spring was new. 
 
 cold and bleak the icy world ! 
 
 O warm the hearth where I am curled ! 
 
 sad is some misgiving heart 
 
 Who from his Eden must depart. 
 
 And passing verdure, halts to rue 
 A desert stretching far to view ! 
 
 80 
 
PENUMBRA 
 
 There is something in the air, 
 Though the sun is shining fair, 
 I can see it looming there, 
 All the whiles. 
 
 Tell me what it is I've done 
 That should dim the shining sun, 
 That the clouds should overrun 
 Sunny smiles? 
 
 Smile, my dear, while it is light. 
 O forgive a little slight! 
 You might wish, when comes the night, 
 You'd forgot. 
 
 Here's for sweetness all the day; 
 Give and take it while you may ; 
 Plenty sorrow comes our way, — 
 Make it not. 
 
 81 
 
TO MY SWEETHEART 
 
 Will you love me, little sweetheart, 
 When the dew is off the grass; 
 
 When the buds and tender leaflets 
 Fall and rustle as you pass? 
 
 Will you love me when the snow falls, 
 And the air is bleak and cold? 
 
 Will you love me when I totter 
 And the lasses call me old? 
 
 When my hair is touched with silver 
 And my face is wrinkled too? 
 
 There are many handsome maidens 
 That will have a charm for you. 
 
 For the young have winsome faces, 
 Catching manners, too, my dear ; 
 
 'Tis mere youth that gives them graces, 
 Health that gives the body cheer. 
 
 There 's a thrill and pulse in Springtime, 
 Splendid promise, you will say ; 
 
 But not all the buds of April 
 Will be blossoming in May. 
 
 And there's many a worm and canker 
 From the moths that steal, to-day. 
 
 Into buds and tender blossoms, 
 Planting seed for their decay. 
 
 But the Autumn is the test-time. 
 When the fruit is ripe to eat, 
 
 When the blush is not deceptive 
 And the core is clean and sweet; 
 
 82 
 
"When the seed is ripe and ready, 
 Plump and of the best degree 
 
 That the genus yet has offered 
 For the fruitage still to be. 
 
 Only love me for my worth, dear, 
 Put me to the test and see ; 
 
 Try me by the tests of Autumn, 
 Tests that stand eternity. 
 
 83 
 
ONLY ONE 
 
 Who are all your dearest sweethearts 
 That you sing so much about, 
 That you prize beyond all telling, 
 And you could not do without? 
 Who the loves you call immortal 
 With affinities sublime, 
 That you trace beyond the portal 
 Of the outer door of Time? 
 They are one, I answer bravely. 
 There is one, and only one. 
 For the fates have stoutly woven, 
 Warp and woof are we they spun ; 
 And should one begin to ravel 
 Then alas ! are we undone. 
 All the palaces of fancy. 
 All the heavens pictured fair, 
 Would to me be dust and ashes, 
 Bliss were none could he not share. 
 Oh the pains in thought of parting 
 With no other pains compare ! 
 I should much prefer a dungeon, 
 Even hell, if he were there. 
 Place us in a grave together. 
 Heart to heart we still would lie, 
 Waking so, or sleeping ever, 
 As the aeons pass us by. 
 Waking? Comes the fear to sever. 
 Oh ! if there 's a kindly Fate, 
 We beseech of thee in mercy 
 Part us not beyond the gate. 
 
 84 
 
PROCRASTINATION 
 
 Said Plutus ' namesake : ' ' Now it seemeth meet 
 To taste the sweets of life, so long denied ; 
 I '11 please my tongue, as one who gathers wide 
 Rich, luscious fruit that is delight to eat : 
 Soft downy peaches, cherries, grapes replete 
 With nectar; melons, apricots — inside, 
 Aurora yellow; primrose pears all pied 
 With russet, melting, cool; and figs so sweet, 
 So ripe you scarce can eat nor let them fall; 
 And purple plums that shame the tint of kings. 
 O life mellifluous, now is my day ! ' ' 
 With smile and stroke of beard, old Time rose 
 
 tall 
 Behind him, gave him aches, and pain that 
 
 stings ; 
 Laid hand upon his head and left him grey. 
 
 85 
 
FORGET-ME-NOTS 
 
 Across the hills of early wheat I strolled; 
 Not far above their rim the smiling sun 
 Grew mellow, for his course was nearly done, 
 And shot each blade and leaf of tender fold 
 "With yellow lights — ^translucent, greenish gold. 
 Beyond, and down, my little path was spun 
 To tiny thread; behind, it seemed to run 
 To meet the sky. Thus sauntering, behold! 
 O wondrous view! "Within a sheltered spot, 
 Where sprinkled dandelions seemed to shine 
 Like suns amid the grass, a bit of sky — 
 As melts above the warm horizon line 
 In June — had taken root to beautify 
 The earth, in guise of wild forget-me-not. 
 
 86 
 
CHRISTMAS SONNET 
 
 The world is white and tinkling bells ring gay 
 The Christmas time. Fresh hopes, as roses red, 
 Bloom in the children's smiles. The banquet's 
 
 spread 
 With luscious sweets culled from the buds of 
 
 May. 
 1 love the children and am glad their day. 
 To me the banquet is but meat and bread, 
 Tasteless and stale. I eat and am not fed; 
 Nor can I think of Christ, though preachers 
 
 pray. 
 But oh ! the vision of the long ago, — 
 The wondrous feast, the presents, the surprise ! 
 I see their faces through the mist still glow : 
 They sit around the table, nor arise 
 To end the feast ; I dream, and dream, when lo ! 
 I sit with them and dine in Paradise ! 
 
 87 
 
TO THE MEN WHO PROCLAIMED THE 
 REPUBLIC OF PORTUGAL, OCT. 4, 1910 
 
 Hail ! to the valiant messengers of day, 
 Who from the hill-top see a streak of red 
 And turning swift with eager steps are sped 
 To those below on whom the shadows stay. 
 Not slaves, but men, will rise and have their say 
 When parasites are on the people fed. 
 The iron rods, the slaves are wont to dread, 
 Are willow wands when really put to bay. 
 Like Arctic travellers the tyrants sleep. 
 They view the frozen way, compact, secure, 
 And full of hope into their bags they creep, 
 That on the morrow all the way is sure, 
 And know not, snugly wrapt in slumber fast, 
 A lead is opening, black, and deep, and vast. 
 
