-.i1 ■. 
 
 
ClassJ?.S2. 
 
 Book I J^^ 
 
 l^\ 
 
 Copyright l»j?. 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
POEMS OF SOPHIE JEWETT 
 
BY SOPHIE JEWETT 
 
 GOD'S TROUBADOUR. The Story 
 of Saint Francis of Assisi 
 
 8vo, cloth. By mail. $137 
 
 POEMS. Memorial Edition 
 
 1 2 mo, cloth. By mail, $1.37 
 
 THE PEARL 
 
 Student's Edition 
 
 l6mo, cloth. By mail, 45 cents 
 Holiday Edition 
 
 l2mo, cloth. By mail, $1.10 
 
 THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 SOPHIE JEWETT 
 
 u 
 
 MEMORIAL EDITION 
 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THOMAS V. CROWELL & CO. 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 

 Copyright, 1910, 
 By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co. 
 
 Published December, 19 10. 
 
 « ( 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 
 
 ©CI.A278i?6 
 
J BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 
 
 1^* ^ i ^HE poetry of Sophie Jewett is too wide 
 (X,' jL in its appeal to need interpretation 
 
 r through biography; and one would turn in 
 vain to the poems for a story of her life. 
 '^ Yet those who have felt the sway of her art 
 may well wish for a knowledge of her life 
 in its personal relations and surroundings; 
 and much of her own experience lies half- 
 hidden in the poems. The "little fountain 
 in the park" sings its "summer song" before 
 her girlhood home; in her "coign of vantage" 
 whence "wheatfield and pasture stretch in 
 sight" she spent many August hours; White 
 Head rises sheer from the waters of Casco Bay 
 on which she used to sail; and she heard "the 
 least of carols" among the "undrifted snows" 
 . of the Wellesley meadows. 
 
 Miss Jewett was born June 3, 1861, in 
 Moravia, a little town in the hilly lake coun- 
 try of central New York. Among the found- 
 ers of this village ip early pioneer days were 
 her grandfather, Deacon Josiah Jewett, and 
 her great-grandfather, Cotton Skinner, whose 
 daughter Sophia became the wife of Deacon 
 Jewett. The family are of old New England 
 
[vil 
 
 stock, descendants of Joseph Jewett who, 
 with two uncles, came to this country in 
 1638 and settled in Rowley, Massachusetts. 
 Her father, Dr. Charles Carroll Jewett, married 
 Ellen Ransom Burroughs, daughter of John S. 
 Ransom of Salem, Connecticut, and adopted 
 daughter of an uncle, Daniel Burroughs of 
 Buffalo, New York. 
 
 The family homestead, then known as 
 "Grey Cottage," lies in a spot of unusual 
 beauty, between orchard and garden, at the 
 foot of "West Hill." Miss Jewett's earliest 
 years were spent in this paradise for children, 
 and the vivid pleasure in earth and sky, in 
 woods and water, in bird notes and in growing 
 things, which permeates her poetry, had its 
 root in the outdoor delights of her childhood. 
 Her father's practice as a country physician ex- 
 tended over roads which climb and dip among 
 the hills, and on any long drive one of the chil- 
 dren usually bore him company, often this little 
 daughter. The children had a wide playground, 
 although its limits were clearly defined by the 
 tall old walnut tree at the end of the lane, 
 the great chestnut on the hillside, and the 
 hedge about the garden. In this old-fashioned 
 garden they made dolls of daffodils, poppies, 
 or pine-tassels; and, indeed, they here found 
 nearly all their playthings from the time of 
 crocuses until the bright leaves fell. The world 
 
[vli] 
 
 as they knew it was bounded by the circling 
 line of hills against the sky, a great world and 
 old, where things had happened long ago, 
 "when" as the wondering child used to say, 
 "I was a little thread of dust." When the 
 oldest of the three sisters began to study 
 geography the two younger ones laid out the 
 entire universe according to her instructions 
 with perfect satisfaction to themselves. One 
 of their plays was to journey to "the very 
 outside edge of the world," and to climb the 
 hedge which shut it in; on the world side 
 were green grass and flowers and sunshine, on 
 the outside darkness and tan bark — an image 
 of desolation suggested by a tan yard near 
 the village, the only spot in that fertile valley 
 where nothing could grow. The little poet, 
 the youngest of the three, more than half 
 believed in this and could see the picture 
 clearly in after years. Bedtime was marked 
 by the fireflies in the garden or the crows 
 wheeling about the top of the giant elm in 
 the meadow, "that hour when birds leave 
 song and children pray." 
 
 Sorrow came early to this home, and Dr. 
 Jewett, feeling life slipping from him while 
 his children were very young, took every care 
 to impress upon them not only high ideals 
 of conduct for their future guidance, but also 
 the value and the beauty of intellectual pur- 
 
I viii ] 
 
 suits, holding up as a model to his little daugh- 
 ters, after she was gone, their lovely and gifted 
 young mother. 
 
 Miss Jewett's parents remained always real 
 presences in her life and in the lives of those 
 nearest to her; and the culture, the courtesy, 
 the courage, and the devoutness of the parents 
 bore fruit in the life of the daughter. After 
 the death of Dr. Jewett, Buffalo became the 
 home of his children, three daughters and 
 a son. Miss Jewett's later childhood and girl- 
 hood were spent there, and there, in the home 
 of her brother, she died, October ii, 1909, 
 after a few weeks of illness. 
 
 In early girlhood she already showed an 
 alert mind and an eager desire for knowledge, 
 a desire which in no way interfered with her 
 enjoyment of lively diversions. Chief among 
 her teachers in school days was Mrs. Eliza- 
 beth A. Forbes, for many years preceptress 
 of the Buffalo Seminary. Much inspiration 
 and counsel came to her from her minister, 
 Dr. Wolcott Calkins, whose home in Buffalo, 
 and later in Newton, Massachusetts, she called 
 her "second home." She was the constant 
 comrade of his daughter from the time they 
 met as little girls, and their companioning 
 became a lifelong friendship. In the min- 
 ister's study the two children discussed grave 
 mysteries or bent together over books in 
 
[ix] 
 
 strange tongues, though ever ready to be lured 
 from the deep window seat to range the house 
 or to climb the church belfry. At home she 
 found delight in the poets, and essayists, and 
 historians of her father's library, old books 
 that stood on her shelves to the end. During 
 several years, in which she was not allowed to 
 use her eyes, the oldest sister made a practice 
 of reading aloud to her. The education thus 
 begun was throughout life gained for the most 
 part directly from books; in later years, from 
 the great libraries of London and Oxford, 
 Florence and Rome and Boston. Like a gen- 
 eral she planned her own campaigns of the 
 mind, and brought into her scholarship an in- 
 dividuality that does not belong to the wholly 
 school-made product. 
 
 The friends of her girlhood she steadfastly 
 cherished when time brought the separations 
 constraining them " to go diverging ways." 
 She was little more than twenty when first she 
 journeyed to England and Italy, an experi- 
 ence which gave new incentive to study and 
 filled her beauty-loving soul with new visions. 
 Many summers and two whole years she spent 
 in study and travel, the companion almost al- 
 ways of her artist sister. Her intimate knowl- 
 edge of Italian art, history, and literature was 
 nurtured by these sojourns in Italy, and many 
 poems as well as all the prose writings of 
 
[x] 
 
 the last ten years enshrine the country which 
 she loved. Chief of these prose writings is 
 "God's Troubadour," published in book form 
 in 1910, the story of Saint Francis, told for 
 children, in which the Little Poor Man lives his 
 life before us from his boyhood when he sings 
 "gay songs of love and war" to the day when 
 he dies, "worn and weak" yet "happy and 
 high-hearted." Notable among the shorter 
 papers are "The Lover of Trees in Italy," 
 published in 1903, in Scribner's Magazine, and 
 a sketch, "The Land of Lady Poverty," which 
 appeared in The Outlook in 1905. 
 
 In 1889, already a poet of distinct promise, 
 Miss Jewett came to Wellesley College as 
 instructor in English Literature, and in 1897 
 she was appointed associate professor. Be- 
 sides a course, carried for many years, in the 
 general history of English Literature, she 
 taught courses in Spenser, in the history and 
 structure of the ballad, and in the poetry of 
 the fourteenth and of the nineteenth cen- 
 turies. She concentrated her attention, in 
 the later years, on the three lines of work last 
 named; for, lover of modern poetry as she was, 
 she still firmly maintained the necessity of a 
 close knowledge of our early language and 
 literature. Her teaching was that of the critic 
 who is also the creator, of the scholar who is 
 also the artist. Her knowledge was both wide 
 
[xi] 
 
 and detailed, and her passion for truth made 
 her insistent in her search for fact and inexor- 
 able in her demand for accuracy. Thus, she 
 would spend many hours of many days over 
 one line of a ballad in a forgotten dialect, and 
 would move heaven and earth to discover the 
 force of an obscure word-ending. In the study 
 of the poets of reflection, particularly those 
 of the nineteenth century, she discussed with 
 her students the great problems of thought 
 and of life, with an understanding and an 
 insight bred of her philosophical reading and 
 of her own thinking. And always her teaching 
 was a revelation of beauty and a training in the 
 art of opening eye and ear. A true and vivid 
 impression of her is given in the words of one 
 of her students, now herself an instructor in 
 literature: "In the teaching of poetry Miss 
 Jewett was consummate. Her profound and 
 eager scholarship was unimpeachable. It was 
 because her facts were so sure a foundation 
 . . . that she was able to build for us a super- 
 structure at once so fair and so enduring. 
 Yet we were never permitted to mistake . . . 
 the history for the poetry. I shall never for- 
 get the gem-like radiance of 'The Pearl' as 
 that precious poem revealed shapes and hues 
 of beauty through her reading. . . . Miss 
 Jewett taught poetry more poetically than any 
 one else I ever knew." 
 
[xil] 
 
 She threw herself with enthusiasm into the 
 give-and-take of class discussion, and had an 
 ardent pleasure in the work of her students, 
 spending herself with lavish generosity on indi- 
 viduals. Yet she felt keenly the discourage- 
 ments of teaching. "It is quite impossible" 
 she said, "to fulfil one's human and professional 
 obligations even in a little world like mine.'* 
 She was vitally interested in her courses, and 
 devotedly loyal to department and to college; 
 and she drew courage, inspiration, and hap- 
 piness from the companionship of her fellow- 
 workers who were also her close friends. Of 
 her radiant hospitality, in these years of her 
 Wellesley life, many might bear witness: the 
 nuthatches and squirrels for whom she kept 
 open house at her window, the students to 
 whom, by her wood fire, she read Celtic lyrics 
 or Sicilian ballads or the prose of Pater, and the 
 guests who were stirred and quickened by the 
 conversation, grave and gay, of her dinner-table. 
 
 The literary fruits of Miss Jewett's teaching, 
 in addition to two detailed bibliographical and 
 topical Outlines for the use, primarily, of her 
 classes, are three: first, a critical edition, pub- 
 lished in 1901, of Tennyson's "The Holy 
 Grail," with an Introduction that makes care- 
 ful comparison of the modern poem with the 
 Perceval Romances and with the mediaeval 
 stories of the early history and quest of the 
 
[ xili ] 
 
 Grail; second, a translation, "such as only a 
 poets' poet could have made," in the compli- 
 cated original stanza, of the Middle English 
 poem, "The Pearl" ; and, third, a collection, 
 yet to be published, of ballads transcribed and 
 translated from many Romance languages and 
 dialects. 
 
 Her poems came first as swift visions, frag- 
 mentary or complete. Sometimes, alas, the 
 vision vanished beyond recovery; sometimes 
 she caught it in its fulness and translated it 
 into winged words; more often, words or lines 
 or stanzas would be lacking, and she would 
 search for them through patient days or 
 months, never content with anything less 
 than the right phrase, word, or metre. Most 
 of her poems were written and re-written in 
 many versions, differing often very little ex- 
 cept to her delicate ear and her keen sense. 
 A life so rich in interest, in feeling, and in friend- 
 ship was of necessity creative, though her 
 academic occupations and responsibilities some- 
 times checked the outflow of her poetry. In- 
 deed, she often referred laughingly to Lowell's 
 complaint of the distractions which teaching 
 brings to the poet, as if a brooding hen "should 
 have to mind the door bell." Yet the years 
 of teaching bore a golden harvest of poetry. 
 In 1896, she published the first collection of 
 her lyrics, "The Pilgrim and Other Poems," 
 
[xiv] 
 
 a volume dedicated to the beloved memory of 
 her brother-in-law, Dr. Henry Hastings Hunt. 
 She had before this published her poetry under 
 her mother's name, Ellen Burroughs, but "The 
 Pilgrim" appeared with her own name. Nine 
 years later, in 1905, a second collection was 
 made in the volume "Persephone and Other 
 Poems," issued by the Wellesley College De- 
 partment of English Literature for the college 
 library fund. 
 
 Miss Jewett remained always singularly shy 
 about her poetry and very self-critical. The 
 business of offering her verse to an editor was 
 always particularly distasteful, and she would 
 keep her poems in her desk for years before 
 sending them forth. "If you honestly would 
 not mind being post-ofhce for me," she wrote 
 to the friend whom she later called her "oldest 
 and faithfulest critic," "I will copy the poem 
 and send it to you." Even so mature and 
 perfect a poem as "The Pilgrim" reached the 
 publisher through this happy intermediary. 
 Nevertheless, she had always a sense of be- 
 longing to the great fellowship. Long ago she 
 sent to Richard Watson Gilder her poem in- 
 spired by his "New Day," and among her 
 papers was found his letter of acknowledg- 
 ment: "Tell Ellen Burroughs that one by her 
 called a poet declares that she is a true poet 
 and must not let her golden gift be lost." 
 
[XV ] 
 
 Miss Jewett's prose as well as her poetry 
 shows the strength of her imagination. "The 
 sunset glory of the Arno valley" (of which she 
 writes in "The Lover of Trees in Italy") 
 fairly smites our eyes, and we see "the fields 
 of rose-colored vetch and wine-dark clover, 
 of bright poppies and pale iris," past which she 
 drove "into a world where acacias in full 
 flower stood white among the cypresses." 
 This picture, intense in colour, is followed by 
 another of delicate and clear-cut form — a 
 picture of the "characteristic trees in Italy — 
 detached, sharply outlined, impressive from 
 loneliness and contrast." Her imagination 
 was at once "the bliss" and the torment of 
 her "solitude." With vivid fidelity she re- 
 called faces, figures, and voices; beauty once 
 seen was her inalienable possession. But in 
 equally unsparing detail of colour and form, of 
 human expression and impersonal ugliness, 
 she saw again squalor and sickness and suffer- 
 ing; and with unpitying accuracy her imagina- 
 tion made her the witness of the crimes and 
 catastrophes of which she read. She remem- 
 bered words as accurately as scenes. As she 
 talked, half-turning from her desk, or pausing 
 on a walk through the hilly wood-ways of 
 Wellesley to mark the tender spring tints of 
 the oak branches against the blue of the lake, 
 a rapturous line from Dante's "Paradise" or 
 
[xvl] 
 
 the refrain of a Chaucerian ballade would come 
 to her lips, adding beauty to the world without 
 and within. And to vision and memory she 
 added thought. Swiftly, sometimes, but more 
 often slowly and with careful consideration of 
 every step, she reached her intellectual con- 
 victions by the force of her thinking. Of 
 these results of her reasoning she often had a 
 characteristic distrust due to the peculiar 
 wideness of her intellectual sympathy, her 
 understanding of opinions which she did not 
 share, her ability to face problems from di- 
 vergent points of view. 
 
