O > 
 
 
 -•^^ *'o, , 
 
 ^^^ ... ^i. ■'-' J" %_^^, 
 
 
 * • o r^ C\* « • ♦ . <r^-v \*^ •»» ^ 
 
 .1°^ 
 
 
 -. -^o V' 
 
 .^" . 
 
 
 
/ ro 
 
TURQUOISE AND IRON 
 
 LIONEL JOSAPHARE 
 
 3 3 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 1902 
 
The UllRARY OF 
 
 Two Cowea Received 
 
 DEC. 10 1901 
 
 CePVRIOHT ENTRY 
 
 CLASS QyKXo. No. 
 a % ^ •'■"^ 
 
 COPY a. 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1901 
 A. M. ROBERTSON 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall 
 
 The Murdoch Press 
 San Francisco 
 
TURQUOISE AND IRON 
 
 The innocently asure skies allure, 
 Like turquoise hopes above an iron world. 
 
 In happy passion or in mood obscure. 
 
 The innocently azure skies allure. 
 
 But, oh, when toiling toward a vision pure, 
 The beaten body to the earth is hurled, 
 
 The innocently azure skies allure, 
 Like turquoise hopes above an iron world. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE WINGED HEART II 
 
 THE STATUE 35 
 
 THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 49 
 
 THE SPLENDID EARTH 63 
 
 YEARS 73 
 
 THE LIPS OF EVOLUTION 79 
 
 FAITH 81 
 
 HALF-PAST ELEVEN 85 
 
 BALLADE OF THE NATURAL HEART 86 
 
 ONE OF THE WICKED , . . . 88 
 
 MADELINE 90 
 
 THE SUICIDE 91 
 
 METEMPSYCHOSIS 92 
 
 THE heart's ELECTION 93 
 
 HER BEAUTY 94 
 
 SORROW 95 
 
 TO A WITTY LADY 96 
 
 THE FLEETING DEER 97 
 
 THE INTRUDING MEMORY 98 
 
 GUILTLESS 99 
 
 TO MY INK-WELL lOO 
 
 TO A CERTAIN POET lOI 
 
 THE FABLE I02 
 
 TO THEE 103 
 
THE WINGED HEART 
 
THE WINGED HEART 
 
 Haii._, thou, my far-flying heart, 
 
 That, with rapid wings apart, 
 
 Upward, without cause or care, 
 Beatest the last possible desires of everlasting air. 
 
 Hail, thou, wildly winging heart, 
 Wheresoever, 'midst the stars or wet by falling clouds, 
 thou art. 
 
 Downward to my vacant breast, 
 
 Come, and know me for thy nest. 
 Folded be thy wings and dreams, and long be thy 
 unruffled rest. 
 
 ir 
 
^8^ ^ingeti H^tatt 
 
 Softly fare thou, bleeding- ace ; 
 Turn, O, turn the somber lace 
 Of thy wings, thine aching wings, 
 From the hues and heights of Heaven and from 
 Heaven's cloudy springs. 
 Slant away from that blue space, 
 And the complicated highway to the leaden earth 
 retrace. 
 Many a heart of mickle worth, 
 Through the firmamental girth 
 Pierces, breaks a wing 'gainst Heaven's gate and flut- 
 ters back to earth. 
 
 12 
 
^Se flfllmgeti ^tatt 
 
 It was when the tinctured rose 
 'Gan unfurl its folios 
 And the earth was pinkly laden, 
 Was enamored and enameled with the petals, that a 
 maiden 
 Stepped aworld and did compose 
 Weird laments and fancy lyrics of the grief that over- 
 flows. 
 She has worn the golden crown; 
 She has pulled the dim veil down ; 
 She has taken sighs from other hearts and wove them 
 in her gown. 
 
 13 
 
IB&e WLimzh ^eart 
 
 How essential were her ways! 
 How devout, how true her gaze — 
 She whom bygones now devour, 
 She who smiled when sad and did relinquish every 
 pleasant hour 
 With her lips glad in their praise 
 And her white hand slipping slowly, sadly out of yes- 
 terday's. 
 Over her, O heart-bruised heart. 
 With thy oozing wounds apart, 
 Spread thy crumpled, humbled wings and tell the white 
 face what thou art. 
 
 14 
 
%it dfllfngeti ^eatt 
 
 She has sailed from earthly piers — 
 
 She, the maid of shrewdest fears, 
 
 She, the frailest, palest virgin. 
 She, of all, the maiden only that was thy delightful 
 surgeon. 
 
 Healing all thy wounds and sears; 
 Pain departed then*as now the consolation disappears. 
 
 Maiden, mountain, storm and star 
 
 Death unmakes, but cannot mar 
 My heart's memory of this maid resplendent as a silver 
 bar. 
 
 15 
 
%ie mimtt^ ^tatt 
 
 Kisses were our marriage feast ; 
 
 Love, our witness ; God, our priest. 
 
 By the fervid exultation . 
 Of our answers understood we the divine interrogation. 
 
 Ah, the pain of love released! 
 She, for yielding woman's bounty, took my kisses and 
 deceased. 
 
 Nuptials thus by Heaven indorsed ; 
 
 By decree of Heaven divorced, 
 She is Heaven-cursed, they say, and flown remote, 
 alone, remorsed. 
 
 i6 
 
Wbe mimtn l^tatt 
 
 And the naked babe unled 
 Up the stair of Heaven can tread. 
 But upon that sacred way 
 Would the mourning mother falter ? Would she mount 
 or drop astray? 
 Could she touch that gateway dread? 
 Pleading to the awful Judge, " God, I have suffered ; I 
 have bled." 
 Could she, having trod the way? 
 Could she even find the way — 
 From those weighty shadows rise and lift her heart 
 along the way? 
 
 17 
 
'JtSt aaiittfftti t^eatt 
 
 Vile heart, seek her out below, 
 
 Where, in some bleak portico, 
 
 Wails she and the darkness clips, 
 Beauteous as when in lifetime all the sun shone on her 
 lips. 
 
 Pierce down to the blackest flow — 
 To the curling of the fogs of inextinguishable woe. 
 
 Thou wilt find her own heart riven 
 
 And with iron sorrows driven — 
 Iron nails of iron sorrow by my hand to her heart given. 
 
 i8 
 
de (Ifllinged I&eatt 
 
 Thou wilt know her by the grieving 
 Of her martyred eyes retrieving 
 All the petals of her sorrows ; 
 Yearning over yesterdays and mourning mutely o'er 
 tomorrows. 
 And a smile her face receiving 
 Will be sunken in those sorrows that are in her bosom 
 heaving, 
 Like a sunbeam on the ocean, 
 Pleasing it with gilded motion. 
 While the shadow- jungles under are as black as Hell's 
 devotion. 
 
 19 
 
%it Mingeli l^eatt 
 
 Like a battle long ago, 
 Pale blue shadows on the snow 
 Stagger, and the dim brigade 
 Soon are blackened shadows only on the snows of azure 
 laid. 
 Many deaths the shadows know. 
 Rung out by the bells of churches and by sorrow sobs 
 below. 
 Bells, shake out your iron flowers, 
 Rubbing, chiming from the towers. 
 Let your black, melodious blossoms float about these 
 dismal bowers. 
 
 20 
 
^^t aoimgeti ^tatt 
 
 No, heart, start not for below. 
 O heart, up to Heaven go. 
 As the sacred zephyrs go, 
 Take thy course and thy attainment ; start not for the 
 gloom below. 
 Through the turquoise Heaven go. 
 Follow not with rushing dim winds to the buried" 
 caves below. 
 Sigh with sigh and woe by woe, 
 With thy pale companion go. 
 Mingle with seraphic music, not with rumblings from 
 below. 
 
 21 
 
%it mimtn ^eatt 
 
 With each airy Alp accrued, 
 
 Summit of thy strength renewed; 
 
 Fearing that thy flight is ending, 
 In the ashen, fading distance, still assailing, still as- 
 cending. 
 
 Now the feeble winds elude. 
 Glory in the joy of thy accumulated altitude. 
 
 Fadeless are those holy sights; 
 
 Shining are the angel flights ; 
 Gleaming are the pearly cupolas and castellated heights. 
 