 88 
 
NO WINDOW TAX 
 
 Why should men walk a mimic, mincing gait 
 With that slow army that must keep in file 
 With dwarfish leaders down a narrow aisle? 
 Trimmed hedges, they, to guard some priest's 
 
 estate 
 For swinish feast, or blind episcopate. 
 Why should they list to sneering scoffer 's smile, 
 Who would their souls from sweetest truth 
 
 beguile, 
 And cage them with the iron bars of hate 1 
 No window tax nor barred doors for me ! 
 For I myself must judge and choose and dare, 
 And from my soul 's horizon must I see, 
 Which broadens as I climb that Jacob's stair, 
 And slowly drops what closed the wider view 
 Where good is good forever, old, or new. 
 
 89 
 
A NOBLE LORD SET SAIL 
 
 A noble lord set sail in castle fine, 
 
 His needless wealth impartial seas to freight; 
 
 His ship excels the purple aureate 
 
 Of Cleopatra's barge. For him the wine 
 
 With Autumn tints, for him on sweets to dine ! 
 
 Yet what is he, and why this costly state ? 
 
 Or in his veins does ichor circulate — 
 
 Olympic breed? — "the people" less divine? 
 
 Why still the myth, when women on the street 
 Sing for a crust, and hopeless children hold 
 Wan babes at night outside the public's door? 
 On pauper-pay men drink for lack of meat. 
 What sweet green fields this sadly squandered 
 
 gold 
 Would buy — sea-fares and home lands for the 
 
 poor ! 
 
 90 
 
DISCORDIA 
 
 Some slight imagined wrong to discord led, 
 And baby storms obscure the April skies ; 
 Their house of blocks all widely scattered lies. 
 At angry words she shook with sobs to bed, 
 Till winds of sleep caressed her curly head, 
 And left the dew on silken fringe of eyes 
 And rosy cheek, and soothed the sobs that rise. 
 To warm forgetfulness. A frown o'erspread 
 His boyish face, his chubby fist held tight, 
 Till sleep relaxed. But with the robin's call 
 Will kisses come and thrall of loving arms. 
 And could we see the cause as childish quite 
 That leads to war when men and nations fall. 
 The hands would clasp that beat the dread 
 alarms. 
 
 91 
 
FROM MY WINDOW 
 
 The twilight hastens, daylight's glaring fire 
 Fades rosy amber, palest olive sheen. 
 Beneath a blue-white mist there lies serene 
 The shrouded city, save a black 'ning spire. 
 A shy new moon, first of the evening choir, 
 Peeps through the tree-tops where is dimly seen 
 No leaf nor twig, but blurs of dusky green. 
 What lies enchanted I would not inquire 
 Of city's dirt and detail hard and bare; 
 No need. Far rather would I hope I may, 
 Amid to-morrow's toil, find time to spare 
 Some thought for this perspective, that the day 
 Take such dimension as should be its share 
 When final twilight fades into the gray. 
 
 92 
 
THE POET'S LAMP 
 
 Past jars of gold and sea-green malachite 
 
 "Which scented blooms and luscious fruits dis- 
 close, 
 
 Still turning not, for they are dust, he goes 
 
 To find the rusty lamp, and makes it bright. 
 
 When lo ! what castles, arched and pillared 
 white. 
 
 Sunlit with yellow lights, festooned in rose ! 
 
 What gardens of Hesperides unclose ! 
 
 What hillsides pastoral, what pathways dight 
 
 With flora lead to seas of lazuli, 
 
 To purple peaks, snow-crowned, to fairy dales ! 
 
 What company of regal guests, with flow 
 
 And lilt of thought, like winds that scud the 
 sails ! 
 
 A prince indeed! Yet sordid passer-by 
 
 Will smile at faded coat and rank him low. 
 
 93 
 
TO KEATS 
 
 Long rows of dreary books that stop and dry 
 The springs of fancy, till I open thine ! 
 Then are my senses gladdened with a line ; 
 Like one who, weary of the streets, should spy, 
 At dusty turn, between the buildings high, 
 A little path that leads him, serpentine. 
 Across a hill of buttercups a-shine 
 And laughing 'gainst a sky of lazuli. 
 Or one o'er lava beds and steep inclines, 
 Some barren ridge should scale, and see below, 
 All lying white amid the trees and vines, 
 Where fragrant orange and magnolia blow, 
 A fairy town, and happy hither go 
 For cooling fruits and shade and sunset wines. 
 
 94 
 
TO ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Exhilarating light — my pay for toil, 
 No muddy, tangled ways, unlit with fire; 
 From thee a thrill as by electric wire 
 Which lights the brain from glow of subtle coil ; 
 Transcends, as after rain the dark turmoil 
 Of clouds is broken, spilling out the sun, 
 Along their edges gleaming borders run, 
 The dripping trees are limned in silver foil. 
 In fresh-cooled air, the dazzling rays convey 
 To leaves and grass their points of burning 
 
 white. 
 Thy metaphors reveal and flash the way; 
 Thy bracing view is not from mountain height, 
 But voyager in air to whose survey 
 Lies all the earth in panoramic light. 
 
 95 
 
TO SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Immortal drama of the changeless age 
 Of elemental man ! Still Brutus speaks ; 
 Still vain are Lear's weak tears; Cordelia seeks 
 Response from alien souls; and Hamlets rage 
 With problems yet unsolved. The heritage 
 Of time — the hates and loves, the hopes and 
 
 fears — 
 Can change in trappings only, with the years ; 
 And all the world for aye shall be thy stage. 
 And through it all the sweet and matchless 
 
 tone — 
 The poet's voice — known by a note let fall! 
 Like some dear friend whose precious meaning 
 
 shone 
 In cadenced mood, as clear as robin's call; 
 And should I hear one word upon the stair. 
 Before he touch the latch, I know who's there. 
 