 All her critics have spoken of the many- 
 sidedness of her verse. But no mere reader of 
 the poems could guess at the richness of her 
 nature or divine the refreshing alternations of 
 mood and interest which all her friends so well 
 knew. Never poet could be on occasion more 
 prosaic; never idealist was so realistic; never 
 visionary was so prompt and business-like, and 
 utterly to be depended on in the ordering 
 of academic, social, and household detail. 
 Most of the prose sketches suggest the rich 
 and pathetic quality of her humour, but no 
 record could ever be preserved of her flashing 
 wit and her inimitable repartee. It is even 
 harder to convey by words the sense of her 
 bodily presence. There was something in her 
 aspect that drew the eyes and hearts of those 
 
[ xvii ] 
 
 who looked on her, something more than 
 beauty of feature, stately presence, or gracious 
 ways. One of her colleagues writes of "the 
 refreshment of that life-communicating beauty, 
 of that swift smile, that buoyant step," and 
 those who saw her daily would be the first to 
 say to the unknown friend "who never save 
 in fancy saw her face" that sight and intimate 
 acquaintance would have brought no disillu- 
 sion, and that the reality like the dream would 
 "set the heart aglow." 
 
 Sophie Jewett was, in truth, friend and com- 
 rade even more surely than poet and teacher. 
 Though delicately scrupulous never to disre- 
 gard "the quivering barrier line" of any soul, 
 she was divinely quick to respond to an appeal, 
 spoken or unspoken, for inspiration, counsel, or 
 help. People turned to her in practical per- 
 plexity, in moral struggle, and in personal need; 
 and her discernment, her wholesome strength, 
 her comprehension, and her faith did not fail 
 them. Her life centred in the tenderness and 
 passion of her sympathy which was as wide as 
 deep. She was touched not only by the griefs 
 and joys of those closest to her, and not only 
 by the needs of those with whom she came into 
 personal contact of helpfulness, — her mission 
 boys in the old Buffalo days, and, later, her 
 Italian friends in the North End of Boston, — 
 but by poverty and oppression, by sin and sor- 
 
[ xviii ] 
 
 row, everywhere. She bore in her heart the 
 suflferings of Russian prisoners in the fortress 
 of Peter and Paul, of refugees from the earth- 
 quake in Messina. For this outpouring of 
 sympathy she gladly paid the heavy price of 
 suffering which lost no pang for its vicarious- 
 ness. "I wish," she wrote, "that instead of 
 being so good to me God would be good to 
 some of the people who need." 
 
 Yet notwithstanding her sympathy with 
 suffering, in the face of physical pain gallantly 
 borne, and despite the constant dissatisfaction 
 with her work due to her unattainable ideal 
 of perfection, she knew the joy of living: the 
 outdoor world remained an ever-present source 
 of pleasure; her swift and keen humour was 
 the compensation for many ills, an alchemy 
 which transformed the trials and mischances 
 of everyday life; her happiness in friendship 
 was inexhaustible, not only her eager delight 
 in the gladness, in the achievement, of her 
 friends, but her pure joy in the loving inter- 
 course of spirit with spirit. Her hope was 
 deeply disciplined, and she distrusted all com- 
 placent and unheeding optimism: "It is," she 
 says, " as if I felt the pain of all the coming 
 years." But she was not, as she truly pro- 
 tested, "a pessimist. I begin to believe," she 
 added, "that sorrow is the one thing that does 
 not make people pessimistic." Her courage 
 
[xix] 
 
 and her faith were indeed deeply rooted. Sine 
 dolore non vivitur in amore, she quoted from 
 Thomas a Kempis, "and it is better, in spite 
 of the pain, so to live." None of the poems 
 more truly express her deepest self than the 
 poems of faith and of vision. For deeper than 
 her feeling of the beauty, the love, and the 
 misery of this world, underlying her experi- 
 ence of its separations, was her abiding con- 
 sciousness of unbroken communion and of 
 the endlessness of the life of the spirit. "I 
 am almost surprised" she wrote a long time 
 ago, "to find the distinctness in my mind of 
 the picture of the view from your windows. 
 I see the objects that you see, I almost feel the 
 air that you breathe. May it not be the same 
 in the spiritual things of our friendship.'' And 
 ... if the distances of earth are powerless to* 
 separate heart from heart, why should that little 
 space between this 'seen' and that 'unseen' 
 be impassable.''" Twenty years later she spoke 
 the same thought in words that are the posses- 
 sion of all who know and love her: — 
 
 " Yet, since I need nor touch nor sight 
 Nor spoken word, however dear, 
 To read your thought and will aright, 
 To know your spirit, now and here, 
 What has our fellowship to fear? " 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The poems indicated by a star (*) were first published 
 in "The Pilgrim and Other Poems" ; those marked by a 
 double star (**) first appeared in " Persephone and Other 
 Poems." 
 
 PORTRAIT; from a Photograph, 1889 Frontispiece 
 
 PACE 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION v 
 
 I. THE PILGRIM 3 
 
 The Century, 1894. 
 
 ,IL SONNETS: 
 
 The Soldier* 9 
 
 A Friendship 10 
 
 The Century, 1890 
 Separation 11 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1887 
 
 Absent* 12 
 
 Thus Far 13 
 
 The Overland Monthly, 1887 
 Thoughts 14 
 
 The Congregationalist, 1893 
 Christmas 15 
 
 The St. Louis Observer, 1893 
 
 Sidney Lanier* 16 
 
 Thamyris** 17 
 
 In Vita di Madonna Laura : XXII 
 
 {From the Italian of Petrarch) 18 
 
 xxi 
 
[ xxii ] 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Petition 19 
 
 Limitations 20 
 
 To Pain 21 
 
 To Catherine Breshkovsky 22 
 
 The Outlook, igoQ 
 
 III. RONDEAUS: 
 
 If Spirits Walk 25 
 
 The Century, i8qj 
 
 I SAW Love's Eyes* 26 
 
 Across the Fields * 27 
 
 I SPEAK Your Name* 28 
 
 MiGNONNE* 29 
 
 IV SONGS: 
 
 Armistice 33 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1892 
 
 EvEN-SONG* 34 
 
 Song: Thy Face I have seen .... 35 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1888 
 Song: O Love Thou art Winged and 
 
 Swift* 36 
 
 Song: I come across the Sea* .... 38 
 Song: Laughter that ringeth All Day 
 
 Long 39 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1887 
 
 Song: Lady Mine* 41 
 
 Songs from an Unprinted Poem:* 
 
 I. Hast seen the Blue Wave . . 42 
 
 II. O Day Thou art so Weary Long 43 
 
 Bud and Rose* • 44 
 
 A Winter Song* 45 
 
 To a Child 47 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1905 
 
 • A Song in Spring** 48 
 
 A Song in Summer** 49 
 
 With a Daffodil** 50 
 
[ xxiii ] 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song: My Heart is as a Still Grass- 
 hidden Nest 51 
 
 Scribner^s Magazine, 1904. 
 April {From the French of Remy Belleau) . 52 
 
 The Wellesley Magazine, iSg^ 
 Rudel's Song {From the French of Edmond 
 
 Rostand) 53 
 
 La Sireneta's Song {From the Italian of 
 
 Gabriele D'^nnunzio) 55 
 
 The Song of the Sun {From the Italian of 
 
 St. Francis of Assisi) 58 
 
 Nativity Song {Adapted from the Latin 
 
 of Jacopone da Todi) 60 
 
 The Least of Carols** 61 
 
 OTHER LYRICS: 
 
 t- When Beauty Dies 65 
 
 Harper'' s Magazine, 1904 
 
 Though Unseen* 67 
 
 Awakened 68 
 
 Harper's Magazine, IQ04. 
 
 Defeated 70 
 
 A Dream 71 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1888 
 
 Sleep* 72 
 
 Sangraal* 73 
 
 Gabriel* 74 
 
 Midwinter 76 
 
 The Century, igo2 
 Easter 77 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, IQOQ 
 
 In the Dark 78 
 
 Vision 79 
 
 Brief Life 80 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, IQ09 
 Of Transient Beauty 81 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1910 
 
[ xxiv ] 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Pompeii (Unfinished) 82 
 
 An Exile's Garden 83 
 
 From Over-sea* 84 
 
 Sunset on the Campagna** 86 
 
 Venice in April* 88 
 
 In Umbria** 91 
 
 White Head 94 
 
 The New England Magazine, iSgj 
 
 Vespers 97 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, i88g 
 
 In Harvest** 99 
 
 When Nature hath betrayed the 
 
 Heart that loved Her* 100 
 
 In April loi 
 
 The Wellesley Magazine, i8qs 
 
 Across the Border 102 
 
 The Century, 1903 
 
 February* 103 
 
 At Sea 104 
 
 The Wellesley Magazine, 1894. 
 
 A Land-wind* 105 
 
 The White Storm 106 
 
 River and Bird 108 
 
 The Christian Union, 1883 
 
 Destiny* no 
 
 The Congregationalist, 1893 
 
 A Journey ni 
 
 The Cosmopolitan, 1891 
 
 Ghosts* 113 
 
 Answered 114 
 
 The Watcher and the Wind* .... 115 
 
 A Smiling Demon of Notre Dame* . 116 
 
 Pan and Psyche* 117 
 
 The Madonna 118 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1888 
 
 Holy Earth** 120 
 
 A Greeting* 122 
 
[ XXV ] 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Communion* 124 
 
 Entre Nous* 125 
 
 Inscriptions: 126 
 
 I. In a Book of Old Songs 
 II. In a Book that You have Read 
 
 Scribner's Magazine, 1904 
 With a Copy of Wharton's " Sappho " ** 128 
 A Hearth-fire Verse 129 
 
 The Wellesley Magazine, igos 
 For a Birthday 130 
 
 The Wellesley Magazine, 1908 
 To 132 
 
 The Wellesley Prelude, 1889 
 
 Metempsychosis* 133 
 
 A Letter* 136 
 
 To-day's Daughter.* Written for the 
 Graduating Class at Smith College, 
 
 June, 1885 139 
 
 The Common Chord* 147 
 
 Sidney Lanier 149 
 
 The Literary World, 1890 
 
 To Richard Watson Gilder 151 
 
 To A Dead Poet 153 
 
 The Outlook, 1905 
 God and the Singer** 155 
 
 VI. THE SHEPHERDS i6i 
 
 The Churchman, 1906 
 
 VII. THE DWARF'S QUEST, a Ballad** . . 167 
 
 VIII. THE DAUGHTER OF JORIO, a Pas- 
 toral Tragedy {From the Italian 
 QJ Gabriele D' Annunzio, Unfinished) . . 179 
 
THE PILGRIM 
 
THE PILGRIM 
 
 "Such a palmer ne'er was scene, 
 Lesse Love himselfe had palmer beene." 
 
 Never too Late. 
 
 PILGRIM feet, pray whither bound? 
 Pilgrim eyes, pray whither bent? 
 Sandal-shod and travel-gowned^ 
 Lo, I seek the way they went 
 Late who passed toward Holy Land. 
 
 Pilgrim, it was long ago; 
 None remains who saw that band; 
 Grass and forest overgrow 
 Every path their footing wore. 
 Men are wise; they seek no more 
 Roads that lead to Holy Land. 
 
 Proud his look, as who should say: 
 / shall find where lies the way. 
 
 Pilgrim, thou art fair of face, 
 Staff and scrip are not for thee; 
 
 3 
 
[4] 
 
 Gentle pilgrim, of thy grace, 
 Leave thy quest, and bide with me. 
 Love shall serve thee, joy shall bless; 
 Thou wert made for tenderness: 
 God's green world is fair and sweet; 
 Not o'er sea and Eastern strand, 
 But where friend and lover meet 
 Lies the way to Holy Land. 
 
 Low his voice, his lashes wet: 
 One day if God will — not yet. 
 
 Pilgrim, pardon me and heed. 
 Men of old who took that way 
 Went for fame of goodly deed, 
 Or, if sooth the stories say, 
 Sandalled priest, or knight in selle, 
 Flying each in pain and hate. 
 Harassed by stout fiends of hell, 
 Sought his crime to expiate. 
 Prithee, Pilgrim, go not hence; 
 Clear thy brow, and white thy hand, 
 What shouldst thou with penitence.? 
 Wherefore seek to Holy Land.? 
 
 Stern the whisper on his lip: 
 Sin and shame are in my scrip. 
 
[5] 
 
 Pilgrim, pass, since it must be; 
 Take thy staff, and have thy will; 
 Prayer and love shall follow thee; 
 I will watch thee o'er the hill. 
 What thy fortune God doth know; 
 By what paths thy feet must go. 
 Far and dim the distance lies, 
 Yet my spirit prophesies: 
 Not in vigil lone and late, 
 Bowed upon the tropic sand, 
 But within the city gate, 
 In the struggle of the street. 
 Suddenly thine eyes shall meet 
 His whose look is Holy Land. 
 
 Smiled the pilgrim, sad and sage: 
 Long must be my pilgrimage, 
 
 1891 
 
SONNETS 
 
THE SOLDIER 
 
 "Non vi si pensa quanto sangue costa." 
 
 Paradiso XXIX. 91. ^ 
 
 THE soldier fought his battle silently. 
 Not his the strife that stays for set of sun; 
 
 It seemed this warfare never might be done; 
 
 Through glaring day and blinding night fought he. 
 There came no hand to help, no eye to see; 
 
 No herald's voice proclaimed the fight begun; 
 
 No trumpet, when the bitter field was won, 
 
 Sounded abroad the soldier's victory. 
 As if the struggle had been light, he went, 
 
 Gladly, life's common road a little space; 
 
 Nor any knew how his heart's blood was spent; 
 Yet there were some who after testified 
 
 They saw a glory grow upon his face; 
 
 And all men praised the soldier when he died. 
 
 1894 
 
[10] 
 
 A FRIENDSHIP 
 
 SMALL fellowship of daily commonplace 
 We hold together, dear, constrained to go 
 Diverging ways. Yet day by day I know 
 My life is sweeter for thy life's sweet grace; 
 
 And if we meet but for a moment's space. 
 
 Thy touch, thy word, sets all the world aglow. 
 Faith soars serener, haunting doubts shrink low, 
 Abashed before the sunshine of thy face. 
 