 22 
 
^it dfllmgen ^tati 
 
 O'er that crystal palisade, 
 Now thy lighted wings persuade; 
 Touch the flashes of the domes 
 Of that grand and gilded city flashing with angelic 
 homes. 
 Look for her once was a maid : 
 Gaze at every blue-eyed face among the silver wings 
 arrayed. 
 Balanced be thy hearty beam 
 As, beyond that realm supreme, 
 Thou declinest, for its frescoes are the tarnish of a 
 dream. 
 
 23 
 
^it mimth n^tatt 
 
 Yet, like falcon, ere he swoops, 
 
 Mount above the shining groups, 
 
 And thy valiant blood reveal — 
 Plunge as if thy weight were oaken and thy wings were 
 strips of steel. 
 
 Where the western heaven droops, 
 Dive diagonally hellward, past the sailing of the sloops, 
 
 Past the shadow winds unfurled, 
 
 Where the faulty souls are hurled. 
 To the basal everglades beneath the casters of the 
 world. 
 
 24 
 
%it mimtt} !^eatt 
 
 Outside, on the frozen sod, 
 Falls the snow, where she once trod. 
 Inside, gazing o'er the sea, 
 Sit I, and the freezing snowflakes pelt my frozen 
 memory. 
 And I think it oddly odd 
 That where she and I delighted, I without her still 
 should plod. 
 And these frozen pains are more 
 Than my spirit ever bore; 
 Still the lapping, lapping waters are forever on the 
 shore. 
 
 25 
 
%it mimtri ^eatt 
 
 Still the living, living soul 
 
 Pines within its human hole. 
 
 And, without the boldened knife, 
 Sits that hideous, tortured thing, that tortured cripple, 
 human life. 
 
 T is a serpent's fangy jole, 
 And the foldings of its tail still in the cursed future roll. 
 
 And here seek I to explain 
 
 Why my haunted crisscross brain 
 In this manor should be dwelling while my heart flies 
 in the rain. 
 
 26 
 
%^t WLimtt} l^eatt 
 
 Why postpone the deathly end, 
 
 That must come ? Or why offend 
 
 That sweet maid for vile tomorrows ? 
 "Why sit 'midst this doleful, dirgeful consultation of 
 my sorrows? 
 
 Why not with immortals blend, 
 Challenge Heaven with the deed and on the wings of 
 death extend — 
 
 To that black and purple reef 
 
 Where repineth my heart's chief, 
 Where her violet apparel is the vapor of her grief. 
 
 27 
 
%it dflKttffen leart 
 
 Heart, thou weary-winged wight, 
 
 Regulate thy wreathy flight, 
 
 Where the lowest spirits crawl — 
 Crouch and crawl the humblest shadows, in their 
 creepholes by the wall. 
 
 Draw thy dingy wings tonight 
 Over every cave and distance in the tenor of thy might. 
 
 And, within a saintly glow, 
 
 Where the ranting horrors go. 
 In a mist of palest purple find the partner of my woe. 
 
 28 
 
%it Wiimt^ J^tatt 
 
 Where the falling stars recover 
 Breath, like any fallen lover, 
 Where the hellish doors are slammed — 
 There, along the dismal bottoms, drag the anchors of 
 the damned. 
 But, there also angels hover; 
 As in Heaven once they shone, shine about her and 
 above her. 
 You will know her by the care 
 Of these angels in the air. 
 They have come to her all holy, and her exile they 
 will share. 
 
 29 
 
^^t Wimtti ^tatt 
 
 Soft, I hear the angels speaking; 
 
 Fires the blackened sky are streaking; 
 
 There 's a death-wreath on my floor. 
 Death is with his reckless knuckles rattling on my 
 lockless door. 
 
 Ghosts their ghastly mates are seeking. 
 Frantic with their messages, are wires from Heaven 
 windily shrieking. 
 
 Death is dunning me and knows 
 
 What a mortal always owes. 
 I submit my soul to glory and my castle to the snows. 
 
 30 
 
^6e mimtn i^tatt 
 
 Heart, ere yet the morning ray 
 
 Shouts another hateful day, 
 
 Take me on my last career. 
 For your coming I am waiting but not hesitating here. 
 
 Soon your winging ends for aye ; 
 Lift, heart, lift, ah lift thy lagging plumes and show thy 
 breast the way. 
 
 To that sunless haunted shore 
 
 Once again your strength implore; 
 Think of her there and, as fast as I can follow, fly 
 before. 
 
 31 
 
THE STATUE 
 
THE STATUE 
 
 I. Dissatisfaction 
 
 Hacked into human shape, the shapely stone 
 Was now a woman, rigid, cold and bright. 
 
 In loveliness alone. 
 
 There lived my blows in white; 
 There stood the noble work to beauty worn 
 By the black chisel out of iron bom; 
 Stood there, ah, stood there once, in marble grace, 
 Until, with eyes to grand perfection sworn, 
 I found a vague defect upon the face. 
 
 And scarcely was the foam 
 Of inspiration dry upon my lips. 
 
 Began my hands to roam 
 
 On more ecstatic trips 
 About that quarried woman, who should seem, 
 
 When all should have been done, 
 
 The thought with which she was begun, — 
 Immortal product of a mortal's dream. 
 
 35 
 
^8e fbtatm 
 
 To be admired 
 By men inspired, 
 By men of art required, 
 By men of Heaven hired 
 To teach the soul to speak. 
 Then lifted I my human hands, to soothe 
 
 Or save or seek 
 A more fanatic beauty on the cheek 
 
 Of her so smooth — 
 An indefinable ideal define. 
 
 And make her seem divine. 
 
 II. The Greater Effort 
 At once the bruising workmanship renewing. 
 Here I a turning took, a slow curve bended. 
 With vim, the marble-meated virgin hewing, 
 
 Full wistfully I blended — 
 
 Proudly did glorify — 
 What was a smile with what (if stone could breathe) 
 
 Would have been thought a sigh. 
 High did my steamy inspiration seethe 
 
 And low fell I: 
 A rap, a scrape, a spark, a flint — O, curses ! 
 
 36 
 
%it fetatue 
 
 That iron should be sharp and beauty soft ! 
 My heart squeezed gloomily; my hopes, in hearses, 
 Were dragged, oh, not aloft. 
 
 III. Destruction 
 
 That lily-limbed embodiment of balms, 
 How it arose of rock, so slow in making. 
 Implored with fury, solemnized with psalms. 
 
 And yet so fast in breaking! 
 Once more I malleted the stone to form 
 
 Without a flaw ; 
 But smaller now within a whitened storm 
 Of chips, that image took the chisel's law. 
 And then awhile subliming its perfection, 
 
 I fractured it again. 
 Again I wrought the image's correction, 
 
 And cracked it then. 
 Another smaller effigy then froze 
 
 Within the flinty snows. 
 Tottered, survived the torment of my blows. 
 
 And lovely was as when 
 Its larger beauty on my sight arose. 
 
 37 
 
^it statue 
 
 But slighter, shorter, frailer 'neath my knock, 
 Still beautiful, but still with some new fault, 
 Appeared that cold, incorrigible rock 
 
 My knife could not exalt. 
 Erelong my sweating fancy found my lips 
 Bemoaning the remaining stock, 
 A fund of rubbish, wanton mess of chips 
 
 In the infernal gloom : 
 There was no room 
 
 Behind the broken lock. 
 
 IV. The Song 
 Then she who was the pattern of that stone 
 
 Came forth and spake 
 To me whose grisly, greedy sorrow, thrown 
 Upon the floor, lay there in beauty's sake. 
 Sweet were her words, and when those words went 
 
 wrong. 
 Sweetly her voice consoled me with a song. 
 Her notes were like the liquid moonlight there 
 
 Upon my woe. 
 Or like a flock of holy doves that bear 
 Their whiteness to and fro. 
 
 38 
 
%it statue 
 
 Soft as from dell remote 
 The consolation from her cordial throat! — 
 The vocal joy of multiple rejoicing, 
 The voluble delight of rapid voicing. 
 
 Up, up the romping scale 
 
 The choral notes prevail 
 In rivers of immaculate libation, 
 In channels of melodious undulation. 
 The room and I, with her own voice propelled, 
 
 Through earth and air extended ; 
 And like a boat with onward prow unquelled, 
 
 Glided when she had ended. 
 