 96 
 
THE UNREMEMBERED BARDS 
 
 How brown and dusty are the unturned leaves, 
 And dust the hearts that did the pens inspire 
 With unf oreshortened truth ! An ashen pyre 
 From which no wings arise ! Yet one perceives 
 A living spark, some mighty bard retrieves 
 To light his holocaust, his scented fire; 
 Arising thence a lark whose throated lyre 
 The singing stars of sweetest song bereaves. 
 
 A tear for those whom ruthless Time repressed ! 
 Sure-footed, he, and over each crevasse 
 He steps to solid ground, and only they 
 Who stepped with him may with the Present 
 
 breast — 
 A striding gait. And who are they, alas ! 
 Who yet may drop to darkness by the way ? 
 
 97 
 
WITHIN A MOUNTAIN VALLEY 
 
 Within a mountain valley dwelt secure 
 A lad who questioned not, still loving home ; 
 His world was bounded by the snowy dome 
 Of circling peaks — his narrow faith so sure 
 They met the sky — nor any hint nor lure 
 Of aught beyond. No budding wish to roam 
 Had burst the sweet content: he never clomb 
 Above the fields which homely joys insure. 
 
 But one came running swift in streamers 
 dressed, 
 
 With flying hair and radiant ecstasy : 
 
 "There is a world beyond! Come, come with 
 me!" 
 
 They crossed the hills ; they reached the moun- 
 tain crest, — 
 
 When lo ! there lay the world in verity. 
 
 One turn, a tear for home, then on they pressed. 
 
 98 
 
THE SPIDER 
 
 A wily spider wove his web last night 
 From out my window to a bending spray 
 Enwreathed in blossoms, pink as dawning day. 
 'Twas sure a deep abyss for him that height 
 To span, that he might catch my sweet delight 
 Of hawthorn flowers, clustered in bouquet, 
 To hold his fairy lace, his fine array 
 Of handiwork, with one drawn thread so slight. 
 A step to earth, but he 's so small, 'twould seem 
 A daring feat, a distance dire and grim. 
 And me ? When in aspiring mood I dream 
 And stretch a thought to some far star so dim, 
 Perchance it is as near in God's esteem, — 
 Perhaps to me when I shall grow like Him. 
 
 99 
 
I OPEN DOORS AND DOORS 
 
 1 open doors and doors, and pass on through 
 Dark rooms where, stumbling oft, I grope for 
 
 light ; 
 Or rooms, the moon makes white, or sunbeams 
 
 bright. 
 With drift of perfume on sweet winds that blew 
 O 'er blooming meadows freshly cooled with dew, 
 And murmurous of birds beyond my sight ; 
 Dream passages ; from openings out of view 
 Cool winds blow in ; wild, slanting rain at night, 
 Frantic with storm, and angry brush of trees 
 Against the panes ; or mocking shadows, strange, 
 From some too glorious light, wave with the 
 
 breeze. 
 Not hurriedly, from room to room for change, 
 But loitering, from pictured hints to know 
 The open, when from out I pass and go. 
 
 100 
 
IMMORTALITAS 
 
 I saw her stand witli deep untroubled eyes, 
 No mist before them, nor a tear she shed 
 For all the loved and unremembered dead. 
 A Venus, she, but cold as stars that rise 
 O'er Arctic seas, locked white 'neath ebon skies. 
 She did not bend, nor even turn her head, 
 And icy-keen she cut the words she said, 
 Nor cared the pang they gave, nor heard the 
 sighs. 
 
 ,Came one so young and held his scanty siheaves — 
 
 So pitifully small, — who plead his youth ; 
 
 ' ' What have you brought ? ' ' She said no more, 
 
 alas! 
 Came crippled hopes, and they who brought but 
 
 leaves. 
 Came laden arms with wealth of golden truth,— 
 To all she said the same, and bade them pass. 
 
 101 
 
THE VOYAGER 
 
 So calmly fared he on the water-ways; 
 
 His painted prow he turned to ports he knew, 
 
 In palmy isles whose sands were washed with 
 
 blue; 
 And on their shingle beached his ship for days, 
 For wines and luscious figs, and heard the lays 
 Of bards who sang the things he deemed were 
 
 true; 
 And at all altars paid his righteous due ; 
 Then voyaged on to other pleasant bays. 
 There came a change: "What this wild wind 
 
 that blows 
 And bears me out? Who that strange mask 
 
 that steers? 
 Will he abide the deck in unknown sea ? 
 Is he a god ? For when he moves there glows 
 A splendour, gilding waves. I have my fears. 
 Is he still I ? Dare I to call him me ? " 
 
 102 
 
WOULD I RETURN? 
 
 How sweet, how fond, how far, that azure bay, 
 Its circling shores all there within my sight ! 
 I'rom port to port I sailed with fresh delight, 
 Nor had a fear when all the time was day. 
 And all the months were years of merry May, 
 When Flora reigned, rose-wreathed, who sprin- 
 kled white 
 The shores with star anemones, and bright 
 Were river margins banked with bloom, and gay 
 And honey sweet were field and wood and glen. 
 How sweet and undisturbed my world to me ! 
 Yet to pass out the strait, how I did yearn! 
 I passed; and met the storm and night, and 
 
 then — 
 The vision glimmered, slipt, and all was sea, 
 And sea. Would I return? I ask. Return? 
 
 103 
 
THE 0VER-PLUf5 
 
 Does he but deal in names (whose narrow 
 
 thought 
 He vouches for the truth) who says that we 
 Are cells and atoms, strung so cunningly 
 To some electric coil, too subtly wrought 
 For any tool that Science yet has brought, — 
 Yet still might bring in ages yet to be? 
 Though granting much, there yet remains for 
 
 me 
 The over-plus, not common, he makes naught. 
 What is that looker-on to whom arise 
 The moons of memory and all to view 
 Stand out : the peaks and hills and boundless 
 
 skies. 
 The purple sea, the isles of yesterday ; 
 Who stands aloof and judges, makes anew. 
 Commands the under-selves and points the way ? 
 