 Nor press of crowd, nor waste of distance serves 
 To part us. Every hush of evening brings 
 Some hint of thee, true-hearted friend of mine; 
 
 And as the farther planet thrills and swerves 
 
 When towards it through the darkness Saturn swings, 
 Even so my spirit feels the spell of thine. 
 
 1888 
 
[II] 
 
 SEPARATION 
 
 ALONG the Eastern shore the low waves creep, 
 Making a ceaseless music on the sand, 
 A song that gulls and curlews understand. 
 The lullaby that sings the day to sleep. 
 
 A thousand miles afar, the grim pines keep 
 Unending watch upon a shoreless land. 
 Yet through their tops, swept by some wizard hand, 
 The sound of surf comes singing up the steep. 
 
 Sweet, thou canst hear the tidal litany; 
 
 I, mid the pines land-wearied, may but dream 
 Of the far shore; but though the distance seem 
 
 Between us fixed, impassable, to me 
 
 Cometh thy soul's voice, chanting love's old theme, 
 And mine doth answer, as the pines the sea. 
 
 i88s 
 
[12] 
 
 ABSENT 
 
 MY friend, I need thee in good days or 111, 
 I need the counsel of thy larger thought; 
 And I would question all the year has brought — 
 What spoil of books, what victories of will; 
 
 But most I long for the old wordless thrill, 
 
 When on the shore, like children picture-taught, 
 We watched each miracle the sweet day wrought. 
 While the tide ebbed, and every wind was still. 
 
 Dear, let It be again as If we mused. 
 
 We two, with never need of spoken word 
 (While the sea's fingers twined among the dulse, 
 
 And gulls dipped near), our spirits seeming fused 
 In the great Life that quickens wave and bird, 
 Our hearts In happy rhythm with the world-pulse. 
 
 March 30, 1889 
 
[13] 
 
 THUS FAR 
 
 BECAUSE my life has lain so close to thine, 
 Because our hearts have kept a common beat, 
 Because thine eyes turned towards me frank and 
 
 sweet - 
 Reveal sometimes thine untold thoughts to mine, 
 
 Think not that I, by curious design. 
 Or over-step of too impetuous feet. 
 Could desecrate thy soul's supreme retreat, 
 Could disregard its quivering barrier-line. 
 
 Only a simple Levite, I, who stand 
 
 On the world's side of the most holy place, 
 Till, as the new day glorifies the east. 
 
 One come to lift the veil with reverent hand 
 And enter with thy soul's soul face to face, — 
 He whom thy God shall call to be high priest. 
 
 188} 
 
[14] 
 
 THOUGHTS 
 
 THE morning brought a stranger to my door. 
 I know not whence such feet as his may stray, 
 From what still heights, along what star-set way. 
 A child he seemed, yet my eyes fell before 
 
 His eyes Olympian. I did implore 
 Him enter, linger but one golden day 
 To bless my house. He passed, he might not stay, 
 And though I call with tears, he comes no more. 
 
 At noon there stole a beggar to my gate; 
 Of subtle tongue, the porter he beguiled. 
 His creeping, evil steps my house defiled. 
 
 I flung him scornful alms, I bade him straight 
 To leave me. Swift he clutched my fee and smiled, 
 Yet went not forth, nor goes, despite my hate. 
 
[15] 
 
 CHRISTMAS 
 
 THE Christmas bells ring discord overhead; 
 The Christmas lights flash cold across the snow; 
 The angel-song fell silent long ago; 
 Nor seer, nor silly shepherd comes, star-led, 
 
 To kneel to-night beside a baby's bed. 
 
 Peace is not yet, and wrong and want and woe 
 
 Cry in the city streets, and love is slow, 
 
 And sin is sleek and swift and housed and fed. 
 
 Dear Lord, our faith is faint, our hearts are sore; 
 Our prayers are as complaints, our songs as cries; 
 Fain would we hear the angel-voice once more, 
 
 And see the Star still lead along the skies; 
 Fain would, like sage and simple folk of yore, 
 Watch where the Christ-child smiles in Mary's eyes. 
 
[i6] 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 Died September 7, 1881 
 
 THE South wind brought a voice; was it of bird? 
 Or faint-blown reed ? or string that quivered 
 long? 
 
 A haunting voice that woke into a song 
 
 Sweet as a child's low laugh, or lover's word. 
 We listened idly till it grew and stirred 
 
 With throbbing chords of joy, of love, of wrong; 
 
 A mighty music, resonant and strong; 
 
 Our hearts beat higher for that voice far-heard. 
 The Southwind brought a shadow, purple-dim, 
 
 It swept across the warm smile of the sun ; 
 
 A sudden shiver passed on field and wave; 
 The grasses grieved along the river's brim. 
 
 We knew the voice was silent, the song done; 
 
 We knew the shadow smote across a grave. 
 
[17] 
 
 THAMYRIS 
 
 And they took from him his high gift of song, so that he forgo 
 his harping. — Iliad II. 
 
 OF Strong hands, as at first that hew and build; 
 Of evil hearts and brave that fight and slay; 
 Of feast and dance, birthday and marriage day; 
 Of passion, loss, and joy of love fulfilled 
 God's singers make sweet verse, and hearts song- 
 thrilled 
 Are keener set to suffer, strive, and play. 
 This poet, only, gives no heed alway, 
 Though earth with life be loud, with death be 
 stilled. 
 He strays, a shadow, wistful, through the land, 
 His eyes unseeing and his head uncrowned; 
 No song he makes of love, nor war, nor wine; 
 No hymn, no prayer; there comes no mastering 
 sound 
 From that sweet harp forgotten of his hand. 
 Left to the vagrant fingering of the vine. 
 
 1899 
 
[i8] 
 
 IN VITA DI MADONNA LAURA: XXII 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF PETRARCH 
 Solo e pensoso i piu deserti campi. 
 
 ALONE and thoughtful, some most desert field 
 I measure with reluctant steps and slow; 
 Or strive by shy, untrodden paths to go, 
 Watchful and fugitive. No other shield 
 
 Save flight I find, who fain would keep concealed 
 From the world's open scrutiny the glow 
 Beneath the ashes of my smile. I know 
 How lightly were my heart's red fire revealed. 
 
 I think that even hill and mountain peak. 
 River and forest know of what sad kind 
 Is this my hidden life; and yet I find 
 
 That, whatsoever steepest way I walk, 
 
 And wildest. Love himself that road will seek, 
 Always, and he and I together talk. 
 
[19] 
 
 A PETITION 
 
 WE looked to Joy as furrows to the sun 
 In sowing time. Of that relentless heat 
 
 That spares the blade to blast the ripened wheat 
 
 How should we know, with summer but begun? 
 We followed Joy, nor knew how swiftly run 
 
 The untraceable and unreturning feet. 
 
 That quest I have no courage to repeat; 
 
 I am content; I ask no grace save one: 
 Lord, I will bear my own heart's utmost pain; 
 
 I will go softly, with bent, humbled head; 
 
 I will not strive, nor cry, nor pray again, 
 If Thou wilt hear in this my need extreme. 
 
 Wilt give me once, give me though in a dream, 
 
 To see the eyes I love be comforted. 
 
 1896 
 
[20] 
 
 LIMITATIONS 
 
 GOD made man to be poet, priest and seer; 
 God sets no snare to wound the spirit's wing, 
 But yields His thought to our interpreting 
 In characters of sunlight, written clear; — 
 
 Nay more, who walks in densest shade may hear 
 From every rock the holy echoes ring, 
 May bend the knee where forest thrushes sing, 
 And know the Voice Eternal at his ear. 
 
 Truth yet diviner, deep within the mind — 
 His revelation since the world began — 
 Hath God denied not to His friend. But man 
 
 Fain gropes in dust the infinite to find. 
 Fain peers afar the immanent to scan. 
 Forgive him, Father, whom Thy light doth blind. 
 
[21] 
 
 TO PAIN 
 
 NOT by the minutes of thin torture spun, 
 Not by the nights whose hours halt and slip 
 back, 
 Not by the days when golden noon turns black 
 Hast thou dismayed me; but that, one by one, 
 
 Pale shadows pass me of my tasks undone. 
 
 While, like a victim loosed from wheel and rack. 
 With will unnerved, breath scant and sinew slack, 
 I droop, where glad folk labour in the sun. 
 
 And yet, O winged Inquisitor, return, 
 
 Stay, though I cringe and cry and plead for grace, 
 If thou hast more to teach, still would I learn; 
 
 I choose, even with faint heart and quivering lip. 
 Some place in the great, patient fellowship 
 Of those that know the light upon thy face. 
 
 1904 
 
[22] 
 
 TO CATHERINE BRESHKOVSKY 
 
 IN THE FORTRESS OF PETER AND PAUL 
 
 THE liberal summer wind and sky and sea, 
 For thy sake, narrow like a prison cell 
 About the wistful hearts that love thee well 
 And have no power to comfort nor set free. 
 
 They dare not ask what these hours mean to thee: 
 Delays and silences intolerable? 
 The joy that seemed so near, that soared, and fell, 
 Become a patient, tragic memory? 
 
 From prison, exile, age, thy gray eyes won 
 Their gladness. Mother, as of youth, and sun, 
 And love; and though thy hero heart, at length 
 
 Tortured past thought, break for thy children's tears, 
 Thy mortal weariness shall be their strength, 
 Thy martyred hope their vision through far years. 
 
 August, 1909 
 
RONDEAUS 
 
"IF SPIRITS WALK" 
 
 "I have heard (but not believed) the spirits of the dead 
 May walk again." 
 
 Winter's Tale. 
 
 IF spirits walk, Love, when the night climbs slow 
 The slant footpath where we were wont to go, 
 Be sure that I shall take the self-same way 
 To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray, 
 Sheer, gravelled slope, where vetches straggling grow. 
 
 Look for me not when gusts of winter blow. 
 When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow; 
 I would not come thy dear eyes to affray, 
 If spirits walk. 
 
 But when, in June, the pines are whispering low. 
 And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so 
 As some one's fingers once were used to play — 
 That hour when birds leave song, and children 
 pray, 
 Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know 
 If spirits walk. 
 
 25 
 
[26] 
 
 I SAW LOVE'S EYES 
 
 I SAW Love's eyes, I saw Love's crowned hair; 
 I heard Love's voice, a song across the air; 
 The glad-of-heart were of Love's royal train; 
 Sweet-throated heralds cried his endless reign, 
 And where his garment swept, the earth grew fair. 
 
 Along Love's road one walked whose feet were bare 
 And bleeding; no complaint he made, nor prayer, 
 Yet dim and wistful as a child's in pain 
 I saw Love's eyes. 
 
 I groped with Love where shadow lay, and snare; 
 I climbed with Love the icy mountain stair; 
 
 The wood was dark, the height was hard to gain; 
 
 The birds were songless and the flowers were slain; 
 Yet brave alway above my heart's despair 
 I saw Love's eyes. 
 
 November 21, 1895 
 
[27] 
 
 ACROSS THE FIELDS 
 
 CROSS the fields, the happy fields that lay 
 Unfaded yet, one visionary day 
 We walked together, and the world was sweet. 
 Each heard the whisper neither might repeat, 
 Love's whisper underneath our light word-play. 
 
 When fields were brown, when skies hung close and 
 
 gray, 
 Alone I walked the dear familiar way, 
 
 With eager heart, with hurrying love-led feet, 
 Across the fields. 
 
 O life that hath so bitter words to say! 
 O heart so sore impatient of delay! 
 
 O wistful hands that reach and may not meet! 
 
 O eyes that yearn for answering eyes to greet! 
 The summer comes. It wins me not to stray 
 Across the fields. 
 
[28] 
 
 I SPEAK YOUR NAME 
 
 I SPEAK your name In alien ways, while yet 
 November smiles from under lashes wet. 
 In the November light I see you stand 
 Who love the fading woods and withered land, 
 Where Peace may walk, and Death, but not Regret. 
 
 The year Is slow to alter or forget; 
 June's glow and autumn's tenderness are met. 
 Across the months by this swift sunlight spanned, 
 I speak your name. 
 
 Because I loved your golden hair, God set 
 His sea between our eyes. I may not fret, 
 
 For, sure and strong, to meet my soul's demand. 
 Comes your soul's truth, more near than hand in 
 hand; 
 And low to God, who listens, Margaret, 
 I speak your name. 
 
 November 20, 1892 
 
[29] 
 
 MIGNONNE 
 
 FOURTEENTH CENTURY FORM 
 
 MIGNONNE, whose face bends low for my 
 caressing, 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth; 
 Dimly I read thine eyes as one who dreameth. 
 
 The moonlight yester-eve fell soft in blessing, 
 
 That coldly now across thy bright hair gleameth; 
 
 Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caressing. 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth. 
 
 As penitent, low-voiced, his sins confessing. 
 
 Pleads where the light of the high altar streameth, 
 I speak to thee, whose love my love redeemeth. 
 
 Mignonne, whose face bends low for my caressing. 
 New and unknown to-night thy beauty seemeth; 
 Dimly I read thine eyes as one who dreameth. 
 
SONGS 
 
ARMISTICE 
 
 THE water sings along our keel. 
 The wind falls to a whispering 
 breath; 
 I look into your eyes and feel 
 
 No fear of life or death; 
 So near is love, so far away 
 The losing strife of yesterday. 
 
 We watch the swallow skim and dip; 
 
 Some magic bids the world be still; 
 Life stands with finger upon lip; 
 
 Love hath his gentle will; 
 Though hearts have bled, and tears have 
 
 burned, 
 The river floweth unconcerned. 
 
 We pray the fickle flag of truce 
 Still float deceitfully and fair; 
 
 Our eyes must love its sweet abuse; 
 This hour we will not care, 
 
 Though just beyond to-morrow's gate, 
 
 Arrayed and strong, the battle wait. 
 1891 33 
 
[34] 
 
 EVEN-SONG 
 
 COME, O Love, while the far stars 
 whiten. 
 Gathering, growing, momently; 
 Thou, who art star of stars, to lighten 
 One dim heart that waiteth thee. 
 
 Speak, O Love, for the silence presses, 
 Bowing my spirit like a fear; 
 
 Thou, whose words are as caresses, 
 Sweet, sole voice that I long to hear. 
 
[35] 
 
 T 
 
 SONG 
 
 HY face I have seen as one seeth 
 A face in a dream, 
 Soft drifting before me as drifteth 
 
 A leaf on the stream: 
 A face such as evermore fleeth 
 
 From following feet, 
 A face such as hideth and shifteth 
 Evasive and sweet. 
 
 Thy voice I have heard as one heareth 
 
 Afar and apart. 
 The wood-thrush that rapturous poureth 
 
 The song of his heart; 
 Who heedeth is blest, but who neareth 
 
 In wary pursuit, 
 May see where the singer upsoareth, 
 
 The forest is mute. 
 