 V. Conscience 
 
 On, on, on, on, thou spectral touch of song ! 
 
 That grievous tune prolong ; 
 Prolong thy dull, deluding arms, 
 That give their opium and white illusions. 
 No ; no ; we pause, and thy fallacious charms 
 Hold me no more within their mock seclusions. 
 
 39 
 
%it statue 
 
 Away ! Awake ! 
 No more that wistful, dreamy sing-song shake ; 
 No more of that false-eyed, adulterous art ; 
 No more the poppy, musk and incense warm 
 
 From thy exhaling swarm 
 Of ravishments to lull me and impart 
 This honeysuckle fragrance to the veins 
 
 Entwined about my heart. 
 O, cease, thou ; I would rather bear my pains ; 
 Thy solace is another form of grieving. 
 A finer anguish dims thy finer strains ; 
 
 And music is deceiving. 
 O, come no more with philterous relieving, 
 For thou, like steamy air on hot-house flowers- 
 For thou, like amber rains and scented showers- 
 For thou, like infant in the milky bowers 
 
 Of tender mother-breast. 
 Art rich in something not quite manifest. 
 
 40 
 
Ufie statue 
 
 O, thou canst warm our love to its confessing ; 
 And thou canst Hft the soul that is unblessed ; 
 
 But canst not give a blessing 
 That will forever keep the heart at rest, 
 Untaunted with thy all-too-short caressing. 
 
 VI. Regret 
 
 And then my patience burst. 
 
 As then my blood reversed, 
 Encountering the fainting brain pell-mell : 
 
 I groped as one accursed — 
 From Heaven flung to Hell and then by Hell 
 
 Damned lower still, 
 For letting sorrow listen to that knell, 
 
 That woman's thrill, 
 When I had battered beauty to the ground 
 And then, to reconcile the deed so ill, 
 
 Had hearkened to a sound. 
 As if a song could trill divine absolving 
 
 And the forgiveness mild 
 To him, who in a raving art revolving, 
 
 Murdered his chisel's child. 
 
 Stained with regret, and wild, 
 
 My self myself reviled. 
 
 41 
 
%it statue 
 
 And thus bereft, 
 And suffering in every wayward cleft 
 Of thought and gloom, 
 I left the room. 
 
 VII. The CathedraIv Organ 
 
 The huge cathedral was at prayer that night; 
 The sacred ceiling spoke of Heaven's might. 
 
 Rained on with light, 
 Devoutly down the velvet-padded aisle. 
 
 Assailed with terrors vile, 
 That flapped their flimsy wings in awkward flight 
 
 For many a crowded mile, 
 I strode, and, near the organ, sat contrite. 
 Another caliber of music shot 
 Upon my melody-tormented ears. 
 Appalled me deeply where the song had not 
 
 And seemed to shake the tears. 
 Cohorts of chords from some abysm profound, 
 
 The holy air bestrid. 
 
 Then as if backward bid. 
 Terrific tubes of smashing music did 
 
 Infest the air with sound. 
 
 42 
 
%it statue 
 
 Shout, shriek, stop and advance and upward, ho ; 
 
 Rear notes the fore did shove. 
 
 And all were souls escaped below 
 
 To shout the joy above. 
 Then suddenly demoralized, they fell 
 
 All disarrayed, 
 With little stops and many a frightened yell, 
 
 As if they were afraid. 
 But all these warrior notes returned with whom 
 
 Could in their ranks find room; 
 All had survived complete annihilations. 
 Born with a burst a breath before their doom, 
 Came out with steel and gold, strength, pomp and 
 plume. 
 
 And decked with vines of variations. 
 Music is joy; 
 A single note is joy, because it lives 
 On air that one proud living moment gives : 
 
 A moment will destroy. 
 
 43 
 
%it statue 
 
 VIII. The Invisible IdeaIv 
 
 Once more away ! 
 No more, with gaudy sound, my soul betray ; 
 No sound shall kiss or kill my sin today. 
 
 My obstinate regret 
 
 Still does desire to fret. 
 Music with it provokes a gentle fray 
 
 That makes the soul forget. 
 It tells the soul that sorrow is no debt ; 
 With sound for prayer, the soul forgets to pray. 
 Thereat, again I found myself at home ; 
 
 The singer sang no more, 
 But told me not to let my fancy roam 
 
 Beyond the human door. 
 She told me Heaven has no bluer skies. 
 
 No gladder golden floor, 
 Than I may see with still my earthly eyes, 
 
 And might have seen before. 
 
 But oh, while we are learning 
 
 The meaning of our yearning, 
 Who has not wept while Heaven did refute 
 His statue's claim to godly attribute? 
 
 44 
 
%it statue 
 
 Since not with entire godliness 
 
 Did God the human visage knock, 
 
 Can human hammers, thinking to excess, 
 
 Inscribe upon a rock 
 Divinity which they do not possess 
 Within their own diviner God-made stock ? 
 
 IX. The Kiss 
 
 Oh, no, — she said, she who had lately sung — 
 With fertilizing grief thou art combined, 
 
 And thence thy vision sprung. 
 With too much world our faces are unkind ; 
 Art is the countenance of a lovely mind. 
 And thy courageous mind hath wildly hung 
 To Heaven's ever-swinging chandelier. 
 But now from it are thy poor fingers wrung. 
 
 And thou art here. 
 Yet be not vexed nor lonely in thy heart : 
 
 45 
 
^6e fbtatut 
 
 Thy soul is not the mutilated stone ; 
 Stronger than it and statelier thou art; 
 Thy efforts grander than a world of art. 
 
 Thou dost not grieve alone. 
 With that, she kissed me, and her lips expressed 
 A thrill of life with love and beauty blessed. 
 
 More queenly than all art 
 Beseeched by us of incense-bearing heart — 
 More true than melody from holy throat — 
 More holy than the organ's aching note — 
 
 Sweeter than musky roses — 
 More sweet than the dew that on them reposes — 
 Sweeter by far than the droj) that escapes 
 
 Out of a bale of roses — 
 More sweet than summer shades or pulp of grapes — 
 Sweet past the sweetness of reward of toil 
 At evening hour when limbs and cares uncoil — 
 Sweeter than stillness when sweet airs embay 
 The zephyrs that from thinking souls take way — 
 Sweeter and greater than the praise of men — 
 Greater and sweeter than the grief's uplifting when 
 The grief is tender, are — come, love, thy lips again. 
 
 46 
 
THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 
 
THE ENCHANTED NIGHT 
 
 Bring these things to me : 
 Opals and tuberoses. 
 
 For we cannot flee 
 From the evil that the villain gem encloses 
 Nor the life-exhausting odors that the flower composes. 
 
 Purple, crimson flowers 
 
 Tell of nimble joys 
 In celestial bowers — 
 Fields and grand abodes inhabited by boys, 
 Who, with darling folly, dance among their changing 
 toys. 
 
 Flowers falsely painted ! 
 Wanton is their dress ; 
 
 Lewdly are they tainted. 
 For, the pretty happiness which they profess 
 Is a circumstance of glory I do not possess. 
 
 49 
 
%it (CncSanteti3il^(ff6t 
 
 Bring me, sitting lonely, 
 Flowers that like souls 
 Live by moonlight only. 
 Lifting moonlit faces out of coffin-holes, 
 Where the air with hurting knells and ghastly odor 
 tolls. 
 
 For tonight I sicken, 
 Since I am alone; 
 And my pulses thicken 
 When I tell my Sorrow you are not my own : 
 You, my pale and golden queen, are absent from my 
 throne. 
 
 Come tonight, for you 
 
 May not keep me long. 
 Years are short and few : 
 As we vaguely twist them. Fate may tie them wrong. 
 Or the brow-bound singer, pausing, may forget his 
 song. 
 
 50 
 
%it2€nt^anttKBiQit 
 
 When you sit compiling 
 
 Memories and tears, 
 You may ask one smiling 
 Moment from the snowfall of the deep-laid years, 
 Or one song request from Time when Time no longer 
 hears. 
 
 Come, then, live this year. 
 
 In it we shall crush 
 All that we revere. 
 While the cheek of Life is not too dry to blush. 
 Let our blushes warm the summer till our Time says 
 " hush ! " 
 
 We shall use them all, 
 
 All these, rich years hence; 
 But like opal small, 
 
 They will flash, when squeezed with love and vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 To one youthful year, one gem of lifelong recompense. 
 