 104 
 
TWILIGHT 
 
 The purple browns of evening blur the green; 
 No breeze nor breath ; and all the river lies 
 In quietude of death ; with close shut eyes 
 The painted flora swoon in sleep serene, 
 Nor nod their heads ; and farther out between 
 The feathered shade and shore, the golden skies 
 Lie on the stream in dreams of Paradise. 
 The trees dip deep into the glassy sheen ; 
 'Mid shade, to right, the gleams are lost in 
 
 glooms ; 
 But on beyond there turns to thread the glade 
 A cord of light ; and farther still, up-looms, 
 Between the mist-hung trees, a vista laid 
 In lines of white as blended daisy blooms, — 
 There fairies dance and flowers never fade. 
 
 105 
 
ON THE DEATH OF DEAR FEIENDS 
 
 Another, and another, still they pass, 
 Like falling leaves, till all the tree is bare; 
 The birds that sang are mating otherwhere 
 On branches green as early Summer grass 
 For sweet young hopes, — and yet, for them, 
 
 alas! 
 Shall come the Winter, sear beyond repair, 
 Yea, sear, although they say the sky is fair 
 Through twisted warp and gnarl of Time's 
 
 harass. 
 Ah, sad ! that on Death's narrow unlit stairs, 
 No hand can help, we cannot go in pairs ; 
 But at the foot, or top (to say, who dares?) 
 We sleep together, or unfolds the day 
 When veils are lifted, then, ah ! then, we may — 
 But hush, press on, brush tears and prayers 
 
 away! 
 
 106 
 
THE QUEST 
 
 I met two running in a strange wild race: 
 A phantom was the foremost, and so fair, 
 On sunbeams treading ; gold was all her hair. 
 And, like the dead in dreams, so faint her face 
 As swift as wind she swept an airy pace. 
 Her misty robes like smoke upon the air. 
 I stopped her follower, whose charmed stare 
 Saw naught but her, and held him for a space : 
 "0 why, and whither?" He then. Sibylline: 
 "She never turns, but to the sun is faced." 
 "But look behind; see, all the April green 
 Is brown; and crumbling stone and barren 
 
 waste ! ' ' 
 "Yea, in thy shadow, so." "With frantic mien 
 He broke from me, and ran with bending haste. 
 
 107 
 
A HAUNTING VISION 
 
 A haunting vision all the day withdrew 
 To shadowland, as falls but transiently, 
 Through rifted cloud a splendour on the sea ; 
 Or frescoes faint and broken to the view, 
 Whose bits of wind-blown robes and gold and 
 
 blue 
 Suggest the sky and aureoles, though flee 
 Beyond pursuit the theme and rhapsody; 
 Or passing as the mirrored sun in dew ; 
 Or stars that twinkle in the tossing deep 
 Are lost in cloud eclipse; remembered song 
 That wanes to head a-tilt for faintest note. 
 When lo ! it comes to some wrapt mood I keep, 
 As chimes that seem to wait, then far along 
 The waving fields full sweet and clear they float. 
 
 108 
 
THE LILT 
 
 As one who at the opera, 'mid stress 
 And thunder of the fugue, all torn with pain 
 And harrowed to the depths, awaits the strain, 
 The melody, that with its sweet excess 
 Floods all the soul with restful mellowness. 
 Like in a bay, and o 'er the auburn plain, 
 Full swells the spring-tide from the heaving 
 
 main, 
 And lies in pools to catch the sun's caress; 
 So in some souls, through pain and unshed tear, 
 The wrapt, the listening look, the smile, betrays 
 The swan's recurring song, and hope through 
 
 fear 
 To catch the lilt through storm and devious 
 
 ways, 
 Though changed in key, yet ever fresh and clear, 
 The same through aching time and long delays. 
 
 109 
 
OPEN WINDOWS 
 
 Open the windows, my soul! ajar 
 To breeze-borne melodies and fragrant June, 
 To storm and starry night and sultry noon ; 
 And send on fearless wing thy spirit far, 
 Wind-swept o'er beetling crags the wild waves 
 
 mar. 
 With mist and spray and surge of seas atune, 
 Past far pink dawns, to float on some monsoon 
 To tideless calms where Summer islands are, 
 And 'broidered meads are starred with asphodel, 
 And sweet with song unheard of mortal man. 
 And marble cliffs the bluest bays enlock, 
 To that closed garden where the gods may dwell, 
 To thither bring some twig for talisman, 
 When at the gates at night I stand and knock. 
 
 110 
 
MEMORY 
 
 Short is the road unto the land of dreams, 
 Where once I gathered blossoms all the day, 
 For all the early lanes were sweet with May, 
 All flower-bordered, sprinkled o 'er with gleams 
 That burnished leaves and glanced upon the 
 
 streams. 
 And her dear hand in mine but yesterday ! 
 And though so many miles o'ergone away — 
 A weary road, so desolate it seems — 
 The memory is fresh when I am worn; 
 As in the arid wastes of alkali, 
 Where withered weeds are choked with salt, 
 
 and lorn, 
 On shapeless mounds of sand whose edges fly 
 With whirling winds, blooms sweet, on prickly 
 
 thorn, 
 The cactus, silken, red as evening sky. 
 
 Ill 
 
MY CHILDHOOD HOME 
 
 Through many wanderings I chanced again 
 
 To see my dear old home of long ago ; 
 
 Sweet Nature was the same, nor marked the 
 
 flow 
 Of ebbing time : the river, just as then, 
 With sleepy curves, the cool and leafy glen, 
 The bridge, the path, where I was wont to go, 
 All bordered still with golden-rod aglow, 
 Where sing the same the robin and the wren. 
 But ah, the home, how sadly, sadly changed ! 
 The fragrant fields, the orchard, verdant lawn 
 And lane — all lost in a disfigurement, 
 A checker-board of streets and houses 'ranged 
 As if the earth were scant to live upon, 
 And man forgetful and irreverent. 
 
 112 
 
DEATH 
 
 There is a deep whose black and dire abyss 
 Brings awful pause to him who fears to sink, 
 For on its void no lights nor ripples wink ; 
 He steps as one from off a precipice, 
 Astray at night ; but this he may not miss : 
 The road is straight unto the very brink 
 Which holds him there, nor may he move nor 
 
 shrink. 
 As one in dreams, though chased by Nemesis, 
 Is paralyzed. Behind, into the night, 
 The yesterdays have passed in dark retreat ; 
 The happy earth and all his human kind 
 Are shut from him, as one on darkened street 
 Should see a drama in a -window light, 
 And one should rise within and pull the blind. 
 