[36] 
 
 SONG 
 
 IC 
 
 OLOVE, thou art winged and swift, 
 Yet stay with me evermore!" 
 And I guarded my house with bolt and bar 
 Lest Love fly forth at the door. 
 
 Without, in the world, 't was cold, 
 
 While Love and I together 
 Laughed and sang by my red hearth-iire, 
 
 Nor knew it was winter weather. 
 
 Sweet Love would lull me to sleep, 
 
 In his tireless arm caressed; 
 His shadowing wings and burning eyes 
 
 Like night and stars wrought rest. 
 
 And ever the beat of Love's heart 
 
 As a chime rang at my ear; 
 And ever Love's bending, beautiful face 
 
 Covered me close from fear. 
 
[37] 
 
 Was it long ere I waked alone? 
 
 A snow-drift whitened the floor; 
 I saw spent ashes upon my hearth 
 
 And Death in my open door. 
 
 1893 
 
[38] 
 
 I 
 
 SONG 
 
 COME across the sea, 
 (0 ship, ride fast) ! 
 True heart, I sail to thee; 
 Sail home at last. 
 Yet ships there are that never reach their 
 haven, 
 Though glad they sail; 
 And hoarse laments of curlew and sea-raven 
 Haunt every gale. 
 
 My ship lies at the pier 
 
 (The tide 's at turn); 
 No place she hath for fear 
 From prow to stern. 
 O Love, the soul shall never miss its haven, 
 
 Though it sail far, 
 Nor hoarse laments of curlew and sea-raven 
 May reach yon star. 
 
 1893 
 
[39] 
 
 SONG 
 
 LAUGHTER that rlngeth all day long 
 In a world of dancing feet; 
 A heart attuned to a bird's wild song, 
 
 As eager, as wayward and sweet. 
 Love, passing by, drew near and smiled: 
 "Ah, dear Love, wait, she is a child! " 
 Reluctantly he went his way: 
 I shall come back another day." 
 
 i( 
 
 A heavier-drooping lid, a line 
 
 Gentler in curving cheek and chin; 
 Lips where joys tremble, where hopes shine; 
 
 And something more — a storm within, 
 A heart that wakes to sudden fears. 
 And eyes that know the use of tears: 
 "Ah, cruel Love! to come and teach 
 A pain that knows nor name nor speech!" 
 
 Love stands aggrieved: "Farewell, I go! 
 Take back thy child-heart's unconcern." 
 
[40] 
 
 "Nay, nay! Thou shalt not leave me so!" 
 She holds him fast with tears that burn. 
 *' Sweet Love, I pray thee to abide. 
 If thou walk constant at my side. 
 Through doubt, through sorrow, through 
 
 despair, 
 No pain can be too hard to bear." 
 
 1882 
 
[41] 
 
 SONG 
 
 LADY mine, so passing fair, 
 Would 'st thou roses for thy hair? 
 Would 'st thou lilies for thy hand? 
 Bid me pluck them where they stand. 
 Those are warm and red to see, 
 These are cold. Are both like thee? 
 Brow of lily, lip of rose. 
 Heart that no man living knows! 
 If one knelt beside thy feet, 
 Would 'st thou spurn, or love him, Sweet? 
 
[42] 
 
 SONGS FROM AN UNPRINTED 
 POEM 
 
 HAST seen the blue wave sleeping, 
 sleeping, 
 By gentle winds caressed? 
 Hast seen the far moon ceaseless keeping 
 Her watch above its rest? 
 
 Hast seen the pale moths drift together 
 With winged seeds wind-sown? 
 
 Hast seen the falling of gull's feather, 
 Or leaf from wild rose blown? 
 
 Hast seen the white wave dancing, dancing. 
 
 With wondrous witchery, 
 Like hers who rose, men's hearts entrancing, 
 
 From out the sun-bright sea? 
 
 Lighter than wave, or leaf, or pinion, 
 Than circling moth more fleet, 
 
 Than goddess mightier of dominion, , 
 The charm of rhythmic feet. 
 
[43] 
 
 II 
 
 O day thou art so weary long! 
 
 O night so maddening brief! 
 Swift moments for life's feast and song, 
 
 Slow hours for life's grief. 
 
 A thousand pearls the lavish sea 
 
 Rolls up to fill my hands; 
 The ebb-tide leaves but shells to me 
 
 Empty upon the sands. 
 
[44] 
 
 BUD AND ROSE 
 
 FOR A CHILD 
 
 IT is SO small! 
 A cup of green, — a tiny tip 
 As pink as is a baby's lip, 
 And that is all. 
 
 But sunshine's kiss. 
 And rain-drops falling warm and fast, 
 And coaxing winds will make at last 
 
 A rose like this. 
 
[45] 
 
 A WINTER SONG 
 
 ALL the roses are under the snow: 
 Only the tips 
 Of the bare, brown, thorny bushes show. 
 
 Out of sight, pretty blossoms sleep 
 Sweet and sound; there are left for me 
 Fairest of roses, one, two, three, — 
 
 Where do you think? 
 On my baby's cheeks two, pale and pink, 
 And one that is ripe and red and deep, 
 On my baby's lips. 
 
 All the bonnie brown birds are flown 
 
 Far to the South. 
 Never a piping, fluted tone, 
 
 Never a silver, soaring song 
 From wood-path sounds, or meadow white; 
 Yet, in his hurried southward flight. 
 
 Some songster kind 
 Has left the sweetest of gifts behind: 
 Music that ripples all day long 
 
 From my baby's mouth. 
 
[46] 
 
 All the stars have faded away; 
 
 The blue bright skies 
 Show not a golden gleam to-day 
 
 Where a thousand flashed last night; 
 But when the far lamps blaze again, 
 For the brightest you may look in vain 
 
 (Sly truants two), 
 Fast hidden away from me and you, 
 Under soft covers folded tight 
 
 In my baby's eyes. 
 
[47] 
 
 TO A CHILD 
 
 THE leaves talked in the twilight, dear; 
 Hearken the tale they told: 
 How in some far-off place and year, 
 Before the world grew old, 
 
 I was a dreaming forest tree, 
 
 You were a wild, sweet bird 
 Who sheltered at the heart of me 
 
 Because the north wind stirred; 
 
 How, when the chiding gale was still, 
 
 When peace fell soft on fear. 
 You stayed one golden hour to fill 
 
 My dream with singing, dear. 
 
 To-night the self-same songs are sung 
 
 The first green forest heard; 
 My heart and the gray world grow young — 
 
 To shelter you, my bird. 
 
[48] 
 
 A SONG IN SPRING 
 
 LISTEN, spring Is In the air; 
 As of old the earth is fair; 
 Youth is dead, and sorrow lies 
 With a dream across his eyes. 
 Softly, swiftly, lest he wake. 
 Kiss again for Love's dear sake. 
 Nay, for Love unsmiling stands, 
 Holds a cup within his hands 
 Bright and bitter to the brim. 
 Who are ye dare drink with him.'* 
 
 1898 
 
[49] 
 
 A SONG IN SUMMER 
 
 IF I were but the west wind, 
 I would follow you; 
 Cross a hundred hills to find 
 Your world of green and blue; 
 
 In your pine wood linger, 
 
 Whisper to you there 
 Stories old and strange, and finger 
 
 Softly your bright hair. 
 
[50] 
 
 WITH A DAFFODIL 
 
 LADY, I am pale and cold, 
 Shivering without your door, 
 Yet my crown of winter-gold 
 Poets loved and maidens wore 
 In days of yore. 
 
 In a fairer spot of earth, 
 
 Some dream-shrouded, sweeter year, 
 I, or mine, had other birth. 
 
 Woke in fields of Warwickshire, 
 
 And laughed to hear 
 
 The boyish tread of Shakespeare's feet. 
 
 Before the swallow, I and mine 
 Made spring for him. O Lady sweet! 
 
 Welcome, as of an honored line, 
 
 Your Valentine. 
 
 February 14, 1900 
 
[51] 
 
 SONG 
 
 MY heart Is as a still grass-hidden nest; 
 O Lark, thy song is for the sky, 
 the sky! 
 Wilt thou drop softly down to me and rest, 
 Song-wearied, by and by? 
 
[52] 
 
 APRIL 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF REMY BELLEAU 
 
 APRIL, thou art the smile 
 That erewhile 
 Cyprls wore; and thy birth 
 Is so sweet that in heaven 
 
 The gods even 
 Are breathing the perfume of earth. 
 
 'Tis thou, gracious and mild, 
 
 Hast beguiled 
 Those exiles fleet of wing, — 
 Exiles long time afar, 
 
 Swallows that are 
 The messengers faithful of spring. 
 
[53] 
 
 RUDEL'S SONG 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH OF EDMOND ROSTAND 
 
 MEN wander up and down, 
 A-singing through the town 
 Some chestnut, blond, or brown 
 
 Sweetheart: 
 Chestnut or brown may reign, 
 Or blond, won without pain, — 
 But my Love doth remain 
 Apart. 
 
 • 
 
 He merits little things 
 
 Who faithful sighs and sings 
 
 When every evening brings 
 
 His star: 
 Her white hand he may press, 
 Her garment's hem caress: — 
 But I love my Princess 
 
 Afar. 
 
[54] 
 
 'TIs sweet with love to burn, 
 Always to love and yearn, 
 To ask not in return 
 
 Her heart: 
 Love that may not attain, 
 Most noble when most vain! 
 And my Love shall remain 
 
 Apart. 
 
 A heavenly thing it seems 
 This love of shades and gleams; 
 What were life without dreams 
 
 That are 
 The one gift that may bless? 
 I dream of her caress: — 
 Let me love my Princess 
 
 Afar! 
 
 November 22, 1905 
 
[55] 
 
 LA SIRENETA'S SONG 
 
 FROMTHE ITALIAN OF GABRIELE D 'aNNUNZIO 
 
 WE were seven sisters, 
 Seven, and all were fair. 
 We looked into the fountains, 
 Each of us was fair. 
 
 "Flower of rushes makes no bread, 
 Mulberry blossom makes no wine, 
 Threads of grass no linen fine," 
 
 The mother to the sisters said. 
 
 We looked into the fountains. 
 Each of us was fair. 
 
 The eldest was for spinning 
 And wanted spindles of gold; 
 
 The second was for weaving 
 And wanted shuttles of gold; 
 
 The third was for sewing 
 And wanted needles of gold; 
 
[56] 
 
 The fourth was for serving 
 
 And wanted cups of gold; 
 The fifth was for sleeping 
 
 And wanted pillows of gold; 
 The sixth was for dreaming 
 
 And wanted dreams of gold; 
 The little one was for singing, 
 
 The youngest of them all, 
 For singing, only singing, 
 
 And wanted nothing at all. 
 
 "Flower of rushes makes no bread. 
 Mulberry blossom makes no wine, 
 Threads of grass no linen fine/' 
 
 The mother to the sisters said. 
 
 We looked into the fountains, 
 Each of us was fair. 
 
 And the eldest sister span, 
 Twisting spindle and heart; 
 And the second sister wove. 
 And she wove a web of pain; 
 And the third sister sewed, 
 Making a poisoned shift; 
 And the fourth sister served. 
 
[57] 
 
 And she served a tainted dish; 
 And the fifth sister slept, 
 Slept on the pillow of death; 
 And the sixth sister dreamed, 
 Dreamed in the arms of death. 
 The mother wept in pain. 
 Wept for the evil fate; 
 But the youngest one who sang, 
 
 Singing early and late, 
 Singing, only singing. 
 
 Had ever a happy fate. 
 
 (La Gioconda, Act IV., Scene i.) 
 
[58] 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SUN 
 
 FROM THE ITALIAN OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI 
 
 OLORD, we praise Thee for our 
 Brother Sun, 
 Who brings us day, who brings us golden 
 
 light. 
 He tells us of Thy Beauty, Holy One. 
 We praise Thee, too, when falls the quiet 
 
 night, ^ - 
 
 For Sister Moon, and every silver star 
 That Thou hast set in Heaven, clear and 
 
 far. 
 
 For our brave Brother Wind we give Thee 
 
 praise; 
 For clouds and stormy skies, for gentle air; 
 And for our Sister Water, cool and fair, 
 Who does us service in sweet, humble ways; 
 But, when the winter darkens, bitter cold, 
 We praise Thee every night and all day 
 
 long 
 
[J9] 
 
 For our good friend, so merry and so bold, 
 
 Dear Brother Fire, beautiful and strong. 
 
 For our good Mother Earth, we praise 
 Thee, Lord; 
 
 For the bright flowers she scatters every- 
 where; 
 
 For all the fruit and grain her fields afford; 
 
 For her great beauty, and her tireless care. 
 
 We praise Thee, Lord, for gentle souls who 
 live 
 
 In love and peace, who bear with no com- 
 plaint 
 
 All wounds and wrongs; who pity and 
 forgive; 
 
 Each one of these, Most High, shall be 
 Thy saint. 
 
 (Incomplete) 
 
[6o] 
 
 NATIVITY SONG 
 
 ADAPTED FROM THE LATIN OF JACOPONE 
 
 DA TOD I 
 
 THE beautiful mother is bending 
 Low where her baby lies, 
 Helpless and frail, for her tending; 
 But she knows the glorious eyes. 
 
 The mother smiles and rejoices 
 
 While the baby laughs in the hay; 
 She listens to heavenly voices: 
 
 'The child shall be king, one day." 
 
 i(> 
 
 O dear little Christ in the manger, 
 Let me make merry with thee. 
 
 O King, in my hour of danger, 
 Wilt thou be strong for me? 
 
[6i] 
 
 THE LEAST OF CAROLS 
 
 LOVELIEST dawn of gold and rose 
 Steals across undrlfted snows; 
 In brown, rustling oak leaves stir 
 Squirrel, nuthatch, woodpecker; 
 Brief their matins, but, by noon, 
 All the sunny wood 's a-tune: 
 Jays, forgetting their harsh cries, 
 Pipe a spring note, clear and true; 
 Wheel on angel wings of blue, 
 Trumpeters of Paradise; 
 Then the tiniest feathered thing, 
 All a-flutter, tail and wing. 
 Gives himself to caroling: 
 
 " Chick-a-dee-dee, chick-a-dee! 
 Jesulino, hail to thee! 
 Lowliest baby born to-day, 
 Pillowed on a wisp of hay; 
 King no less of sky and earth. 
 
 And singing sea; 
 
[62] 
 
 Jesu! Jesu! most and least! 
 For the sweetness of thy birth 
 Every little bird and beast, 
 Wind and wave and forest tree, 
 Praises God exceedingly, 
 
 Exceedingly." 
 
 December, 1904. 
 
OTHER LYRICS 
 
WHEN BEAUTY DIES 
 
 SHOULD change fall In Its fated hour; 
 Should music cease,shoulddarknessbe; 
 Should star and sun and face and flower 
 Turn dust of beauty endlessly, 
 Beloved, what of you and me? 
 
 I question how, by finer sense. 
 