 51 
 
^it (CncSanteti Mi^U 
 
 In this gem of time, 
 We shall live excess; 
 
 And this year sublime. 
 Like a hand of meek and tender holiness, 
 Will be laid on other years as one year's long caress. 
 
 In the bath of dawn, 
 
 Let our loves immerse — 
 Up and down and drawn 
 Crosswise each way through the clanging universe — 
 While the good ones bless and while opposing sinners 
 curse. 
 
 ! Love me sometimes dimly. 
 
 As in twilight's peace. 
 Love me often grimly. 
 As when Honor frowns or feasting friends decrease. 
 Love my sorrows too; and love me though my love 
 
 should cease. 
 
 52 
 
mt enclianttti Mi^U 
 
 Sometimes Pleasure works 
 Over ugly metals. 
 
 Sometimes comfort lurks 
 Where but few can find it. So shall we pick nettles 
 Sometimes, while near by, a disregarded rose unpetals. 
 
 Clutch me in your love 
 When the vulture's aim, 
 
 In the airs above, 
 With its frenzy greater than its feathered frame. 
 Like a moth, unwittingly attacks the noonday flame. 
 
 And forget me not 
 
 When the night-birds fly 
 Through the haunted grot. 
 When the satin moon is in the sapphire sky. 
 And the nightingale makes Heaven's waiting harps 
 reply. 
 
 53 
 
W^it (EncSanted ilJirtt 
 
 With your perfume-sated, 
 
 Carnal lips apart — 
 Sweet, ensanguinated 
 Lips — what nymphlike rose's deeply bleeding heart 
 Have you kissed and kept the crimson for a worthier 
 art? 
 
 As the spear-and-shielded 
 
 Pagan loves his mate. 
 As love-psalms are wielded 
 From the trembling throats of maids immaculate, 
 I would love and give both loves a wealth of equal 
 weight. 
 
 Be the weak deer's throat 
 For my tiger jaws. 
 
 In my great arms float 
 As on high-tide rivers flutter little straws. 
 Be the fainting culprit in my unrelenting laws. 
 
 54 
 
Wbt CncfianttD jRigSt 
 
 Be a tuberose pale, 
 
 Deathlike but not dead. 
 
 Odors chaste exhale — 
 Odors that, with sweetest poisons, rock the head. 
 Yes ; to me your fragrant neck is like a flower-bed. 
 
 O, that odor sending 
 Out the soul of flowers ! 
 
 I voluptuous, bending 
 Over it, remain with sense unfilled for hours ; 
 And that fragile odor my poor frenzy fain devours. 
 
 Kneel with me low kneeling 
 In my robes of prayer. 
 
 Hear me in the pealing 
 Of the sacred bells in the incarnate air. 
 Love me in the spirit-wounds tormented by Despair. 
 
 55 
 
^it (Enc6anteti jRijj&t 
 
 See me in earth's mud 
 And the crystal skies. 
 
 Love me when my blood 
 Lavishes itself and chokes the timid sighs 
 Of my pallid conscience when my pallid conscience dies. 
 
 There are things I dream 
 That I dare not live ; 
 
 Deeds I would redeem 
 From these visions. But what can repentance give 
 To the mind that daily grows to dreams more sensitive. 
 
 Sacredly your gleaming 
 Topaz hair today 
 
 Came to me here dreaming, 
 Lit the ceilings of my dreams and passed away — 
 Passed that weird illumination of a weird survey. 
 
 56 
 
^8e (KncSanted jRigSt 
 
 When the blue-edged cloud 
 
 Fades in sky-blue fires, 
 Summer sings out loud — 
 When, through open pores, the scarlet rose perspires, 
 You will find me breathing with the summer's dull 
 desires. 
 
 Bow your head and enter 
 The invisible doors. 
 
 Breathe with me the center 
 Of the gilded summer. Tread the love-worn floors. 
 See the golden happiness crushed from its earthy ores. 
 
 Dance with tiptoe Pleasures. 
 Excellently tread 
 
 Fairy-chanted measures. 
 Wake the morning-glory ; put the moon to bed. 
 Spill the yellow powder from the poppy's drowsy head. 
 
 57 
 
^Se (Encfianteb MiQit 
 
 O, that we could name 
 What we cannot see ! 
 
 O, to put the blame 
 On some evil, slipping, incompleted key 
 That unlocks our pleasure at the next to last degree. 
 
 Something ever slips 
 
 From the well-read story ; 
 
 Something's damning lips 
 And its limbs, with frost of human hopes made hoary, 
 Lie between and let no man lie close enough to glory. 
 
 Therefore, dance no more, 
 
 Queer-souled queen, nor smile. 
 Stand where clouds restore 
 Dignity and shadow down the forest aisle. 
 Let me think devoutly how my queen should look 
 awhile. 
 
 58 
 
'atSe (EncSanUH jl^irtt 
 
 Stand with stubborn eyes. 
 Droop your lips grown pale. 
 
 Let the frowns disguise 
 Those devoted features, where the splendors fail, 
 Daring while they feel the rumblings of a tragic tale. 
 
 In the darkness, faintly 
 
 Bound with gleaming white — 
 Roses deathly, saindy — 
 Still you linger, visible and living quite. 
 Still are there : upon you, pallid wreaths ; around you, 
 night. 
 
 But, sweet shade, who are you ? 
 
 Eyes, I know you not ; 
 Nor do know how far you 
 Came from danger-dreams or memories forgot — 
 Came from dreams or life, desire, dead love, regret, or 
 what. 
 
 59 
 
THE SPLENDID EARTH 
 
THE SPLENDID EARTH 
 
 The gloomy spirit of expiring day 
 
 Walked on the waters to the purple hills ; 
 
 Deserted Heaven locked its portals gray, 
 
 As twilight flowed through Fancy's water-mills. 
 
 Distinctly on the heavy-silver sky, 
 
 An eagle, seemingly forsaken, crawled. 
 
 Soft airs implored the echoes to reply, 
 
 And tinkling waves to one another called. 
 
 Its love the heart relinquished with a sigh 
 Unto the murmurs of the moving bay. 
 
 A magic ship, as daylight shades went by. 
 Went somewhere too, on linen wings away. 
 
 That sigh which love of beauty did impart 
 
 Was like the day's when day, with tiring breath. 
 
 And in the arms of twilight and her heart. 
 Succumbed alive in ecstasies of death. 
 
 63 
 
^Je SpIenHin Carts 
 
 But, oh, ye lovers of complexion chaste, 
 Ye flashing hearts with idols fair and golden, 
 
 Ye arms adoring Art's camellia waist, — 
 
 Your lives are young ; but earth is young and olden. 
 
 Our planet reeling through the universe 
 
 Carries no more divinity than duty; 
 But man, through lifetime reeling toward his hearse. 
 
 Sings of himself in terms of passing beauty. 
 
 You bid your masters of the song to send 
 
 Their souls into the stars; the light, the chimes, 
 
 The bliss, the perfume of the spheres to blend 
 Within the rapture of their tipsy rhymes. 
 
 The poet lauds the rainbow, when the rains 
 Have swilled the pools about his murky feet. 
 
 When evil breezes turn our weather-vanes. 
 He gives his harp to zephyrs more discreet. 
 
 64 
 
^Je &plmli(ti (Cattfi 
 
 Some lowly prayer his tearful Muse could help; 
 
 Assailed by shrieks in misery begot, 
 He leaves the shanty and the beggar's whelp 
 
 And sings to angels who require him not. 
 
 A lofty bard once tuned his instrument 
 Below the scale ; was honored for his lays ; 
 
 But was, when some recalled the fame they lent, 
 By them disliked for taking too much praise. 
 
 Manned with a sweet-haired Bacchanalian crew, 
 
 The ship of poetry blows gently on 
 To pleasant isles and mornings hung with dew 
 
 And bHssful hopes of dewier morns anon. 
 
 Yet sunny flowers, daytimes of delight. 
 Virgins and Venuses, desires remote. 
 
 Wine, war and music, praises of the night. 
 Are not the total throbs of Passion's throat. 
 