 113 
 
TO THE SKYLAEKS 
 
 Where scarlet poppies shimmer in the wheat, 
 And flaunt their frills amidst the spangled oats, 
 Their gauzy, silken, fluted petticoats 
 All fluttering like torches in the street; 
 There all the sky with ecstacies replete. 
 Is gemmed with starry music from your throats, 
 With bright cadenzas on the catching notes. 
 So gossamer, so sparkling, and so sweet, 
 With tiny facets of a thousand lights. 
 And steady flow of pleasure ever new. 
 Unstudied joy, as one who hums and wings 
 A happy tune with little turns and flights. 
 The whole day long, at work he likes to do. 
 And never tires, nor scarcely knows he sings. 
 
 114 
 
FATE 
 
 "An unfair game" — was that you said, old 
 
 man? 
 Your head bent low upon the checker-board, 
 With eye a-squint and forehead deeply scored, 
 You blame the sly One ; but he has no plan 
 To get you cornered, though his mind fore-ran 
 Your empty moves. Your fret and fume ig- 
 nored, 
 He smokes his pipe and smiles that you are 
 
 bored. 
 And toasts himself at ease ; nor need he scan 
 The board, for none can cheat. And ah ! he plays 
 A winning game with any one whose nose 
 Is on the board ; and patient, he, to wait. 
 His move is always first, and this essays 
 To handicap the weak, — but there are those 
 Who do not lay their own mistakes on Fate. 
 
 115 
 
MICHAEL MORE 
 
 Part I 
 In days ago there was a man 
 
 Who had a farm to plough; 
 So straight the furrows always ran, 
 
 So clean the weeded field, 
 Such heavy grain he made it yield 
 
 The ears were forced to bow. 
 
 He had a rose-embowered cot, 
 
 Amid a garden gay 
 "With lily, pink, forget-me-not, 
 
 With jessamine, and more, — 
 And Mary standing at the door, 
 
 A sweeter bloom than they. 
 
 Her voice was clear as meadow lark 
 That shakes the dew and sings, 
 
 In hazel eye an amber spark, 
 Her cheeks as pink as dawn, 
 
 Her hair like leaves upon the lawn 
 That golden Autumn flings. 
 
 'Twas in the sun an aureole 
 
 About her brow of snow. 
 Though clean as mountain heights her soul, 
 
 She loved the joyous earth. 
 With lofty thought and dancing mirth 
 
 She pleased the high and low. 
 
 And he was straight and strong and tall, 
 
 With ruddy apple cheek. 
 He was the pick of ploughmen all, 
 
 Whose name was Michael More. 
 And none could match him though a score 
 
 Were sent abroad to seek. 
 
 116 
 
But lie went hunting on a day 
 When Spring was very new. 
 
 Loud sang the birds on every spray, 
 Where haze of yellow green 
 
 Had not yet made a leafy screen 
 To shut the sky from view. 
 
 So merry rang the woods and brooks, 
 He tripped a tune in trills. 
 
 Though Winter lay in shady nooks, 
 Still whiter was the sloe. 
 
 On tender meads there was a glow 
 Of yellow daffodils. 
 
 Deep in the wood he drew the bow 
 
 With lusty, joyous zeal. 
 With hope to have a bag to show 
 
 That she would like to cook. 
 While resting in the ingle-nook 
 
 He'd wait the toothsome meal. 
 
 Came riding by a lazy knight. 
 
 Astride a dapper bay, 
 His scarlet coat ablaze with light. 
 
 His steed arrayed in gold, 
 And stepping high with metal bold, 
 
 He spurned the bridle-way. 
 
 And with him rode his gentlemen, 
 
 In single file they keep; 
 And when he reached a fairy glen, 
 
 So quick he reined his bay, 
 That, riding swiftly, scarce kept they 
 
 From running in a heap. 
 
 117 
 
There, out beyond, between the trees, 
 
 They saw a forest lawn. 
 A rustle of the fallen leaves — 
 
 Swift sped across the glade. 
 In hope of finding friendly shade, 
 
 A doe and dappled fawn. 
 
 'Twas then the lord did send a shaft. 
 
 But missed his trembling aim, 
 And all the host in secret laughed, 
 
 To each uproUed their eyes : 
 "When wassailer to forest hies, 
 
 His bags will lack the game." 
 
 Straight sped a dart as homing bee. 
 
 As falling stone, a deer 
 Fell to the grass. The company 
 
 Cheered loud, while all the hounds 
 Went scurrying, and all the wood resounds 
 
 Unto the merry cheer. 
 
 ''Who is the dolt?" the prince demands, 
 "Who sped the shaft?" says he. 
 
 "This is my wood and these my lands, 
 And they who dare me find 
 
 I am of firm, unshaking mind. 
 And of no charity." 
 
 Out came the ploughman very bold: 
 
 "I am your man," says he, 
 "Your hounds may fetch the arrows cold, 
 
 But mine bring back the game. 
 A challenge to each man I claim. 
 
 That he shall rival me." 
 
 118 
 
They set a mark upon a tree, 
 Aiid still the ploughman won, 
 
 For none could aim so well as he. 
 He won the prince as well. 
 
 His skill and boldness held a spell 
 Upon them, every one. 
 
 They made a feast upon the grass, 
 
 A snowy cloth they spread; 
 They ate the deer and clinked the glass, 
 
 And drank the ruddy wine. 
 To louder talk they did incline, 
 
 Till every face was red. 
 
 And when the sun was very low, 
 
 And threw a longer shade, 
 It limned the trees in yellow glow, 
 
 And dark their shadows, cold, 
 To giants stretched. In green and gold 
 
 Was striped the forest glade. 
 
 Then each his horse he quick imtied 
 
 And in the saddle leapt. 
 The prince the ploughman bade to ride 
 
 Behind him on his horse. 
 Then laughed they all without remorse, 
 
 "When up he sprang, adept. 
 
 Their drunken laughter shook the wood. 
 