 The soul adventures ways unknown, 
 
 Or what shall be Its recompense 
 For death? what loveliness atone 
 For earth's green glory sadly flown? 
 
 Yet, since I need nor touch, nor sight. 
 Nor spoken word, however dear. 
 
 To read your thought and will aright. 
 To know your spirit, now and here. 
 What has our fellowship to fear? 
 
 6S 
 
[66] 
 
 Man's age-long doubt assails in vain 
 The truth that lightens in your eyes, 
 
 Or your still courage, bred of pain: 
 Beyond the wreck of worlds and skies, 
 I shall seek these, when beauty dies. 
 
[67] 
 
 (( 
 
 THOUGH UNSEEN 
 
 FROM the dwelling-place of the Holy 
 Dead 
 Wilt thou come back to me? 
 O Love, it is far 
 To that glad, great star 
 Whose shining hath hidden thee! 
 Neither in star nor sun," she said, 
 Her voice as it oft had been, 
 "The dwelling-place of the H0I7 Dead, 
 Nor dreamer nor saint hath seen." 
 
 Lost Love of mine, where we walked of yore 
 Thy feet made hallowed ground; 
 Now earth is earth. 
 Here are death and birth. 
 But where is the glory found? 
 Low at my side her voice once more, 
 "Dull are thine eyes," she said; 
 Walk with me now as we went of yore," 
 And I walk with the Holy Dead. 
 
 October 9, 1894 
 
 (( 
 
[68] 
 
 AWAKENED 
 
 I PRAYED for other life to come, 
 You prayed for sleep. 
 We passed. The sentinels were dumb, 
 The road was steep. 
 
 I have forgotten days and hours; 
 
 I found you, late, 
 Asleep where grow tall nameless flowers 
 
 Within the Gate. 
 
 To shimmering heights of amethyst 
 
 A bright path led; 
 Far off I saw through silver mist 
 
 The blessed dead. 
 
 Those holy hills where souls rejoice 
 
 Seemed flint and sand, 
 If I must go without your voice, 
 
 And miss your hand. 
 
[69] 
 
 No less for me all Paradise 
 
 Were dust and thorn, 
 Should I in your awakening eyes 
 
 See pain reborn. 
 
 I feared to touch your shining hair, 
 
 To breathe your name; 
 I waited while the golden air 
 
 Brightened to flame. 
 
 Across your eyes the glory fell; 
 
 They opened wide, — 
 How beautiful I may not tell, — 
 
 How satisfied. 
 
 1901 
 
[70] 
 
 DEFEATED 
 
 WHEN the last fight is lost, the last 
 sword broken; 
 The last call sounded, the last order spoken; 
 When from the field where braver hearts 
 
 lie sleeping. 
 Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come 
 
 creeping. 
 With not one waving shred of palm to 
 
 bring you, 
 With not one splendid battle-song to sing 
 
 you, 
 O Love, in my dishonor and defeat. 
 Your measureless compassion will be sweet. 
 
 1906 
 
[71] 
 
 A DREAM 
 
 LAST night, what time dreams wander 
 east and west, 
 What time a dream may linger, I lay dead, 
 With flare of tapers pale above my head, 
 With weight of drifted roses on my breast; 
 And they, who noiseless came to watch my 
 rest. 
 Looked kindly down and gentle sentence 
 said. 
 
 One sighed "She was but young to go 
 to-day;" 
 And one "How fiercely life with death 
 
 had striven 
 Ere God set free her spirit, sorrow- 
 shriven!" 
 One said "The children grieve for her at 
 
 play;" 
 And one, who bent to take a rose away. 
 Whispered "Dear love, would that we 
 had forgiven." 
 
[72] 
 
 SLEEP 
 
 DEAR gray-eyed Angel, wilt thou 
 come to-night? 
 Spread the soft shadow of thy shelter- 
 ing wings, 
 And banish every hint of thought and 
 light, 
 And all the clamoring crowd of waking 
 things ? 
 Wilt thou bend low above wide weary eyes, 
 As o'er the worn world bend the tireless 
 skies ? 
 
[73] 
 
 SANGRAAL 
 
 TASTING the wine of death he found 
 it sweet; 
 Drank deeper draughts and only smiled 
 
 the more; 
 As if he touched the hand that held the cup, 
 As if he saw the Christ look down on him, 
 Content he whispered, "Lord, I drink to 
 thee." 
 
 1884 
 
[74] 
 
 GABRIEL 
 
 "That annunciation named death." 
 
 "T KNOW thee, Angel, though thou 
 J. dost not wear, 
 As thou wast wont, the glory and the 
 
 gold 
 That smote upon the poet's gaze of old. 
 Thou Messenger! What tidings dost thou 
 bear? 
 
 "I know thee winged and vested thus in 
 
 gray, 
 Not clouds of heaven and night of earth 
 
 disguise 
 The light supernal of thine awful eyes. 
 O Angel, linger, speak to me who pray!" 
 
 Almost I seemed to hold and to let slip 
 The angel's robe; I know the gray wings 
 cast 
 
[75] 
 
 Shadow about me; yet he smiled and 
 passed, 
 That word of God a-qulver on his lip. 
 
 When morning came, one died whom I 
 held dear; 
 The angel's smile lay on his quiet face; 
 For him who pleaded not had been the 
 grace. 
 The word Ineffable I wait to hear. 
 
 189s 
 
[76] 
 
 MIDWINTER 
 
 ALL night I dreamed of roses, 
 Wild tangle by the sea, 
 And shadowy garden closes. 
 Dream-led I met with thee. 
 
 Around thee swayed the roses. 
 Beyond thee sang the sea; 
 
 The shadowy garden closes 
 Were Paradise to me. 
 
 O Love, 'mid the dream-roses 
 
 Abide to heal, to save! 
 The world that day discloses 
 
 Narrows to one white grave. 
 
 1899 
 
[77] 
 
 EASTER 
 
 NO fear of death, or life, again shall 
 pass 
 Along these quivering fields of April grass, 
 Where, under quiet, ever holier skies 
 Sorrow keeps watch with glad, immortal 
 eyes. 
 
 1905 
 
[78] 
 
 IN THE DARK 
 
 10RD, since the strongest human hands 
 ^ I know 
 Reach through my darkness, will not let 
 
 me go, 
 Hold me as if most dear when fallen most 
 low; 
 
 Since, even now, when my spent courage 
 
 lies 
 Stricken beneath disastrous, quivering 
 
 skies, 
 I learn the tenderness of human eyes; 
 
 Surely, though night unthinkable impend. 
 Where human hands nor human eyes be- 
 friend. 
 Thou wilt avail me in the lonely end. 
 
 1907 
 
[79] 
 
 VISION 
 
 WHEN earth, and sea, and sky spread 
 fair 
 In flawlessly transparent air; 
 When every blade of grass was kind, 
 And my own joyous peace of mind 
 Seemed part of a world-mood serene 
 Where restlessness had never been, 
 Too soon there stirred a wind of change, 
 A doubt that made the beauty strange, 
 A fear, mist-like, in-drifting dim. 
 Because I nowhere met with Him. 
 
 But when the flesh and spirit quailed 
 
 For very pain; when the will failed; 
 
 When, far from tenderest voice or hand, 
 
 I crept into a desert land 
 
 Of haggard grass and thorns, wherein 
 
 Was lonely covert for my sin; 
 
 When, even my grief turned faint and dumb, 
 
 I waited what new ill might come. 
 
 In that transfigured, awful place, 
 
 Did I not see Him face to face? 
 
[8o] 
 
 BRIEF LIFE 
 
 HE came with the wind of dawn, when 
 rose-red clouds were flying; 
 In the glory of his coming the old world 
 drifted dim. 
 He went when the evening star outwatched 
 day's quiet dying; 
 Its path upon the sea made a white 
 straight road for him. 
 
 Did he dream a wistful dream in some 
 radiant place supernal? 
 Did he hear the human call, follow and 
 lose his way? 
 Has the touch of earth on the child made 
 strange to him things eternal? 
 Is he heir to sorrow and love, being mor- 
 tal for one swift day? 
 
 1906 
 
[8i] 
 
 OF TRANSIENT BEAUTY 
 
 ROSE-FLOWER and flower of grass 
 and flower of flame 
 Drift to the Beauty whence their beauty 
 
 came; 
 Fainter are they, more brief, than this June 
 
 wind. 
 Yet for the impalpable grace they leave 
 
 behind 
 The years may fashion an Immortal name. 
 
 June 24, 1909 
 
[82] 
 
 POMPEII 
 
 OF death and time and silence softly 
 wrought, 
 
 Beauty, effacing horror, healing pain, 
 
 Lies on the mountain slopes and fills the 
 plain, 
 
 Quickens each sense and lulls each ques- 
 tioning thought. 
 
 Where broken shaft and empty shrine have 
 caught 
 
 Wan glory of sunlight, ruin seems as gain; 
 
 And pitiful the little lives, and vain, 
 
 That loved, that played, and feasted, sold 
 and bought. 
 
 (Unfinished) 
 
[83] 
 
 AN EXILE'S GARDEN 
 
 I LIVE in the heart of a garden 
 With cypresses all about; 
 To the east and west, and the south and 
 north, 
 Straight shadowy paths run out. 
 
 There are ancient gods in my garden; 
 
 They have faces young and pale; 
 And a hundred thousand roses here 
 
 Enrapture the nightingale. 
 
 Yet, among the gods of the garden, 
 
 The roses and gods, I think, 
 Daylong, of a far-oif clover field, 
 
 And the song of a bob-o-link. 
 
[84] 
 
 FROM OVER-SEA 
 
 TO 
 
 IN Italy how comes the spring? 
 I look across wide fields of snow 
 To naked woods, and long to know 
 How fair the shimmering mountains He? 
 How warm above them bends the sky 
 
 Of Tuscany? 
 What word from Rome the swallows bring, 
 
 Swift sent to thee? 
 Here stirs no life of bud nor wing; 
 The trees by icy winds are torn; 
 And yet I dream how flowers are born 
 
 In Italy. 
 
 I see the far, fair city swim 
 Through mists of memory bright yet dim 
 Shining, even as it shone of old 
 Through Arno's haze of subtile gold, 
 By witchery 
 
[8s] 
 
 Of distance, light and evening spun. 
 Tall cypresses against the sun 
 
 Distinct I see, 
 Defiling darkly up the hill, 
 As when we wandered at our will 
 
 In Italy. 
 
[86] 
 
 SUNSET ON THE CAMPAGNA 
 
 THE pines have no voice this ineffable 
 hour, 
 The sea and the Dome shine through 
 wavering gold; 
 Here, where stood temple and palace and 
 tower, 
 Shadows and grass lie in fold over fold, 
 
 Hiding meek hearts that were masterful, 
 living; 
 Hiding mute lips that were loud with 
 complaint; 
 Mother of all, is it scorn or forgiving 
 That covers so tenderly sinner and 
 saint? 
 
 Mountains keep watch like strong angels 
 of pity; 
 Mist on the plain lies more light than a 
 kiss; 
 
[87] 
 
 Eyes that were dust before Rome was a 
 city, 
 Eyes that love brightened, saw these, 
 yet not this. 
 
 Not the same wonder, not the same glory, 
 
 Other, not lovelier, sunset and morn; 
 Neither can thought find an end to the 
 story 
 Of youth for whose rapture the world is 
 newborn. 
 
 1901 
 
[88] 
 
 VENICE IN APRIL: A MEMORY 
 
 A GONDOLA motionless lying 
 Under the Arsenal wall; 
 A weary boatman at stern and at bow 
 Supinely stretched half asleep; 
 And you with eyes merrily deep 
 Silent to mine replying, 
 'T is sweet to remember how. 
 
 We had floated far that day, 
 That happiest day of all! 
 The circling silver mountain-rim 
 Shut us safe from the world away; 
 Though eyes we loved were hurt and dim, 
 There came to us nor cry nor call, 
 Where, idle-oared, content we lay 
 Under the Arsenal wall. 
 
 On the ripple a quivering crescent 
 
 Tossed like a tortured thing. 
 
 But, far above, serene, 
 
 It hung in the curve of the sky; 
 
 At our prow was the gentle, incessant 
 
[89] 
 
 Sound of the waves' caress, 
 
 Impelled by the light breath wandering by 
 
 From some ocean god unseen 
 
 In his palace of idleness; 
 
 And ever from two bell-towers 
 
 Rang out the quarter-hours, 
 
 In broken harmonies 
 
 Like the changes in a chaunt: 
 
 Sounds to stay in one's ears and haunt 
 
 One's dreams with perplexing memories. 
 
 Shoreward or seaward making. 
 
 The boats passed lazily; 
 
 We watched one golden sail that flew 
 
 (Its fellow-flock forsaking) 
 
 Before our eyes like a butterfly, 
 
 Afar where the sea-breeze fresher grew; 
 
 How it seemed to beckon from out the blue 
 
 Of the mystical, deepening southern sky, 
 
 Till we longed to follow, we two! 
 
 The fair day loitered to its close. 
 
 The boatmen awakened, the play-time was 
 
 done; 
 The wide air turned to gold and rose. 
 And where we watched a passing rower. 
 
[9o] 
 
 We saw the water run 
 
 Drop by drop from his gleaming oar, 
 
 Opal and pearl and amethyst. 
 
 Eastward and westward grew the light; 
 San Marco's domes were floating mist; 
 The Campanile's slender height 
 Stood pale against one purple cloud, 
 Down which the sun dropped suddenly, 
 Piercing it through with a golden shaft. 
 We were silent now, none spoke nor laughed ; 
 Only the bells anon rang loud, 
 Ever repeating to you and to me: 
 "The story is ended, the dream is o'er, 
 You may carry away beyond the sea 
 A picture, and nothing more." 
 
 And yet, might the dream of a dreana avail, 
 
 'T were good to dream it over again; 
 
 To forget the years that lie between, 
 
 To be careless of heart as then; 
 
 To see the glow of that warm rose light, 
 
 Feel the hush of that air serene; 
 
 Once more down the silvery, far lagoon. 
 
 Under opal sky and crescent moon. 
 
 To follow that golden sail. 
 
 1884 
 
[91] 
 
 IN UMBRIA 
 
 UNDER a roof of twisted boughs 
 And silver leaves and noon-day sky, 
 Among gaunt trunks, where lizards house, 
 
 On the hot sun-burnt grass I lie; 
 I hear soft notes of birds that drowse, 
 And steps that echo by 
 
 Unseen, along the sunken way 
 That drops below the city-wall. 
 
 Not of to-day, nor yesterday. 
 The hidden, holy feet that fall. 
 
 O whispering leaves, beseech them stay! 
 O birds, awake and call! 
 
 Say that a pilgrim, journeying long. 
 From that loud land that lies to west. 
 
 Where tongues debate of right and wrong, 
 Would be ''The Little Poor Man's" 
 guest; 
 
[92] 
 
 Would learn "The Lark's" divine ''Sun- 
 Song," 
 And how glad hearts are blest. 
 