 65 
 
%it &plen&iti (EattJ 
 
 Full are her sobs, her melody as deep, 
 
 The aspiration of her song as high. 
 When some uneasy pauper goes to sleep 
 
 As when a sacred pageant passes by. 
 
 As pure the voice, though gloomier the note, 
 
 That sings of them who, wrapped in rotting rags, 
 
 Befoul the streets, from shade to shadow float. 
 Profusions of bent wretches, hobbling hags. 
 
 So thought the twilight pausing on the pier. 
 Even unwary how the thought began; 
 
 Therewith observed one, who had ventured near. 
 In mossy tatters, standing like a man. 
 
 He was a man, soothfast, for that his jaw 
 Was not the joint of any other kind; 
 
 There, too, his eyes, forever groping, saw 
 No bottom in the darkness of his mind. 
 
 66 
 
^It &plentifti Cattfi 
 
 Insipidly, with rancid lips, he browsed 
 The sweets of evening air. From bed unclean. 
 
 Him, some belated sunbeam had aroused 
 To curse the wanton beauty of the scene. 
 
 What meaning have the colors of the rose, 
 
 The width of wave and all the shapes of cloud, 
 
 Around the groveling of such as those 
 Who are the poisons in the mixing crowd ? 
 
 No self-excited poem with a crown 
 
 That makes it queenliest of the vanished years, 
 Can, with soft fingers, loosen Sorrow's gown 
 
 Or make the heart of Pity bulge with tears. 
 
 The sandalwoods and musks of sentiment, 
 
 Grotesque inaccuracies of desire. 
 Supernal praise of subter-brutish bent. 
 
 Can vaunt, but move no angel to admire. 
 
 67 
 
'atfie &plentiiti (Eattfi 
 
 pTom human misery there winds a strain : 
 
 Like spiral or like spirit it can touch 
 And feel the finer forms who know its pain, 
 
 Its grief divine, its beauty lacking much. 
 
 No lust can, like a sinner uncaressed, 
 
 Sail with the soul upon a fall of tears. 
 The little thorn that pricked a maiden's breast, 
 
 More than the park of roses pink, endears. 
 
 Still on the wharf the rogue perused the waves. 
 
 Shifted his wracking skeleton awry, 
 And read the rolling headstones of their graves 
 
 Who yet below the half-seen grasses lie. 
 
 His lifelong woe gazed on the water's woe. 
 
 And haply thought, should he fall from the shore, 
 
 His grief would melt with all the seas that flow, 
 Nor make the burden of the ocean more. 
 
 68 
 
^Se &plenditr (EattS 
 
 He was not sanctified by heavens gray; 
 
 For him no mate or friend of hand came home; 
 His breast ne'er moved with what he could not say 
 
 Of marble or medallion out of Rome. 
 
 Love could not lure, nor danger make him bold, 
 Nor music still his hunger with refrains ; 
 
 No trees of twisted emerald and gold 
 
 Could press the stupors in his leaden veins. 
 
 The light on heaven or the shaking tree. 
 Cathedrals dark with ivy of the ages, 
 
 The swoons of love, exertions of the sea. 
 Were not the pictures of his inner pages. 
 
 He stares upon the nectars of the bay. 
 And it becomes thereat a poison-bath ; 
 
 Leans out and stares and breathes and moves away 
 And stares but sees no vision in his path. 
 
 69 
 
^6e g)plentiiti C^artli 
 
 Not lifelike is he, but is yet alive ; 
 
 The laws of God are asking for his death. 
 With each drawn air his lips and eyes revive; 
 
 His life is but the wagging of his breath. 
 
 No hindrance give unto his leaving feet, 
 
 Nor make philosophy upon his trail. 
 When he is gone the day will be complete 
 
 And baby stars play over twilight pale. 
 
 So too may pass the glamour of a song 
 
 That calls for revelry where mourners dwell, 
 
 And seem, like that poor mortal thing gone wrong, 
 A mildewed statue groping back to Hell. 
 
 70 
 
SHORTER POEMS 
 
YEARS 
 
 In wayward forgetfulness only, 
 
 One night when the winds were fast, 
 
 I unlocked an old cellar, where, sadly, 
 I rummaged the trunks of the past. 
 
 J found many things of no value, 
 
 Many things that I should not have kept ; 
 
 But I found the veil of a woman, 
 And found I had heedlessly wept. 
 
 Not for those who might question or judge me, 
 
 Nor for any to understand. 
 Nor for any to read and to love me. 
 
 Nor for any to reprimand. 
 
 But for me and the sake of a memory 
 Of her for whose heart I once planned, 
 
 I trailed the black wine o 'er the parchment. 
 And wrote in a desolate hand : 
 
 73 
 
^tat0 
 
 We were lost in a sorrow peculiar, 
 
 In the streets of a city of woe ; 
 And we walked up the hills to the starlight, 
 
 And my heart was a wandering woe. 
 
 We strayed by a lighted cathedral, 
 
 Whose windows were painted and long. 
 
 1 loved all the saints on the windows, 
 But my heart knew a saintlier song. 
 
 I was youthful and mad and desirous. 
 
 At the perilous age of a boy, 
 When he feels the first man in his bosom 
 
 And his heart is a clangor of joy. 
 
 And while all of the bells in his bosom 
 Are ringing, he does not know 
 
 That through all of his heaven the rapture 
 Is rung by the weight of his woe. 
 
 74 
 
9ear0 
 
 And she was the older and wiser, 
 
 And she looked when she would not say — 
 Looked low in the heavens with languor 
 
 Of eyes that were shaded and gray. 
 
 And we said our conspiracy lowly, 
 While all of the stars were in tune, 
 
 As they flashed the soft news of our loving 
 To the eyes of the curious moon. 
 
 I was lost in my heroine's tresses 
 
 Festooned on her forehead with grace ; 
 
 Yet, leaving the shade of the tresses, 
 Was perplexed by the light on her face. 
 
 Then a mist lowered sadly around us, 
 With the luster of stars in the air. 
 
 And settled like stars on her tresses, 
 Or clusters of grapes on her hair 
 
 75 
 
9^ar0 
 
 I feared we might come, even slowly, 
 
 To the end of our walk too soon 
 To fill my delight with the beauty 
 
 Of her hands that were white as the moon. 
 
 We passed by the umbrage of branches. 
 
 And over my wishes there stole 
 The sanctified odor of jasmine 
 
 As the jasmine discovered my soul. 
 
 The scent of the jasmine went upward 
 
 To mix with the magic of June, 
 And an innocent cloud became drunken 
 
 And reeled from the arms of the moon. 
 
 Then we stopped, for the moon seemed unconscious. 
 Like a corpse that was floating in light, 
 
 With its necklace of pearls trailing earthward — 
 Or a lily afloat on the night. 
 
 76 
 
geat0 
 
 Bewildered, we turned, and she, sighing, 
 Beheld me with glimmering eyes ; 
 
 For, though wrapped in the raiment of fashion. 
 She was human as deep as her sighs. 
 
 In a moment, the million stars flickered. 
 Their places were sooty and still. 
 
 A tempestuous current had whirled them 
 From their places now somber and chill. 
 
 That heavenly anarchy frightened 
 The earth and my tremulous bride. 
 
 When I looked for her features, they vanished. 
 And the night airs remained by my side. 
 
 What use to describe the black tragedy 
 That perhaps was not meant for tears ? 
 
 The crime of our parting was Nature's ; 
 And the criminal instrument, years. 
 
 77 
 
^tat^ 
 
 It may have been death or divergence 
 That solicits me nov;^ for these tears. 
 
 Yet it seems that the only disaster 
 That caused her departure, was years. 
 
 78 
 
THE LIPS OF EVOLUTION 
 
 What is that color on your lips revealing 
 Itself? 'T is red, if I know red. But red 
 Is only color. What quick fiend was dealing 
 With your emotions when those tints o' erspread 
 Your pretty lips like robins coming to be fed? 
 
 Why should your blood with all its meaning blush ? — 
 When your wild nature Science has defended 
 And says that, foot for hoof and tooth for tush, 
 And your slim waist of bulky flanks amended, 
 You are, with modern brutes, from ancient things 
 descended. 
 
 And women who are proud within their homes 
 Can argue more but prove not one cur less 
 Behind them, of the yelping pack that roams 
 Through their ancestral shades, while we caress 
 The lithe and hairless arm half-draped in modem dress. 
 