 At such a wanton deed. 
 "Oh, mud and gold! Oh, very good!" 
 
 The ploughman joined with zest. 
 Each bent with mirth, as if possessed. 
 
 And slapped his shining steed. 
 
 119 
 
Then was there such a scampering, 
 
 And tearing up of grass, 
 And starting off a-galloping, 
 
 The forest quick they cleared. 
 The startled woodmen, who appeared, 
 
 Jumped back to let them pass. 
 
 And out upon the road they tore, 
 
 And raised a cloud of dust. 
 Till none could tell what crest they bore, — 
 
 A whirlwind in a blast, — 
 "Hooray" and "whee !" — as on they passed. 
 
 With songs of wanton lust. 
 
 And when they reached the castle gate, 
 
 The West a-flaming bright, 
 Had reddened windows and the plate 
 
 Of armoured sentries all, 
 And e'en the cold and greyish wall 
 
 Had caught a ruddy light. 
 
 Then in they went, — ah woe the day ! 
 
 When went the ploughman too. 
 Who changed his coat for bright array 
 
 Of crimson velvet fold, 
 With powdered flora wrought in gold 
 
 And gems of every hue. 
 
 With awkward gait he moves in line 
 
 With men of high degree. 
 And with them seats himself to dine 
 
 On plate of shining gold, 
 On costly cloth that falls in fold 
 
 Of stiff emblazonry. 
 
 120 
 
The pillared hall of marble white, 
 
 The rows of lamps ashine, 
 Repeated in the mirrors bright, 
 
 To mimic halls extend, 
 Where stretching far without an end, 
 
 At phantom boards they dine. 
 
 And at them all the ladies, fair. 
 
 In spangles and brocade. 
 With rounded arms and jewelled hair, 
 
 Were smiling at the knights. 
 And clinking high with ruddy lights 
 
 The goblets richly made. 
 
 The spicy perfumes, rich and sweet, 
 
 With Araby compare. 
 There floated, too, from some retreat, 
 
 A dulcet melody. 
 To linked chords a harmony 
 
 That honeyed all the air. 
 
 Ah! dizzy was his head that night. 
 
 And many nights to be. 
 With all the wine and glitter bright. 
 
 Till years had brought him grace, 
 With manners fit to hold his place 
 
 In such a company. 
 
 A painful thought he still would hide. 
 
 Of Mary, Mary More, 
 Nor told to one he had a bride, 
 
 For fear of foolish smile. 
 He led a life that did beguile 
 
 His heart from days of yore. 
 
 121 
 
For best of all he won the king 
 
 Who held the golden key 
 To all that fame and money bring 
 
 To fill him with delight ; 
 And he was dubbed a noble knight 
 
 For deeds in archery. 
 
 So swiftly flew the many years, 
 
 Ah ! quickly by they sped, 
 And with their sure and sharpened shears 
 
 They clipped his youth away, 
 And left him stumbling, pussy, grey, 
 
 With nose a cherry red. 
 
 Part II. 
 But what of Mary, with the years 
 
 That dragged themselves away, 
 With waiting long, and many tears, 
 
 While others reaped the grain ; 
 With hope and doubt contending vain 
 
 That he would come some day? 
 
 She sewed by day and in the night 
 
 For ladies rich and fair; 
 And in the dawning early light 
 
 She brought it home to do. 
 For should her loving hope come true 
 
 He still must find her there. 
 
 And every day, at fading light. 
 
 She lit her candle trim. 
 And kept it burning all the night 
 
 Upon the window sill, 
 That he might see it was her will 
 
 To sweetly welcome him. 
 
 122 
 
And when her garden was in bloom, 
 
 It lit with yellow gleams 
 The lilies sleeping in the gloom, 
 
 And flowers dainty-hued 
 Whose colours change at night, subdued 
 
 To grey and white of dreams. 
 
 And when the snow lay cold and white, 
 
 And hid the travelled road, 
 It threw a friendly beacon light 
 
 For those who came from far. 
 And beckoned home as did the star 
 
 That o'er the manger glowed. 
 
 "Within was warm and mellow glow. 
 
 The hearth was all ablaze ; 
 The apples sputtered in a row; 
 
 The cider mug she filled; 
 Then at the window, sad and chilled. 
 
 She stood to gaze and gaze. 
 
 Before her stretched into the night 
 
 A waste of blue-white snow. 
 No hint of moon nor starry light. 
 
 For, black across the sky. 
 The torn and ragged clouds swept by. 
 
 For bitter winds did blow. 
 
 They drove the snow in blinding sheet, 
 They pinched the traveler's nose. 
 
 They numbed the hands and froze the feet. 
 From frosty window pane 
 
 She cleared a space, and oft again, 
 For with her breath it froze. 
 
 123 
 
Oh ! who is that with bending gait 
 To shield him from the blast? 
 
 He may be coming though 'tis late; 
 He draws his mantle tight 
 
 And bows his head to 'scape the blight. 
 But no ! he turned and passed. 
 
 With trembling lip and tearful eye 
 
 She sadly shook her head. — 
 The apples all were burnt and dry; 
 
 The supper meal was cold. 
 An icy bell the morrow told ; 
 
 And cold she crept to bed. 
 
 And when the merry yuletide came, 
 
 A pretty feast she made : 
 She twined the holly round the frame 
 
 That held his pictured face ; 
 And on his chair in wonted place, 
 
 A present for him laid. 
 
 And then she waited long in vain 
 
 For step that never came, 
 With wish that was an aching pain 
 
 The lifted latch to hear, 
 His merry voice, so full of cheer. 
 
 She never thought of blame. 
 
 And so the years went slowly by, 
 
 And busy years were they. 
 For otherwise she needs must die, 
 
 She was so sad and lorn. 
 But in her heart a purpose born 
 
 Did fill the night and day. 
 
 124 
 
The years crept by aud she grew old, 
 And dwarfish, humped, and bent. 
 
 Her snowy hair she tightly rolled 
 Into a scanty knot. 
 
 Her outward mien she quite forgot — 
 The shriveled tenement. 
 