 Say: "Master, we of over-seas 
 Confess that oft our hearts are set 
 
 On gold and gain; and if, with these, 
 For lore of books we strive and fret, 
 
 Perchance some lore of bended knees 
 And saint-hood we forget; 
 
 "Still, In one thought our lips are bold — 
 That, in our world of haste and care, 
 
 Through days whose hours are bought and 
 sold. 
 Days full of deeds, and scant of prayer, 
 
 Of thy life's gospel this we hold: 
 The hands that toil are fair. 
 
 "Therefore, forgive; assoil each stain 
 Of trade and hate, of war and wrath; 
 
 Teach us thy tenderness for pain; 
 Thy music that no other hath; 
 
 Thy fellowship with sun and rain, 
 And flowers along thy path." 
 
[93] 
 
 Thou dost not answer. Down the track 
 Where now I thought thy feet must pass, 
 
 With patient step and burdened back 
 Go "Brother Ox" and "Brother Ass." 
 
 A mountain cloud looms swift and black, 
 O'ershadowing stone and grass. 
 
 The silver leaves are turned to gray; 
 
 There comes no sound from hedge nor 
 tree; 
 Only a voice from far away, 
 
 Borne o'er the silent hills to me, 
 Entreats: "Be light of heart to-day; 
 
 To-morrow joy shall be. 
 
 "The glad of heart no hope betrays, 
 Since 'Mother Earth' and 'Sister Death' 
 
 Are good to know, and sweet to praise." 
 I hear not all the far voice saith 
 
 Of Love, that trod green Umbrian ways, 
 And streets of Nazareth. 
 
 1901 
 
[94] 
 
 WHITE HEAD 
 
 PRONE on the northern water, 
 That laps him about the breast, 
 Like the Sphinx in the sand, forever 
 The giant lies in rest. 
 
 The sails drive swift before him. 
 And the surf beats at his lip, 
 
 But the gray eyes look out seaward 
 Noting nor wave nor ship. 
 
 The centuries drift over. 
 
 He marks not with smile nor frown, 
 Drift over him cloud and sea-gull. 
 
 Swallow and thistledown. 
 
 I, of the race that passes, 
 
 Quick with its hope and its fear, 
 
 Lean on his brow and question. 
 Plead at his senseless ear: 
 
[95] 
 
 "What of thy past unmeasured? 
 
 And what of the peoples gone? 
 What of the sea's first singing? 
 
 What of the primal dawn? 
 
 "What was the weird that bowed thee? 
 
 How did the struggle cease? 
 Out of what Titan anguish 
 
 Issued thy hopeless peace?" 
 
 Nothing the pale lips utter, 
 
 What hath been, nor what shall be; 
 Under the brow's stern shadow, 
 
 The gray eyes look to sea. 
 
 The blue glows round and over. 
 Thin- veiled, as it were God's face; 
 
 I feel the breath, the spirit, 
 That knows nor time nor space. 
 
 And my heart grieves for the giant 
 
 In his pitiful repose. 
 Mocked by the vagrant gladness 
 
 Of a laggard brier-rose; 
 
[96] 
 
 Mocked to his face from seaward 
 By the flash and whirl of wings; 
 
 Mocked from the grass above him, 
 By life that creeps and sings. 
 
 I care not for his wisdom, 
 
 His secret unconfessed; 
 I yearn toward rose and cricket. 
 
 Ephemeral and blest. 
 
 Ah ! if he might, how would he 
 Quicken to love and to tears; 
 
 For my immortal minute 
 Barter his endless years! 
 
 He rests on the restless water, 
 And I on the grasses brown. 
 
 Drift over us cloud and sea-gull. 
 Swallow and thistledown. 
 
 Casco Bay 
 
[97] 
 
 VESPERS 
 
 THE robins call me sweet and shrill: 
 "Come out and fare afield; 
 The sun has neared the western hill, 
 The shadows slip down sure and still, 
 But in our meadow wide and wet 
 There 's half an hour of sunshine yet; 
 Come down, come down!" Who 
 would not yield ? 
 
 Across the road and through the lane, 
 
 Where buttercups grow tall and bright 
 With daisies washed in last night's rain, — 
 Beyond the open bars I gain 
 An angle of the rude rail-fence, 
 A perfect coign of vantage, whence 
 Wheat-field and pasture stretch in sight. 
 
 The cows, with stumbling tread and slow, 
 
 One after one come straggling by, 
 And many a yellow head falls low, 
 And many a daisy's scattered snow. 
 Where the unheeding footsteps pass, 
 
[98] 
 
 Is crushed and blackened in the grass, 
 With brier and rue that trampled lie. 
 
 Sweet sounds with sweeter blend and strive: 
 
 In its white prime of blossoming 
 Each wayside berry-bush, alive 
 With myriad bees, hums like a hive; 
 The frogs are loud in ditch and pool, 
 And songs unlearned of court or school 
 June's troubadours all round me sing. 
 
 Somewhere beneath the meadow's veil 
 The peewee's brooding notes begin; 
 The sparrows chirp from rail to rail; 
 Above the bickering swallows sail, 
 
 Or skim the green half-tasselled wheat 
 With plaintive cry; and at my feet 
 A cricket tunes his mandolin. 
 
 High-perched, a master-minstrel proud. 
 The red-winged blackbird pipes and 
 calls, 
 One moment jubilant and loud, 
 The next, to sudden silence vowed. 
 Seeks cover in the marsh below; 
 Soft winds along the rushes blow, 
 And like a whisper twilight falls. 
 
[99] 
 
 IN HARVEST 
 
 MOWN meadows skirt the standing 
 wheat; 
 I linger, for the hay is sweet, 
 New-cut and curing in the sun. 
 Like furrows, straight, the windrows run. 
 Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent 
 When, yesterday, the west wind went 
 A-rioting through grass and grain. 
 To-day no least breath stirs the plain; 
 Only the hot air, quivering, yields 
 Illusive motion to the fields 
 Where not the slenderest tassel swings. 
 Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings; 
 A goldfinch dangles from a tall. 
 Full-flowered yellow mullein; all 
 The world seems turning blue and gold. 
 Unstartled, since, even from of old. 
 Beauty has brought keen sense of her, 
 I feel the withering grasses stir; 
 Along the edges of the wheat, 
 I hear the rustle of her feet: 
 And yet I know the whole sea lies, 
 And half the earth, between our eyes. 
 1903 
 
[ 100 ] 
 
 WHEN NATURE HATH BETRAYED 
 THE HEART THAT LOVED HER 
 
 THE gray waves rock against the gray 
 sky-line, 
 And break complaining on the long gray 
 
 sand, 
 Here where I sit who cannot understand 
 Their voice of pain nor this dumb pain of 
 mine; 
 
 For I, who thought to fare till my days end, 
 Armed sorrow-proof in sorrow, having 
 
 known 
 How hearts bleed slow when brave lips 
 make no moan. 
 How Life can torture, how Death may 
 befriend 
 
 When Love entreats him hasten, — even I, 
 Who feared no human anguish that may 
 
 be, 
 I cannot bear the loud grief of the sea; 
 
 I cannot bear the still grief of the sky. 
 
[lOl] 
 
 IN APRIL 
 
 ALL day the grass made my feet glad; 
 I watched the bright life thrill 
 To each leaf-tip and flower-lip; 
 
 Swift winds that swept the hill, 
 In garden nook light lingering, shook 
 The budding daffodil. 
 
 I know not if the earth have kept 
 
 Work-day or festival: 
 The sparrow sings of nestling things, 
 
 Blithely the robins call; 
 And loud I hear, from marsh-pools near. 
 
 The hylas at nightfall. 
 
 189s 
 
[ 102] 
 
 ACROSS THE BORDER 
 
 I have read somewhere that the birds of fairyland are 
 white as snow. — W. B. Yeats. 
 
 WHERE all the trees bear golden 
 flowers, 
 And all the birds are white; 
 Where fairy folk in dancing hours 
 Burn stars for candlelight; 
 
 Where every wind and leaf can talk, 
 
 But no man understand 
 Save one whose child-feet chanced to walk 
 
 Green paths of fairyland; 
 
 I followed two swift silver wings; 
 
 I stalked a roving song; 
 I startled shining, silent things; 
 
 I wandered all day long. 
 
 But when it seemed the shadowy hours 
 
 Whispered of soft-foot night, 
 I crept home to sweet common flowers, 
 
 Brown birds, and candlelight. 
 1 901 
 
[ 103 ] 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 I AST night I heard a robin sing; 
 ^ And though I walked where woods 
 
 were bare, 
 And winds were cold, life quivered there, 
 As if in sleep the heart of spring 
 Were moved to dim remembering. 
 To-day no promise haunts the air; 
 I find but snow and silence where 
 Last night I heard a robin sing. 
 
[ 104] 
 
 AT SEA 
 
 SO many eves the sun must sink within 
 The westward plain of shoreless, 
 homeless sea; 
 So many morns, as if from heaven to 
 
 heaven. 
 From out the widening water in the east 
 The sun must rise; so many summer days, 
 Full in the face of the unveiled sky, 
 The ship must float, till even the strongest 
 
 gull, 
 Deserting, wheels to track a land-bound 
 
 sail. 
 So many days! Yet there shall come a 
 
 day — 
 Some golden, holy, August afternoon — 
 When, tired of sea at eve and sea at morn, 
 The sun shall droop like a contented child, 
 And sleep among the cradling hills of home. 
 
[105] 
 
 A LAND-WIND 
 
 THE lichen rustles against my cheek, 
 But the heart of the rock is still; 
 With chattering voice the cedars speak, 
 Crouched gray on the barren hill. 
 
 A land-wind snarls on the cliff's sheer edge, 
 
 Below, the smitten sea 
 Comes fawning over a sunken ledge. 
 
 And cowers whimperingly. 
 
 In the sultry wood lies a restless hush. 
 Not a twitter falls from the sky; 
 
 Hidden are swallow, sparrow, and thrush, 
 And the sea-birds only cry. 
 
[io6] 
 
 THE WHITE STORM 
 
 THE snow and the high spray mingle; 
 They swirl round the beacon-head; 
 And the sea on cliff and shingle 
 Calls for his hundred dead. 
 
 The mothers hear who have listened, 
 Trembling, through every gale, 
 
 Lest the sons in sorrow christened 
 Be named in the yearly tale. 
 
 For, crew by crew in his rages, 
 And man by man through deceit. 
 
 He has reckoned their best scant wages, 
 And to-night he cries for the fleet. 
 
 The good fleet sailed when the morning 
 Laughed and beckoned them forth; 
 
 Never a bird gave warning. 
 
 Nor a whisper from out the North. 
 
 They are cunning in wind and weather, 
 But what may the wisest know 
 
When sea and sky together 
 Are a sightless waste of snow? 
 
 From shoreward and seaward driven, 
 From skyward a falUng cloud, 
 
 Immeasurable, unriven, 
 Gathers the frozen shroud? 
 
 Headland and beacon hiding. 
 
 Liner from fishing-boat; 
 Sailor from sailor dividing, 
 
 Coiling round eyes and throat. 
 
 • •••••« 
 
 Ashore the wind goes wailing 
 And the twisted cedars moan; 
 
 In vigil unavailing 
 The women sit like stone. 
 
 They shall find their voice of sorrow 
 When the wild, white nights are past; 
 
 When, some golden April morrow, 
 Glutted and glad at last, 
 
 The sea that quiet lingers 
 
 And smiles round the beacon-head. 
 With pitiful lips and fingers 
 
 Fondles his hundred dead. 
 1898 
 
[io8] 
 
 RIVER AND BIRD 
 
 FLOWETH the river still and strong; 
 Flitteth the bird swift-winged along 
 Its crested wave with joyous song. 
 
 The bird is a creature of air and light; 
 Skyward she taketh her circling flight, 
 Leaving the broad stream out of sight. 
 
 What though the mighty river frets 
 With broken voice? Of long regrets 
 Light hearts know little. The bird forgets. 
 
 Weary at last of all things fair; 
 Weary of soaring everywhere; 
 Weary of heaven, and earth, and air; 
 
 Discontent in the song she sings — 
 Cometh the bird from her wanderings 
 Back to the river to dip her wings. 
 
[ 109] 
 
 Stealeth the noon-hush far and wide; 
 Smileth the sun on the river's tide; 
 Dreameth the bird in the shade beside. 
 
 My love is the river still and strong; 
 Thy heart is the bird that flits along 
 Wave and ripple, with joyous song. 
 
 1881 
 
[no] 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 A NOISOME thing that crawls by 
 covert path, 
 For glad, unfearing feet to lie in wait; 
 No part in summer's fellowship it hath, 
 From mirth and love and music alienate. 
 
 Yet once it flashed across the close, brown 
 grass 
 In the noon sun, and, as it quivered 
 there, 
 The spell of beauty over it did pass. 
 Making it kin with earth and light and 
 air. 
 
 I knew that Life's imperial self decrees 
 That this, the loathliest of living things, 
 
 By patient ways of cycled centuries. 
 Slow creeping, shall at last attain to 
 wings. 
 
[Ill] 
 
 A JOURNEY 
 
 UPROSE the Day when Night lay dead, 
 She turned not back to kiss his cheek, 
 But o'er the sombre eastern peak 
 She soared, and touched it into red. 
 
 Her strong wings scattered mist and cloud, 
 As swiftly toward the highest blue. 
 Unhindered, radiant, she flew. 
 
 She sang for joy; she laughed aloud. 
 
 "The midmost heaven," she cried, "is 
 mine! 
 
 The midmost heaven and half the earth. 
 
 A million joys I bring to birth. 
 Upon a million lovers shine! 
 
 "I paint the grape, I gild the corn, 
 I float the lilies on the lake, 
 I set a-thrill in field and brake 
 
 Fine strains of tiny flute and horn. 
 
[II2] 
 
 "Ah, it is sweet," she said, and passed, 
 Exulting still, down the sheer slope 
 Of afternoon. Her heart of hope 
 
 Went with her, dauntless, till, at last, 
 
 Upon the far low-lying range 
 
 Of hills, she spread a crimson cloud; 
 
 From the pale mists she tore a shroud, 
 And, sinking, faint with sense of change, 
 
 She seemed to see a face bend o'er 
 With kind, familiar eyes. She said: 
 "Can it be you I left for dead.'' 
 
 Can it be Night.?" and spoke no more. 
 
 Night wrapped her in his mantle gray; 
 
 He kissed the quivering lids that slept; 
 
 He bowed his silver head and wept — 
 "How could she know, my love, my Day.''" 
 
 1889 
 
[113] 
 
 I 
 
 GHOSTS 
 
 SLEPT last night and dreamed, 
 I woke and cried, 
 For in my sleep it seemed, 
 Close by my side. 
 Walked still and slow the old days that 
 have died. 
 
 All ghostly slow they passed. 
 
 All ghostly still; 
 Of old who fled so fast, 
 With life a-thrill, 
 With laughing lips and eyes, with eager 
 will. 
 