 79 
 
CSe Eip0 0t (EtJoItttion 
 
 Of lives long since devoured we cliew the cud, 
 I know. But where have you the beast's remains ? 
 The baggage of what brute is in your blood 
 And borne along the railway of your veins, 
 That you should have the blush that to your lip attains ? 
 
 Is that swift color on your lips a sin ? 
 Or is it kindly put there for my part — 
 A red light signaling the wrecks within, 
 Or just a business of the sweets that start 
 And travel outward from the depot of your heart? 
 
 There may be some vile evidence on you 
 Which Time has not been able to dispel. 
 But when to your teased lips the tincture flew, 
 No scientist with playmate lips could tell 
 We rose from howling beasts or all from angels fell. 
 
 80 
 
FAITH 
 
 Forgetful child of all-remembering Death, 
 
 Where is the comrade of the little tryst, 
 
 Your life ? Are you contentedly assured 
 
 The soul of you will blush again when you 
 
 Are deep in death, that you should make of life 
 
 A cemetery of unsocial neighbors ? 
 
 A silent soul is reaching for your hand ; 
 
 And you are waiting for his hand to hold 
 
 Upon your heart, and nominate him friend ; 
 
 To do so with no tremor of suspicion 
 
 Or cynical reserve. While crabbed Death 
 
 Is busy with accounts and scrutinizes 
 
 Our lives, that none may linger very long 
 
 To his foul credit overdue, oh you. 
 
 To whom, by grace of loving accident. 
 
 Is given here a snatch of years, half bad 
 
 Before enjoyed — how often have you flung 
 
 Both arms about your shrine, with sentiment? — 
 
 And said : I do believe in this and, with it. 
 
 My faith will, cheek to cheek, engage, and here 
 
 8i 
 
JFaitJ 
 
 I shall not shame to weep the wines of love 
 Crushed from the snowy grapes of all that I 
 Think best in me. 
 
 Who has not vainly wished for things possessed 
 In him ? Who sees no mountains in his soul 
 Unclimbed by his own limbs ? What lips have not 
 Demanded more than they have given, knowing 
 Not why? Does any trembling heart know why 
 Its longing is unfilled ? Or make itself 
 An humble bridge whereon another heart 
 May venture ? Say, if, answering, some heart 
 Should howl a No from here to the round moon, 
 Would that long word not be the silver truth ? 
 
 Each man withholds some measure of his love : 
 Leaves one branch of the chandelier unlit : 
 One room within the mansion leaves unfurnished : 
 The poet does not tell of all he knows : 
 The singer keeps the sweetest song unsung : 
 Virtue will not uncover Beauty's bosom : 
 For all withhold their best. At the cold bottom 
 
 82 
 
iFaitJ 
 
 Of the heart's deepest well, there lies a drop 
 Of blood — a lovelier and redder drop 
 Than ever drawn with buckets of mistrust. 
 All-conquering faith can get this love's best drop, 
 And faith is in your own drop of this kind, 
 That each with each full willing to exchange 
 And each of each demanding to be given, 
 And each to each refusing to begin, — 
 The drop lies cold, and curdles with old age. 
 We are afraid to love too hard. We fear 
 Devotion may provoke the other's pride. 
 Some v/oman, stern betwixt a coronet 
 And throne, may take our simple courtesy 
 With regal eye. Some frail bisque maid 
 May take our passion's best in coquetry ; 
 Or Selfishness make hay beneath our sun. 
 So fails the force of love. There is no soul 
 Whose crystal has no spot of jealousy : 
 Whose lovelight has no blemish of suspicion. 
 So, too, no woman loves with lyric passion 
 The chanting heart unharmonized with doubt. 
 
 83 
 
JFaitH 
 
 But were there faith, and faith of such a kind 
 As Heaven favors and the Fates applaud, 
 A faith clear as the love it asks, the Owner 
 Could use it as a starry wand. He could 
 Enslave the hands wherever he should fancy 
 To drop upon his knee. For such is faith. 
 
HALF-PAST ELEVEN 
 
 Discussing love and friendship, late at night, 
 We sat beyond the lamp, whose covered light 
 
 Tinged us more tenderly than clearly. 
 
 Her eyes demure on mine shone dearly, 
 .For her emotion made them damp and bright. 
 
 As deviously as the bees in flight, 
 We stole the sweetest thought from every height^ 
 For we were not in love, but merely 
 Discussing love and friendship. 
 
 Not many days in Time's ambrosial sight 
 Our voices had been mixing. Such our plight, 
 
 Though loving not, knew not how nearly 
 
 While sadly, idly, but sincerely 
 Discussing love and friendship. 
 
 85 
 
BALLADE OF THE NATURAL HEART 
 
 To me it seems a glory to excel 
 
 Where nature placed the honor long ago. 
 And I prefer the nut with hardest shell. 
 
 The bread I eat I ask be made of dough. 
 
 The purest white is all I ask of snow. 
 And diamonds I ask in all my rings. 
 
 All honor to the rivers when they flow ! 
 I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 
 
 When all is duly done, I feel quite well. 
 
 Therefore I like my wagon-wheels to go. 
 Lines may be straight and not be parallel. 
 
 I want my oars about me when I row. 
 
 Indeed^ I yearn to pay the debts I owe. 
 And I respect the little bee that stings, 
 
 Aspiring not to say "Yes," meaning " No." 
 I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 
 
 86 
 
^Ballatie ot tSe il^atutal l^tatt 
 
 I wish to say "Ah ! " when a rose I smell ; 
 
 And when I make my finger bleed, scream " Oh ! ' 
 For what is pain without the right to yell ? 
 
 Why have I tears if not to wet my woe ? 
 
 I like all things to do the best they know, 
 If but a leech and faithfully it clings. 
 
 There 's beauty in the peacock and the crow. 
 I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 
 
 ENVOY. 
 
 Prince, bring me*not bouquets where flowers grow. 
 
 On beggars I want rags ; crowns on my kings. 
 I love to see the peasant use his hoe. 
 
 I claim the real, old, rigid rule of things. 
 
 87 
 
ONE OF THE WICKED 
 
 At a ghastly flame, where the coals were gold, 
 
 He tempered his dull-red heart. 
 With a grisly hold on his heart, he sold 
 
 Its blood for his leading part. 
 
 He gave his heart for these golden coals. 
 
 And he gave without a groan. 
 He filled up holes with other men's souls 
 
 And rammed them down with his own. 
 
 He fed the fat of his friends with fat, 
 And they drank of his foaming wine. 
 
 A child he begat, and he buried the brat 
 When his sins were ready to dine. 
 
 88 
 
flDne Dt tit dfllicfteti 
 
 But he starved the bones of his men who dug 
 His wealth from the Poor Man's hand : 
 
 While many his thug Death snatched for a plug 
 For the graves of the Rich Man's land. 
 
 The hunger of mothers he took for a jest ; 
 
 He laughed when the Poor Man cried. 
 During life he was blessed with a wealth of the best 
 
 But they damned him when he died. 
 
 89 
 
MADELINE 
 
 Madeline, maiden of dreams, 
 Pale is the face of the moon, 
 
 What dost thou think of its beams ? 
 
 What is that message that seems 
 Music of mystical tune ? 
 
 Phantoms and pearls from its gleams 
 Over the garden are strewn — 
 Pearls in thy moonlight of June, 
 
 Madeline. 
 
 Maiden, — with many weird themes 
 Moonlight in summer night teems. 
 
 Out of this moonlight are hewn 
 Bodies of intricate schemes, 
 
 Dreams that thou dreamest too soon, 
 
 Madeline. 
 
 90 
 
THE SUICIDE 
 
 She seems a form created for the bards. 
 
 Low is her brow, but high the well-kept hair. 
 With saintly eyes that know the Devil's cards, 
 
 She gazes in a glass ; and, half aware 
 
 Of her reflection, watching dimly there, 
 She sees her death; but death she disregards. 
 
 Light as a swan, she moves, that even air 
 The gentle motion of her frame retards. 
 She opens now a case ; consults a dial, 
 
 And satisfies herself it is the time. 
 Out of a drawer takes a poison-vial. 
 