 On wrinkled face there was inserolled 
 
 The riddle of the years. 
 But few could see the curves that told 
 
 A garden sweet and trim, 
 A plot of bloom she kept for him 
 
 And watered with her tears. 
 
 Her sunken eyes were almost blind 
 
 From sewing long and late. 
 She used a stick her way to find: 
 
 The neighbours knew the sound, 
 And by the rap upon the ground 
 
 They knew she passed their gate. 
 
 She too would haggle at a mite, 
 
 She lived so sparingly. 
 To save and hoard was her delight 
 
 For him she loved so well. 
 And since no mortal would she tell, 
 
 They called her miserly. 
 
 In many letters much she said 
 
 For him, and only him. 
 That should he come and find her dead, 
 
 He still should find her true; 
 And hard it was to write them, too, 
 
 When ageing eyes were dim. 
 
 125 
 
The pity first that softened eyes 
 And warmed the hands grew chill. 
 
 They answered her with sharp replies, 
 And called her "stingy crone." 
 
 But children lisped in sweeter tone, 
 And called her "granny" still. 
 
 For them she had a tender heart. 
 
 So unsuspicious they. 
 A subtle instinct did impart 
 
 The sweetness of her mind 
 To little cherubs not yet blind 
 
 With doubts that darken day. 
 
 Part III. 
 And Michael, — what had come to him? 
 
 A thirst he could not slake, 
 And spectral things with visage grim 
 
 Would haunt his troubled sleep, 
 The long, long night their vigil keep 
 
 To pinch his soul awake. 
 
 A skeleton with wings of bat, 
 
 Begrimed and sooty black. 
 Swooped down and by him sat, — 
 
 An eyeless, grinning ape. 
 Two shining rows of teeth agape. 
 
 And all its joints did crack. 
 
 It knocked its knees like rap of sticks. 
 
 As fork with bending prongs, 
 Extended arm and fingers fix 
 
 Upon his heart a clamp, 
 And on his forehead came the damp 
 
 That to the grave belongs. 
 
 126 
 
It bent and whistled, ' ' Come with me. ' ' 
 
 All trembling he obeyed, 
 And with it flew in agony 
 
 Into a strange green light. 
 The black earth, wrapped in gloom of night, 
 
 A pall upon him laid. 
 
 Swiftly, so close to earth they flit, 
 The shadowed trees they graze, 
 
 And, gliding up a hill with it, 
 To pause, it gave a tap ; 
 
 A whining wind his garments flap, 
 As from a cliff they gaze. 
 
 He strained to see, when lo ! behold ! 
 
 The darkness lifted there. 
 The precious dreams of youth unfold : 
 
 The fields of golden corn 
 That crimson poppies did adorn. 
 
 As once his Mary's hair. 
 
 The smell of earth came back again, 
 
 So fresh from upturned soil. 
 The tender spears that after rain 
 
 Burst through the softened earth, — 
 Then in no season was there dearth 
 
 Of joy in honest toil. 
 
 The pink embowered home in view; 
 
 The fresh and fragrant air; 
 And in her garden every hue 
 
 Of all the tints that are ; 
 The bordered path, the gate ajar, 
 
 And Mary standing there. 
 
 127 
 
The sun upon her yellow hair 
 
 Like Autumn maple trees. 
 With longing, that was half despair 
 
 And keen with sharp regret, 
 That he might still possess her yet 
 
 He prayed on bended knees. 
 
 Then, startled suddenly, he woke 
 
 And up he sat in bed; 
 A chilly sweat upon him broke; 
 
 The room was dark and cold. 
 The tower bell the hour told 
 
 And many strokes it said. 
 
 A palsy shiver shook his frame, 
 
 '*I will go home," he said, 
 ''She is so good, she will not blame, 
 
 Her love for me atones," 
 He raised his aged aching bones 
 
 And pulled himself from bed. 
 
 Then hastily he dons his clothes, 
 
 And opens soft the door. 
 And feels his way as out he goes 
 
 Along the darkened wall, 
 A deathly silence shrouding all 
 
 Except a sleeper's snore. 
 
 Just as he reached the winding stair, 
 
 He creaked a loosened board; 
 Some dreamer called aloud, ' ' Who 's there ? ' 
 
 And Michael feared to go. 
 But breathless waited, standing so, 
 
 Until the dreamer snored. 
 
 128 
 
' ' Oh ! they would laugh, I would not dare 
 To tell them," thus he thought; 
 
 So crept all softly down the stair, 
 Beneath the parapet. 
 
 Past narrow windows l3lack as jet ; 
 The sky was overwrought. 
 
 The heavy clouds were black with rain 
 That hid the full-faced moon, — ^ 
 
 She showed herself but once, in vain, 
 And lit with transient glow 
 
 The winding river far below, 
 The houses all aswoon. 
 
 On down he went, and down, 
 
 Across the double moat, 
 Out through the gates and quiet town, 
 
 All unperceived he passed. 
 And then the rain that had amassed 
 
 The ground in torrents smote. 
 
 It flooded all the country road; 
 
 It drenched him through and through ; 
 It drove him with an angry goad, 
 
 Bespattered him with mud, 
 As in the road with splashing thud 
 
 He smirched his costly shoe. 
 
 And long he traveled, till a hill 
 
 Had reddened to a blaze 
 Which struck the earth with joyous thrill. 
 
 And flooded her with light, 
 As all the view in gay delight 
 
 Unfolded to his gaze. 
 
 129 
 
The mounting sun lit up the trees 
 
 In tints of richest hue, 
 Of Autumn shades in all degrees 
 
 Of russets manifold, 
 Of crimson, purple, yellow-gold. 
 
 Against a sky of blue. 
 
 The puddled earth held all the sky 
 
 And mirrored, too, the glare 
 Of maple, oak, and beech that vie 
 
 To flash a gaudy sheen. 
 The holly fruit with shining green 
 
 Was scarlet everywhere. 
 
 And all the birds had holiday; 
 
 They feasted to their fill 
 On cuckoo-pint and crimsoned spray 
 
 Of clustered haw and hip. 
 Belated bees the honey sip 
 
 From flowers blooming still. 
 
 Lo ! when he went the hill adown, 
 
 All freshly washed and fair 
 There lay the little country town. 
 