 So ghostlike, yet the same. 
 
 Each dear dead day. 
 Softly I called her name 
 And bade her stay; 
 Softly she turned and smiled and went her 
 way. 
 
[114] 
 
 ANSWERED 
 
 I MARVEL how youth could be bold 
 to say: 
 "If but this thing might come my heart 
 
 were blessed;" 
 To offer every treasure life possessed, 
 Gladly, in one supreme exchange. 
 
 To-day, 
 I give God thanks, yet know not how to 
 
 bear 
 The exceeding bitterness of answered 
 prayer. 
 
[115] 
 
 THE WATCHER AND THE WIND 
 
 THE WATCHER 
 
 WILD singer at my casement, be 
 thou still! 
 In pity let me sleep; 
 For I am weary, and thy voice Is shrill; 
 
 We have no tryst to keep. 
 Go on thy way; to gladder hearts than 
 mine 
 Thy song perchance were glad; 
 To me if thou must come, come with sun- 
 shine. 
 For night is over sad. 
 
 THE WIND 
 
 Nay listen, listen thou so fretfully pleading 
 for rest; 
 
 Those whom I rock may sleep: 
 I rock drowned men in ocean cradled deep, 
 
 And birds in frozen nest. 
 
[ii6] 
 
 A SMILING DEMON OF NOTRE 
 DAME 
 
 QUIET as are the quiet skies 
 He watches where the city lies 
 Floating in vision clear or dim 
 Through sun or rain beneath his eyes; 
 Her songs, her laughter and her cries 
 Hour after hour drift up to him. 
 
 Her days of glory or disgrace 
 
 He watches with unchanging face; 
 
 He knows what midnight crimes are done; 
 
 What horrors under summer sun; 
 
 And souls that pass in holy death 
 
 Sweep by him on the morning's breath. 
 
 Alike to holiness and sin 
 
 He feels nor alien nor akin; 
 
 Five hundred creeping mortal years 
 
 He smiles on human joy and tears, 
 
 Man-made, immortal, scorning man; 
 
 Serene, grotesque, Olympian. 
 
[117] 
 
 PAN AND PSYCHE 
 
 (a painting by sir EDWARD BURNE-JONEs) 
 
 SWEET Psyche, hath thy quest of Love 
 So led thee to a sterile land, 
 Only to grief and fear at last? 
 What stranger this who bends above 
 Thy beauty? What unshapely hand 
 Hides in the glory of thy hair? 
 Pale wanderer, thy long sorrows past, 
 May find no solace in those eyes, 
 Though wistfully they scrutinize 
 Thy face, and, dimly, know it fair. 
 
 Go thou thy way bright Love to find ; 
 And in the bliss of his embrace 
 Thou shalt forget Pan's dusky face. 
 Go thou thy way bright Love to find; 
 While Pan, forsaken, like a brute 
 Turns to his fare of nut and root; 
 Yet change hath passed on the dark mind: 
 Nor god nor beast now, from his flute 
 Low human music haunts the wind. 
 
[ii8] 
 
 THE MADONNA 
 
 THE years may enter not her shrine; 
 Forever fair and young she stands, 
 And with her gracious, girlish hands 
 Folds tenderly the child divine. 
 
 Her lips are warm with mother-love 
 And blessedness, and from her eyes 
 Looks the mute, questioning surprise 
 
 Of one who hears a voice above 
 
 Life's voices, — from the throng apart, 
 Listens to God's low-whispered word 
 (Strange message by no other heard), 
 
 And keeps his secret in her heart. 
 
 Sweet maiden-mother, years have fled 
 Since the great painter dropped his 
 
 brush. 
 Left earth's loud praise for heaven's kind 
 hush, 
 While men bewailed him, early dead, — 
 
["9] 
 
 Yet mothers kneel before thee still 
 Uplifting happy hearts; or, wild 
 With cruel loss, reach toward thy child 
 
 Void arms for the Christ-love to fill. 
 
 Time waits without the sacred spot 
 
 Where fair and young the mother stands; 
 Time waits, and bars with jealous hands 
 
 The door where years may enter not. 
 
[ I20] 
 
 HOLY EARTH 
 
 ALICE GORDON GULICK 
 
 Buried in the Civil Cemetery, Madrid 
 
 BLEAK burial place of the unshriven 
 dead, 
 Where exile, heretic, and felon lie: 
 Here never dirge is sung, nor prayer is said, 
 Nor priestly blessing; yet stray flowers burn 
 red 
 Above great hearts that found it good 
 to die. 
 The wind, complaining, may not break 
 their rest. 
 For outcast and forgotten slumber deep; 
 But the little, nameless babies, unmothered 
 and unblessed. 
 Are crying softly, softly in their sleep. 
 
 Honored to-night and hallowed is the spot. 
 Because of one who comes its guest to be, 
 Who knew no alien race nor alien lot, ■ 
 
[121] 
 
 Who chose her grave with these whom 
 earth forgot, 
 Bringing them fellowship from over sea. 
 The sweet wind sings above their place of 
 rest, 
 And wrong and shame and sorrow slum- 
 ber deep; 
 And the little, nameless babies, mothered 
 at last and blessed. 
 Are laughing softly, softly in their sleep. 
 
 1903 
 
[ 122] 
 
 A GREETING 
 
 MY day was sordid and perplexed, 
 Close circled by the commonplace; 
 And late I walked with spirit vexed, 
 
 And sense of self-disgrace; 
 For life and I were out of tune; 
 I did not see the rose-like flush; 
 I did not feel the kindly hush 
 Of waning afternoon. 
 
 Its glory all around me lay, 
 
 While yet I paced in discontent; 
 
 When, suddenly, from far away, 
 A quivering flash was sent; 
 
 It thrilled my heart, it stayed my feet, 
 A beacon sure and glad it shone. 
 The last red gleam of day upon 
 
 Your westward window. Sweet. 
 
 And straight I knew the world was fair; 
 I heard a robin's prophet song; 
 
[123] 
 
 I drank the bright wine of the air; 
 
 My pulse grew quick and strong; 
 Not wasted seemed the day's work done; 
 
 Not hopeless seemed the thing I sought; 
 
 The far-off heights of toil and thought 
 Seemed worthy to be won. 
 
[ 124] 
 
 COMMUNION 
 
 DUSK of a lowering evening, 
 Chill of a northern zone, 
 Pitiful press of worn faces, 
 And an exiled heart alone. 
 
 Warm, as with sun of the tropic. 
 Keen, as with salt of the sea, 
 
 Sweet, as with breath of blown roses, 
 Cometh thy thought to me. 
 
[125] 
 
 I 
 
 ENTRE NOUS 
 TALK with you of foolish things and 
 
 wise, 
 
 Of persons, places, books, desires and 
 aims. 
 Yet all our words a silence underlies. 
 An earnest, vivid thought that neither 
 names. 
 
 Ah! what to us were foolish talk or wise? 
 Were persons, places, books, desires or 
 aims. 
 Without the deeper sense that underlies. 
 The sweet encircling thought that neither 
 names ? 
 
 1882 
 
[126] 
 
 INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 I. IN A BOOK OF OLD SONGS 
 
 DEAR, were you in a garden old, 
 Loved of brave troubadours 
 Who praised your hair's bewildering gold. 
 
 That glimmers and allures. 
 The greatest, wondering on your face 
 
 Between the ilex trees. 
 Might touch his lute and thrill the place 
 With sweeter songs than these. 
 
 II. IN THE BOOK THAT YOU HAVE READ 
 
 I NEED no penciled margin line; 
 By subtler emphasis. 
 Page after page, I can divine 
 Your thought of that and this. 
 
 I know that here your grave lips smiled 
 The smile that Beauty brings; 
 
 And here you listened where some wild 
 Age-smitten forest sings. 
 
[ 127 ] 
 
 Here your brow wore the world-old pain 
 
 No poet may forget; 
 And here you stayed to read again; 
 
 Here, read through lashes wet. 
 
 So, leaf by leaf, until, I deem. 
 
 Your darkened eyes forsook 
 One shining page, because your dream 
 
 Was lovelier than the book. 
 
[128] 
 
 WITH A COPY OF WHARTON'S 
 "SAPPHO" 
 
 And of Sappho few, but all roses. — Meleager. 
 
 ROSES, full-hearted as of old 
 When Meleager garlanded 
 Blossom and bough of poets dead, 
 Lie here, and with them, daintily, 
 Frail scattered petals, crimson, gold, 
 Drift to the feet of you and me 
 Unfaded, — even such vain, brief things 
 
 (Roses of Psestum, Helen's tears) 
 As lover loves, and poet sings. 
 
 And wise earth hoards through myriad 
 
 years, 
 Careless when some star disappears. 
 
 Lover and poet, to your hands 
 Red rose and golden rose I trust, 
 
 Attar distilled in sunnier lands. 
 Curled petal, sweet immortal dust. 
 
 1904 
 
[ 129] 
 
 A HEARTH-FIRE VERSE 
 
 A DIM, drowned world, where, dull 
 and cold, 
 Earth men and women groped of old; 
 A live coal brought in fennel reed 
 From the forbidden heaven of Zeus; 
 And swift on every hearthstone lit 
 Sky-flame for homely human use; 
 Sky-joy for drooping spirit's need. 
 
 Solace for those who lonely sit, 
 Loud mirth for folk who feast and sing, 
 Welcome for tired folk wandering. 
 
 Gift of the Titan's heavenly quest, 
 Keep this house ever bright and blest. 
 
 December 13, 1904 
 
[i3o] 
 
 FOR A BIRTHDAY 
 
 CORNELIA FRANCES BATES, AET. 79 
 
 LONG ago sweet songs were sung 
 y Of fair ladies ever young; 
 Weary years of war might be, 
 Wearier wanderings over sea. 
 Exile in sad lands and strange, 
 Yet their beauty might not change. 
 Not a single word is told 
 Of a Helen who grows old; 
 Not her thousand sorrows dare 
 Dull the light of Deirdre's hair; 
 Iseult, lovelier than report. 
 Maiden in her father's court, 
 Grown world-radiant shall be seen 
 Through all time, Iseult the Queen. 
 
 Deirdre, Helen, Iseult are 
 Fadeless, shining star by star; 
 If their poets I might bring, 
 Skilled to touch the harp and sing, 
 
Lady, I would bid them praise 
 
 Your brave crown of golden days; 
 
 Blithe and sweet their song should be, — 
 
 Song of her who graciously 
 
 With each soft year younger grows, 
 
 As the earth with every rose. 
 
 December 7, 1905 
 
[ 132 ] 
 
 TO 
 
 Jl/TADONNA mia! if in truth 
 ■^ '-*■ Our Raphael from heaven's palaces 
 
 Might lean across the centuries 
 That have not marred his glorious youth, 
 
 Nor dimmed the lustre of his hair, 
 Nor dulled his pencil, rather grown 
 Diviner, working near God's throne, 
 
 Even he might find a study fair 
 
 As his last fresco in the skies. 
 
 Might f)ause untouched of mortal taint 
 One infinite half hour to paint 
 
 The motherhood in your dear eyes. 
 
[ 133 ] 
 
 METEMPSYCHOSIS 
 
 I WATCH thy face, Sweetheart, with 
 half belief 
 In olden tales of the soul's wayfaring; 
 I marvel from what past thy young eyes 
 bring 
 Their heritage of long entailed grief. 
 
 I watch thy face and soft as through a 
 dream 
 I see not thee, but some fair, fated Greek, 
 Whose carven lips grow flesh straight- 
 way and speak 
 Stern words and sad, with perfect curves 
 that seem 
 
 But as the cynic sweetness of thy smile, 
 Set quivering over tears In self-despite. 
 Again I watch by mystic taper-light, 
 
 Where a pale saint doth kneel a weary 
 while; 
 
[134] 
 
 I hear the murmured passion of her prayer, 
 Imploring heaven for boon of sacrifice; 
 I read behind the rapture of her eyes 
 
 A look which thou didst teach me unaware. 
 
 The visions pass; the light, but now so 
 faint. 
 Flames red and sudden over field and 
 
 brook; 
 Thy face is turned, full fronting me with 
 look 
 Worn never yet of cynic nor of saint; 
 
 And now amid fierce Northern battle-glare, 
 Where wounded heroes wait the gods' 
 
 decree, 
 The Valkyr rides, and o'er her brow I see 
 
 The floating golden glory of thy hair. 
 
 Sweet spirit, pilgrim through the cycled 
 years. 
 Dear though thou art I may not bid 
 
 thee stay; 
 I bless thee whatsoever chartless way 
 Thou goest, God-impelled. I have no 
 fears. 
 
[135] 
 
 I know thou wilt surrender not to pain; 
 Thou wilt look never forth from coward 
 
 eyes; 
 Thou would'st not barter truth for Para- 
 dise; 
 Thou could'st not think that ease and 
 peace were gain. 
 
 Far off, I know, the darkness shall be 
 light 
 For him who scorneth to make term's 
 
 with Fate; 
 Far off for thee, Beloved, there must wait 
 The answered question, and the finished 
 fight. 
 
 1891 
 
[136] 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 THE last light falls across your pic- 
 tured face 
 (Unanswerlngsweet face, half turned away), 
 Withdrawing still, as down the west apace 
 Fades too the profile of June's longest day. 
 I wonder, did you watch an hour ago 
 While dropped the sun behind the moun- 
 tain line? 
 And did you think how it, retreating so, 
 Must blaze along this level world of mine? 
 Love, what have I to do with sunset skies, 
 How red soever? All the world for me 
 Spreads eastward, and before my spirit's 
 
 eyes, 
 Set fair between the mountains and the sea. 
 Doth stand the distant city of my heart. 
 
 Forgive me if I tell myself in vain: 
 "There is no power in this wide world to 
 part 
 
'[ 137 ] 
 
 Our souls. Avail not time nor space nor 
 
 pain, 
 For love is unconditioned," Dear, to-night, 
 I am like an unlessoned child, who cries 
 For the sweet sensual things of touch and 
 
 sight; 
 I want to read the gladness in your eyes; 
 I want your voice though but to speak my 
 
 name; 
 My heart uncomforted, unsatisfied. 
 Hath put my best philosophy to shame. 
 
 Yet if you crossed the shadows to my 
 
 side, — 
 No vision, but your very self indeed, — 
 I should not ask what kindly fate had 
 
 brought 
 My heart's desire. I should not find at 
 
 need 
 Expression for one eager waiting thought, 
 Not one of all the words I have to say. 
 I should but lean my cheek upon your 
 
 hand. 
 And hold you close, the old, mute, childish 
 
 way, 
 And you would comfort me and understand. 
 
[138] 
 
 But not to-night, — I will be patient, Sweet, 
 Sit silently, and let life have its will. 
 The tread of the last passer in the street 
 Sounds with the chiming hour, then all is 
 
 still. 
 Save that the little fountain in the park 
 Sings lazily the same old summer song 
 You knew in quiet nights when winds lay 
 
 furled. 
 I needs must dream alone here in the dark 
 A little while, to-morrow go forth strong. 
 Lifting the shield of Love against the world. 
 