 Without a sigh or omen of the crime. 
 For she was one who lit her lamp at noon 
 And loved the dayHght of an evil moon. 
 
 91 
 
METEMPSYCHOSIS 
 
 When I was duchess of a rich domain 
 
 And you, a powdered page below my throne — 
 When I, a cloud, across the sky was blown, 
 
 And you were lover in a garden lane — 
 
 When I was queen and you, within my reign. 
 Were supplicant with plaint of humble tone — 
 When I a willow was, by river grown, 
 
 And you, a fish, did in my shade remain, 
 
 You sometimes upward looked and you seemed grateful 
 To me who stretched the favor o 'er your head. 
 
 I saw no glance of anger fierce and hateful 
 Upon your brow to civil manner bred. 
 
 Mow I, a fish, you ply me with a hook 
 
 Caught in my mouth, and wrench me from my brook. 
 
 92 
 
THE HEART'S ELECTION 
 
 If your heart's government were made by vote, 
 And voters were the crowding drops of blood, 
 
 Each with a willful franchise to denote 
 The ruler of thyself, as fast they scud 
 Upon the pulse, how would the blushing flood 
 
 The nomination of my suit promote? 
 
 Would they elect my name with every thud 
 Of the exulting heart? Or would they float 
 
 Sometimes dividedly, with other names — 
 
 Some drops for me and some for my rejection? 
 
 Oh, tell me they will rush with loud acclaims 
 And make me hero of their red election. 
 
 Tell me their vote is, and their animus. 
 
 With every beat, for me unanimous. 
 
 93 
 
HER BEAUTY 
 
 The substance of her beauty ! Can I tell ? 
 
 Shall I describe a thing without a name ? 
 
 The most religious words I have would maim 
 Her elegance, that shone forth to dispel 
 The airs before, as music from a bell. 
 
 Her beauty was the tenure of a frame 
 
 Soft as the drooping-tuHp ; 't was the claim 
 That earth makes now and then for those who dwell 
 Beneath the circuit of the sun's reflection. 
 
 That they may gaze upon a human psalm • 
 And call the music of its form perfection. 
 
 Her beauty was devout ; and, though 't was calm. 
 'T was almost audible ; but low. And she 
 Walked o 'er the earth as in a minor key. 
 
 94 
 
SORROW 
 
 Nine webs of straggling rivers wrap our earth 
 And, with intent the oceans to dilute, 
 Their frayed ends to the oceans contribute. 
 
 But their few glossy ripples are the mirth 
 
 Of foam-besprent Old Ocean. Nothing worth 
 Are their few quarts, and nothing constitute 
 Their wholesome pourings, though they prosecute 
 
 The rotund ocean from its poles to girth. 
 
 So do the streams of joy around me pour. 
 Endeavoring my sorrow to abate, 
 
 That, like the ocean, is too salt a shore. 
 To sweeten with such mild adulterate ; 
 
 But takes the many rivers for its fare 
 
 And still is green and bitter everywhere. 
 
 95 
 
TO A WITTY LADY 
 
 You are not beautiful. Unlike the spring, 
 
 You come not wrapped in flowers pink and sunny. 
 
 Sometimes, alas, on mortgages and money 
 Your thoughts embrace — and many a bonded thing. 
 And zounds, great dame ! your lofty wit doth wring 
 
 The noses of all men and make us funny. 
 Sometimes your language savors of sweet honey ; 
 Sometimes your honey savors of a sting. 
 And yet, I 'd ask it all : your rapid-firing eyes. 
 
 Your hasty brain, your heart well-timed and slow, 
 Your Hps, where satire sits and fancy lies, 
 
 Your hair piled up on many pins below, — 
 But that I fear your sin your wit provokes 
 To make my sins pincushions for your jokes. 
 
THE FLEETING DEER 
 
 Prithee, why run before me, foolish deer? 
 
 Gone on your limbs full strong though seeming frail, 
 And hoofs with hoofs contending in your fear, 
 
 You dash into the distance and thence fail 
 
 From weary sight. Amazement, in your trail. 
 Knows not how far what lately was so near. 
 
 Timidly as a virgin takes the veil, 
 You take the valley in your fright sincere. 
 I did not mean to frighten you from play. 
 
 Nor harm you, zephyr-limbed one. Why abhor 
 Me ? Have you seen me ever ? Why away 
 
 Before me, whom you ne'er looked on before? 
 Is 't through your ancestors some hunter's yell 
 Remembering, you fear all men ? Farewell ! 
 
 97 
 
THE INTRUDING MEMORY 
 
 What ! Comest thou again, O memory vile ? 
 
 'T was thou that shot'st across my troubled thought. 
 Wherefore again to flit and ban awhile 
 
 Along these rooky timbers? No wish brought 
 
 Thee here. What art thou in my castle caught ? 
 If ghost, begone ; depart thee many a mile. 
 
 If healthy thing, be feared to stay for naught. 
 I let thee weep, but sanction not thy smile. 
 Listen ! and, while my frightened heart I prop, 
 
 Depart, and ever from this realm abstain. ' 
 Unbreathing substance, from my eyelids drop, 
 
 Find thy way out ; grope not about my brain. 
 Begone, with all the agonies that ail thee, 
 Or, ghastly shape, I banish, I exhale thee. 
 
 98 
 
GUILTLESS 
 
 If there were twenty suns upon the sky, 
 
 Yea, more, and millions more ; in sooth, were there 
 As many suns as stars, all plastered where 
 The lonesome discus now outstares the eye. 
 And could our human sight the blaze defy 
 And look upon the incandescent air 
 As now we see beneath the single glare 
 Of what we have there shining, — then would I,- 
 Then would I fling my heart into the light 
 
 And, being there, would say to ye around : 
 Read ye the crime : declaim the wrong and right, 
 
 Wherever right be seen or vv^rong be found. 
 And if the sight a single crime reveals. 
 Crush ye the heart beneath your vengeful heels. 
 
 99 
 
TO MY INK-WELL 
 
 Thou blotty bottle, bottle stained and grim, 
 
 Thou imp, thou gnome, a moody friend art thou. 
 And yet thyself I would not trade, I vow, 
 
 For golden ink-decanter with a rim 
 
 Of pearls and decorations wreathed and slim. 
 Now tell me, ugly boy with inky brow. 
 Of some unwritten thoughts, which you allow 
 
 To dream awhile within your tranquil brim. 
 
 How many black imaginings are there 
 Waiting to crawl out for my livelihood ? 
 
 Phantasmas, whims, a poet's morbid ware, 
 
 Capricious thoughts, perhaps misunderstood? — 
 
 All liquid yet and blended in their well ; 
 
 Some will be born ; how many, who can tell ? 
 
TO A CERTAIN POET 
 
 The sow, her snout upheaving from the mire, 
 
 Can smell the approaching breeze. 'T is well ! But 
 whose 
 And where 's the fiery nostril can acquire 
 
 Opinion of the future? — if its news 
 
 Ever blows out beforetimes to amuse 
 Or make a disappointment of desire. 
 
 How fares his fame with famous retinues ? 
 Will it on wings of purple flame aspire ? 
 An illustration of the heaven its fire ? 
 
 Or weary sparkle, crawling like a fuse ? 
 How will the minions of the Mint admire 
 
 What does the color of their gold accuse ? 
 
 And, each to each's Hking, will it use 
 
 Astronomers to stare or bugs peruse ? 
 
 lOI 
 
THE FABLE 
 
 They told me it is fable ; that it blew 
 
 With uncredentialed winds from olden time. 
 Still seemed it that, with sentiment sublime, 
 
 This fiction made the truthful seem untrue. 
 
 They said it is a shadow of the few 
 Left by a fervid sun in fervid clime — 
 The sun of myth is censured with the crime, 
 
 When leaving us, of leaving shadows too. 
 
 Long was the night when, to the night's long woe, 
 This tale came up the back-stairs of my heart. 
 
 It would not answer questions, nor would go ; 
 And I would not command it to depart. 
 
 I will not with the clever crowds applaud 
 
 Who question beauty while they deal in fraud. 
 
 I02 
 
TO THEE 
 
 Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow ; 
 
 But hark, thou, to the grief-imprisoned song ; 
 Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 
 
 With weighty passions, quick words do not go ; 
 Great love is like a silence, grim and strong ; 
 Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 
 
 About my gloomy head thy light arms throw ; 
 
 Bear with the frowns that to my love belong 
 Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 
 
 On my heart pattereth my love, like snow. 
 