 The row of houses small. 
 Straight rose the smoke from chimneys all 
 
 Into the fragrant air. 
 
 But what was that that smote the air? 
 
 A dread and direful knell. 
 It was no call for early prayer; 
 
 It sank him hopelessly, 
 As ships that sink within the sea. 
 
 That solitary bell. 
 
 130 
 
Oh! what is that in mournful file, 
 
 And what is borne ahead? 
 Adown the street, as chapel aisle. 
 
 With hat in hand, so slow 
 They step, they scarcely seem to go, 
 
 And wail as for the dead. 
 
 And when the little band he reached, 
 He asked them who was dead; 
 
 And when they told he then beseeehed 
 To look upon her face. 
 
 "I am her love, though in disgrace; 
 Oh! let me see," he said. 
 
 They smiled a little that the crone 
 
 A love had ever had, — 
 So many years she lived alone 
 
 They had forgot him quite; 
 And he a mud-bespattered fright 
 
 In regal robe was clad. 
 
 But still so pitiful he plead, 
 
 They lifted up the pall; 
 He gazed and gazed, and then he said : 
 
 "Oh, no! it is not she! 
 There's some mistake, it cannot be! 
 
 I beg your pardons, all." 
 
 A wrinkled face that naught redeemed 
 Save peace that rested there ; 
 
 But how unlike the face he dreamed! 
 Impression early made. 
 
 The dream of youth that cannot fade, 
 When she was wondrous fair. 
 
 131 
 
He turned and homeward went; 
 
 The gate was swinging wide, 
 The air was sweet with spicy scent 
 
 Of herb and eglantine ; 
 All coral-strewn was hedge and vine 
 
 With fruit in scarlet dyed; 
 
 Against them massed the yellow heads 
 
 Of gay chrysanthemums; 
 In bronze and red and golden beds 
 
 The regal asters flaunt; 
 While honeyed fruit is still the haunt 
 
 Where burnished insect hums. 
 
 Along the bordered path he went 
 Where reaching blooms would bar, 
 
 Or saucy branch would fain prevent, 
 And entered at the door. 
 
 How very like the days of yore 
 The chairs and table are ! 
 
 For each was in its place the same; 
 
 They mocked the days between. 
 The flight of time they would disclaim, 
 
 And all that intervened 
 Was like a drama that is screened 
 
 With only shadows seen. 
 
 For there his desk against the wall 
 
 Was by the window still. 
 Save for the clock 'twas quiet all 
 
 (Why did it tick so hard? 
 It pulsed the silence, and it jarred 
 
 His nerves against his will.) 
 
 132 
 
Upon the hearth were sticks unused 
 (The cold it shook him so!) 
 
 He lit, he drew a chair, and mused: 
 "Oh, she will come," he said, 
 
 "Oh, Mary, you cannot be dead! 
 Oh, you will come, I know ! ' ' 
 
 He bends to where the fire glows. 
 
 It lights his ashen face, 
 And turns to flame his ruddy nose; 
 
 His snowy beard extends. 
 As frozen waterfall depends 
 
 And still is held in place. 
 
 A spectre shadow crossed the floor. 
 
 And up the wall it went, 
 A grave and silent summoner; 
 
 For head a pick-axe grim, 
 Across the ceiling mocking him 
 
 It menacingly bent. 
 
 A drowsy sleep crept slowly on 
 When lo ! she came in white, 
 
 A glory as the rising dawn 
 Fell on her standing nigh. 
 
 As bloom from painted window high 
 Of softly tinted light. 
 
 "Dear love," he cried, "I waited long. 
 
 Come to my arms, my own ! 
 They are no longer firm and strong. 
 
 But still I love you, dear. 
 All other days are thin and sere 
 
 Save those together known." 
 
 133 
 
How near she is, and yet so far ! 
 
 Long aeons are between. 
 She is as distant as a star, 
 
 As nebulae her hair, 
 That youthful face is less than air. 
 
 Or ray of sun unseen. 
 
 All suddenly, acold he woke. 
 
 An ashen hearth he spied; 
 The moonbeams through the window broke 
 
 And lay in pools of light. 
 As marshes when the sky is white 
 
 And earth in darkness dyed. 
 
 But soon with clouds the moon was blind 
 
 And lost beyond repair. 
 Then long he groped about to find 
 
 A candle, but in vain, 
 Till feeling by the window pane 
 
 He found it standing there. 
 
 A sudden fear possessed him quite 
 
 As by his desk he leant, 
 For by the flickering candle light 
 
 A bundle came to view, 
 Of many papers tied in blue, — 
 
 But what was their intent 1 
 
 Untying them, they fell apart, — 
 And some were brown and old. 
 
 And some were new and made him start 
 As here and there a line 
 
 Of drift he scarcely dared divine, 
 A story that was told. 
 
 134 
 
He read them all, a story long, 
 
 Until the dawn was fair, 
 Until he heard the robin's song, 
 
 And folk were all astir. 
 And by (than morning happier) 
 
 The maidens tripped to prayer. 
 
 He rose and went where down the file 
 
 Had gone at yester morn. 
 Still hurt at every passer's smile, 
 
 He moved as in a dream 
 Where real and shadow mingled seem, 
 
 Himself alone forlorn. 
 
 The children were amused, amazed, 
 
 Pulling each other's gowns. 
 And those behind that on him gazed 
 
 In giggles bubbled o'er, 
 "While others silence did implore 
 
 With little hints and frowns. 
 
 But when he reached the church-yard bare, 
 
 A little form was bent 
 Beside a grave new-made and fair 
 
 With garlands brightly decked 
 In many wreaths and colours flecked, 
 
 And odours sweetly blent. 
 
 He stepped to her serenely graced, 
 
 Much older than her years, 
 The others all were apple-faced. 
 
 But she was pale and fair, 
 Beseeching eyes as though in prayer, 
 
 With manner that endears. 
 
 135 
 
He said to her : "I was her love, ' ' 
 But both were mystified. 
 
 As saddened as a mateless dove 
 Her slender voice let fall : 
 
 "It was old granny," that was all 
 The little one replied. 
 
 136 
 
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