 That works no sound upon a belfry's gong. 
 Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 
 
 103 
 
%o %itt 
 
 Forgive these lips that when they speak, speak low : 
 They do not charge the guilty earth with wrong. 
 Forgive the mute camellia for its woe. 
 
 I and that flower smile not to and fro. 
 
 Find us not in the jewels of the throng. 
 Forgive the mute camellia for its woe ; 
 Sweetheart, my lips with lyrics do not flow. 
 
 104 
 
(•^The Lion at the WeW^ 
 
 BY 
 
 LIONEL JOSAPHARE 
 
 i6mo. Bound in boards. 
 
 Price^ ^oc net 
 
 **The ideal of the poet seems not to have been the Greek con- 
 ception of the high-heroic temper of Herakles in his encounter 
 with the lion of Kithairon, or the weaponless Polydamos meeting 
 with physical prowess the lion of Mount Olympus. The book 
 illustrates the pitiful picture of want and fear in the presence of 
 force. It is famishing poverty at the gate of need, while the sup- 
 pliant imposes on himself the hard discipline of overcoming fear 
 by the strength of the spirit. The author has learned much of 
 the stalwart use of words, and has used them to express psychologi- 
 cal suggestions, although he uses rhyme with a reckless opulence 
 of curiously erratic method." — The Los Angeles Times, 
 
 •*A poem of which the theme is the gradual, physical and men- 
 tal exhaustion of a man in the presence of fear. It descants on 
 the beauty of terror, a singular expression of emotion. There is 
 no doubt of its earnestness or its strength, but it is rough and even 
 uncouth in a disdain of ordinary rules of poetic writing." 
 
 — Louisville Courier-yournal. 
 
 '* It is a pity that space lacks in which to quote from these 
 verses. They frequently touch a profundity of pathos hardly to be 
 described." — Neiv Orleans Picayune. 
 
 A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 
 
"California Violets'''' 
 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 GRACE HIBBARD 
 
 Price^ $l.OO net 
 
 Many of these verses have already appeared in vari- 
 ous periodicals and have been so well received that it 
 is thought advisable to publish them in this permanent 
 form. Although the verses are mostly in the minor 
 key, and contain the pathos that comes straight from 
 a heart that has felt great sorrow, there is sunshine 
 illumining every page. 
 
 A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 
 
"T'he Dead Calypso'''' 
 
 AND OTHER VERSES 
 
 BY 
 
 Louis A. Robertson 
 
 Five hundred copies printed, and type distributed. lamo. Cloth, 
 
 Frice^ $1.50 net 
 
 <*His verses show the hand of a man of great literary 
 attainments; a man whose mentality has been culti- 
 vated to the highest pitch, and yet whose soul is, and 
 ever has been, the soul of a born poet. In expression 
 and form Mr. Robertson's verses are in themselves 
 perfect; yet this mechanical excellence, if we may so 
 express it, attracts no attention to itself. The lines 
 run so smoothly and the thoughts are so beautifully ex- 
 pressed that it is the intent of the poetry and not its 
 form that makes the lasting impression on the reader's 
 mind." — The Call, San Francisco. 
 
 ''The book has fire and grit in it. It has also much 
 tenderness and sadness. It runs the gamut from the 
 most spiritual aspiration to the rage of desire defeated 
 in satiation. In the matter of form all the verses are 
 exquisitely done. In the matter of feeling the in- 
 tensity is poignant. Always the song has color to it, 
 has blood and bone and flesh and soul woven through 
 it. Mr. Robertson is a lover of the sonnet and his 
 book contains a dozen poems in that form that are ot 
 exquisite workmanship."— T'i'^ St. Louis Mirror. 
 
 A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 
 
''''Songs from Bohemia'*^ 
 
 BY 
 
 Daniel O'Connell 
 
 Edited by Ina D. Coolbrith, with a biographical sketch 
 by William Greer Harrison 
 
 One thousand copies printed and type distributed, 
 izmo. Bound in gray boards. 
 
 Price y $1.50 net 
 
 "All lovers of good fellowship will enjoy the collec- 
 tion of poems published under the title * Songs from 
 Bohemia,' for in the author, Daniel O'Connell, they 
 will find a kindred soul. Not the least interesting 
 part of the book is the biographical sketch of O'Con- 
 nell by William Greer Harrison, which precedes the 
 verses. Love of nature and love of life radiate from 
 the pen of one who drank deeply of both. The verses 
 embody gladsome lightness, tender regret, quiet happi- 
 ness and resignation." — The Boston Times. 
 
 **His poems are of surprising quality, and fill one 
 with shame that he knows so little of the poet, and 
 with wonder that the latter is not more of a familiar 
 figure in American letters. That he is no mere 
 versifier is evident from every page." 
 
 — The Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 A. M. Robertson : San Francisco 
 
''Idyls of El Dorado'^ 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES KEELER 
 
 Decorated with designs from the California wild flowers 
 by Louise Keeler. 
 
 l6mo. Bound in art boards. Limited edition. 
 
 Frice, - $i.2S 
 
 "They make tasteful books in San Francisco. * Idyls of El 
 Dorado,' by Charles Keeler, with its rubricated title-page, artistic 
 tail-pieces, and Japanesque cover-design is a fit setting for any poet's 
 rhymes. Mr. Keeler is deeply penetrated by the myths of his 
 adopted land and that strange spell she lays even upon the alien 
 spirit." — The Milwaukee Sentinel. 
 
 " Mr. Charles Keeler celebrates the grandeur and loveliness of 
 his surroundings. He sings to the ocean and the redwood-tree, to 
 the Alaskan glacier and the canyon severing the hill, to the dove 
 mourning and the flower found in the woods." — The Neiv Tork 
 Sun. 
 
 '*Mr. Keeler's verses have the real swing and rush indicating a 
 fullness and richness of thought sometimes difficult to limit and 
 condense by the rules of rhyme." — The Outlook. 
 
 A. M. Robertson : : San Francisco 
 
"A Season^ s Sowing'^ 
 
 CHARLES KEELER 
 
 Decorated by Louise Keeler. 
 Thin octavo. Bound in ornamental boards. 
 
 Price J - $1.2^ 
 
 **From far-off California comes a notable piece of ornamental 
 printing in 'A Season's Sowing.' 'Together have we toiled for 
 beauty's sake,' says the dedication, * and all our labor has not been 
 in vain.' It is by no means in vain." — The Philadelphia Times. 
 
 "The taste, the artistic sense and skill, the mechanical handi- 
 work embodied in this little book equal the best fruits of English 
 education. Nothing better of its kind has appeared within our 
 knowledge this season, and San Francisco may put another feather 
 in its publishing cap." — The Literary JVorld^ Boston. 
 
 ** Mr. Charles Keeler is a lover of Nature, and in the cheery 
 bits of song so quaintly framed in these decorated pages he gives 
 delicate expression to many a conceit suggested by birds, trees, 
 plants, flowers, and the play of sun and weather." — The Independ- 
 ent^ Neiv York. 
 
 "The designs are beautiful and striking. The verses, too, are 
 delightfully original. Each poem is only a paragraph long, and 
 with few exceptions each verse is a gem of thought. Some of the 
 poems are brief epigrams expressed in verse. It is seldom that so 
 much wit is embodied in verses that wear so uniformly serious an 
 aspect." — The Beacon^ Boston. 
 
 "Each of the short poems expresses a single thought, sometimes 
 a bit of homely wisdom, quaintly worded, sometimes a jubilant 
 assertion of the wider faith and its triumph. Many are calls for 
 truer courage and self-reliance, and express a firm assurance in the 
 possibilities opened to the strong, aspiring soul." — The Christian 
 Register^ Boston. 
 
 A. M. Robertson 
 
 San Francisco 
 

 /.c:^,"°o y*\.^>X /.-^.-^ ,. 
 
 
 
 
 HO*. 
 
 ' ^^'\ •■ 
 
 ■J-'^ . 
 
 
 ^°-^* 
 
 A <^ ' . . « 
 
 .^^-^ ^ 
 
 V-^'-/ \*^-^*y^* v^*-/ ^^^