 June 19, 1888 
 
[ 139 ] 
 
 TO-DAY'S DAUGHTER 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE GRADUATING CLASS AT 
 SMITH COLLEGE, JUNE, 1885 
 
 OVERY fair and strong she stands 
 to-day. 
 This youngest daughter to receive her 
 dower; 
 I see the wise World-mother smiHng lay 
 Gift after gift before her, bid her choose 
 The richest, purest, rarest, lest she lose 
 One happiness, one power. 
 
 II 
 
 Thou wise World-mother! it was long to 
 wait 
 Hoarding thy treasures while the slow 
 years passed, 
 Keeping thy cherished plan inviolate 
 
 With thine inscrutable, sweet smile, until 
 This golden hour has risen to fulfil 
 Thy dearest wish at last 
 
[ i4o] 
 
 III 
 
 For this thy child, a woman earnest-eyed, 
 Who wears thy gracious favors wor- 
 thily, 
 Pledges her honest faith, her constant pride, 
 To live her life as one who holds in trust 
 God's gold to give again, who fearless 
 must 
 Face the great days to be. 
 
 IV 
 
 Naught is denied her: mind alert, intent; 
 Eyes that look deep into the heart of 
 things; 
 A skilful hand to shape; a firm will bent 
 On purposes that have no petty ends; 
 A strength that falters not for foes nor 
 friends; 
 A soul that has swift wings. 
 
 Deep has she read of poet and of priest; 
 Wit of philosopher and lore of sage; 
 
I HI ] 
 
 And science, with its growth of great from 
 least, 
 Who bids earth's cowering, secret things 
 
 appear. 
 And stand out in this latter sunshine, 
 clear 
 As type upon God's page. 
 
 VI 
 
 Yet finds she wiser teachers, friends more 
 dear. 
 In shadowy wood-path and on clover 
 slope; 
 When the June twilight slow and still 
 creeps near, 
 And rocks put on their purple majesty; 
 When stars across the dark tell glim- 
 merlngly 
 Her happy horoscope. 
 
 VII 
 
 And sometimes, when the low moon lies 
 asleep 
 On its cloud-bed, like a fair child, play- 
 spent, 
 
[ 142] 
 
 Across the river-fields and up the steep 
 Come, silent stealing through the silver 
 
 mist, 
 Strange visitors, whose holy lips have 
 kissed 
 Death's own, yet are content. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Wide eyes that seem to bring from far-off 
 years 
 Their loves and hopes and tragedies 
 again; 
 And voices sadly cadenced to young 
 ears, 
 Yet musical with old-time gentleness; 
 And smiles that half conceal and half 
 confess 
 Some unforgotten pain. 
 
 IX 
 
 And one with voice that hath a dauntless 
 ring, 
 Saith, "From thy life, Sweet, may the 
 gods avert 
 
['43] 
 
 The need of this strange gift I dare to bring, 
 A Roman woman's strength, who will 
 
 not spare 
 A quivering death-wound at the heart 
 to wear. 
 And say it doth not hurt." 
 
 Speaketh a voice whose sound is of the sea: 
 "Oft have I paced the beach, while 
 sheer above 
 Towered the rocks, waiting immutably 
 As my heart waited. From Inarime, 
 Across the years, Vittoria brings to-day 
 Her gift of tireless love." 
 
 XI 
 
 As starlight comes through myriad miles 
 of space, 
 Undimmed, untarnished, waxing never 
 old. 
 So shineth (nor can centuries efface) 
 One light set in the sky of time afar, 
 Thy soul, Antigone, that like a star 
 Burneth with flame of gold. 
 
[ 144] 
 
 XII 
 
 Antigone, what woman were not glad 
 
 To feel against her life the touch of 
 thine ? 
 To meet thine eyes, so unafraid, if sad? 
 To hear thy words, to clasp thy potent 
 
 hand ? 
 To read thy womanhood as a command 
 To sacrifice divine? 
 
 XIII 
 
 Yet past nor present can avail to fill 
 
 This woman's thoughts, who leans and 
 listens best 
 To voices of the future, calling shrill. 
 With strain and stress of troubled des- 
 tinies, 
 Contentsheleavesherdreamsandreveries 
 For life's sublime unrest. 
 
 XIV 
 
 With steadfast step she walks in darkened 
 ways 
 Where women's curses sound, and 
 children's cries: 
 
[145] 
 
 Her gentleness shall win, her strength shall 
 raise, 
 Her love shall cleanse, her righteous 
 
 words shall burn. 
 And wasted, piteous baby-lips shall 
 learn 
 Glad laughter from her eyes. 
 
 XV 
 
 Shadow shall shrink, and sunlight shine for 
 her; 
 And love shall touch her life like a 
 caress; 
 And loyal human hearts shall minister 
 To her heart's need, who hath for joy, 
 
 for pain. 
 For sorrow's mourning, ay! and for sin's 
 stain 
 Unending tenderness. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Around her closes, quivering and 
 tense, 
 Life's narrow circle of perplexities; 
 
[146] 
 
 The clamoring hours, the hurrying events; 
 Yet shall she pass through tumult and 
 
 through crowd 
 Serene, as one who hears God's voice 
 ring loud 
 Across far silences. 
 
 Who climbs life's mountain walks with 
 tardy tread. 
 For love of flowers that smile about his 
 feet. 
 For love of pines that whisper overhead. 
 For love of wandering bird-calls, shy 
 and sweet; 
 Yet where the birds come not, beyond the 
 pines. 
 Past rock and steep and cloud, the final 
 
 height 
 Forever rises silent, stainless white. 
 Where shadow never falls, where latest 
 shines 
 The lingering light. 
 
[147] 
 
 THE COMMON CHORD 
 
 A POET sang, so light of heart was he, 
 A song that thrilled with joy in 
 every word; 
 It quivered with ecstatic melody; 
 It laughed as sunshine laughs upon the sea; 
 It caught a measure from each lilting 
 bird; 
 But though the song rang out exultantly, 
 The world passed by, with heavy step 
 
 and loud, 
 None heeding, save that, parted from 
 the crowd. 
 
 Two lovers heard. 
 
 There fell a day when sudden sorrow 
 
 smote 
 The poet's life. Unheralded it came. 
 Blotting the sun-touched page whereon he 
 
 wrote 
 
[ 148 ] 
 
 His golden song. Ah! then, from all re- 
 mote, 
 He sang the grief that had nor hope nor 
 name 
 In God's ear only; but one sobbing note 
 Reached the world's heart, and swiftly, 
 
 in the wake 
 Of bitterness and passion and heart- 
 break. 
 
 There followed fame. 
 
 1884 
 
[ 149 ] 
 
 SIDNEY LANIER 
 
 "Let my name perish: the poetry is good poetry, and 
 the music is good music; and beauty dieth not, and the 
 heart that needs it will find it." — Sidney Lanier (letter 
 to his wife). 
 
 BEFORE his eyes forever shone afar 
 The beauty that his strong soul loved 
 and sought, 
 And fast he followed it nor looked behind; 
 No way too long, too rugged, nor too dark 
 For his intent, fixed will. Close after him 
 Sorrow and Pain sped on in swift pursuit; 
 He felt their hard hands clutch to hold him 
 
 back; 
 Their breath was hot upon his fevered 
 
 cheek; 
 His eyes were weary, and his feet dropped 
 
 blood; 
 He fell at last, and yet, they were too 
 
 late. 
 For folded close In his weak hand he held 
 
[I50] 
 
 The prize their strength was impotent to 
 
 wrest. 
 Upon his forehead, growing white and chill, 
 His Love, his Art laid gentle hands that 
 
 blessed, 
 And on his spirit fell his Master's peace. 
 
 1884 
 
[151] 
 
 TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER 
 
 AM not I too a poet, though so low? 
 A little one whose songs are but 
 child-cries ; 
 A half-fledged sparrow who with weak 
 
 wings tries 
 The God-wide air that larks have win- 
 nowed, — flies 
 For shame beneath the hedges. 
 
 This I know 
 When in a certain book to-night I read 
 How a true poet pleads : Call him not dead. 
 Who, straying through the fields of Para- 
 dise, 
 Hath met with Keats and known him by 
 
 his eyes, — - 
 Sudden my own eyes filled and my heart 
 
 said: 
 "O Poet, what if in that world divine 
 Our Keats should know those poet-eyes 
 of thine, 
 
[152] 
 
 And claim with thee a spirit's brotherhood 
 In love of beauty? What if Dante should 
 (Hearing: On earth this bard writ The 
 
 New Day) 
 Turn his grave, searching eyes on thee and 
 
 say: 
 * Thy young world hath fair ladies, sure, 
 
 and good. 
 And thou hast been Love's liegeman true 
 
 like me. 
 But walked, methinks, a somewhat easier 
 
 way.' " 
 
 When God's true poets meet above the 
 skies. 
 Above all wrong and failure, it may be 
 They deign to speak, with gentle words 
 and wise, 
 Of those left singing yet a little while 
 (Here in the shadow, singing to the sun) 
 They weigh the good attempted, the good 
 done, 
 And, hearing a true note, look down and 
 smile. 
 
 January, l888 
 
[153] 
 
 TO A DEAD POET 
 
 UNCHANGED, serene, the Roman 
 sky 
 Watches where Shelley's ashes He; 
 About his grave slow ivy creeps, 
 On stone and wall and cypress sleeps 
 The silentness of four score years; 
 Yet, somewhere, Shelley's spirit hears, 
 Indignant, sorrowful, elate. 
 The story of the Narva Gate; 
 And, somewhere, Shelley's eyes look forth 
 On that white city in the North, ' 
 Beholding how the snow lies red 
 With blood of her most holy dead. 
 
 Tumultuous heart, yet wise as age 
 To read the far, sublime presage! 
 Though snow, new fallen, fold away 
 That piteous blood of yesterday; 
 Though a mad people, blind, betrayed. 
 Wreak blood with blood, thou, unafraid, 
 Must see no less a lovelier earth 
 Slowly from chaos brought to birth. 
 
['54] 
 
 These many years the joyous sea 
 
 Encircles reborn Italy, 
 
 But thy clear message flashes still, 
 
 Kindling men's hearts to deathless will, 
 
 Lighting men's holier thought and speech, 
 
 Yet Impotent alway to teach 
 
 One lesson to crowned bigotry. 
 
 prophet, prophet! dost thou see 
 
 How "Northern Anarchs" cringe and hide 
 To-day, like peasants terrified. 
 Under the patient, scornful sun, 
 Bourbon by Romanoff outdone? 
 
 1 think thou hast no eyes for these, 
 So transient are earth's tyrannies; 
 Only the stricken hope divine 
 Reaches that high abode of thine; 
 And thou art glad among thy peers 
 To see men offer blood and tears, 
 Exile and life, in sacrifice. 
 
 Even as of old. 
 
 Thy southern skies 
 Know the keen call of battling truth; 
 Poet, In thine immortal youth. 
 Come back to us one hour and sing 
 The grief and glory of this thing! 
 
 January 23, 1905 
 
[155] 
 
 GOD AND THE SINGER 
 
 GOD sat In heaven when all the harps 
 were still; 
 God leaned and listened, listened toward 
 
 the earth; 
 Tall angels stood with finger upon lip. 
 Only the stars were singing as at first. 
 
 God's voice in heaven was like a mourning 
 
 stream: 
 "I hear the sound of laughter among men, 
 I hear the sound of trade, of war, of grief; 
 I miss the sound of singing among men." 
 
 God called his swiftest angel: " Gabriel, 
 Go seek me out a singer on the earth, 
 And bid him make me music of men's deeds." 
 
 When Gabriel's wings were silent In far air, 
 God said: "Let play," and all the seven- 
 stringed harps 
 Made joy in heaven. 
 
[156] 
 
 II 
 
 The singer knelt before God's throne In 
 
 heaven, 
 Abashed and weary, with a broken lute; 
 And all the harps were still because God 
 
 spoke. 
 God's voice in heaven was like the wistful sea: 
 "My singer, I have waited for thy song." 
 The singer spoke in heaven: "Have pity, 
 
 Lord! 
 Thine angel bade me wander through the 
 
 world. 
 To make thee music of the deeds of men. 
 And I went gladly, ever fain to sing; 
 And my lute whispered : ' Master, let us make 
 Songs of brave men in battle, fighting wrong 
 And loving death, for such songs please 
 
 God's ear.' 
 I stood among the greatest of earth's folk. 
 Where armies mustered, and where ships 
 
 set sail, 
 And where the wise took counsel, so to hear 
 Some theme of glory, and beneath my hand 
 I felt my lute a-thrill." The singer bent 
 Lower, and hid his face from God in heaven. 
 
[157] 
 
 "I learned no theme of honor and great 
 
 death; 
 Lord, strong folk trample weak folk for 
 
 bright gold, 
 And wise folk outwit simple for bright gold, 
 And liberty is trafficked for bright gold, 
 And no man thinks of glory, nor of thee." 
 God bowed his head in heaven; the angels 
 
 wept. 
 "I might not make thee muslcof men's deeds. 
 But my lute whispered: 'Master, let us 
 
 make. 
 Since God is love, a new song of men's love-' 
 And I went gladly, thinking how for love 
 Bird mates with bird and man with maiden 
 
 still, 
 As when the world was young. Beneath 
 
 my hand 
 I felt my lute strings warm. But, when I 
 
 sang, 
 Men laughed aloud in the great market- 
 place, 
 Crying: 'Thou fool! We sell love for 
 
 bright gold!' 
 Then, Lord, my lute strings broke under 
 
 my hand. 
 
[158] 
 
 The lute no more gave counsel, but my 
 
 heart 
 Said: 'Yonder men are praying in the 
 
 church. 
 Go, and make God sweet music of men's 
 
 prayers.' 
 And I went gladly, knowing song is prayer. 
 But when I knelt before thine altar, Lord, 
 My heart grew wise and terrible, and said: 
 'That priest beneath the cross serves for 
 
 bright gold. 
 That kneeling prince is perjured for bright 
 
 gold, 
 And poor men beg and shiver at the door.' 
 Then I crept forth between the beggars, 
 
 dumb. 
 
 "I might not make thee music of men's 
 prayers, 
 
 Lord, nor of men's loves, nor of men's 
 
 deeds. 
 Behold! my lute is broken, and my heart." 
 
 God's voice in heaven was like a silver reed: 
 "Arise, my singer, thou must forth again; 
 
 1 know that there is music on my earth." 
 
[159] 
 
 The singer stood and spoke out bold in 
 
 heaven: 
 "O Lord, if thou wilt send me forth again, 
 I will not go to the great folk and strong. 
 Find me some simple country on thy 
 
 earth, 
 The least and poorest, so its fields be green. 
 Where I may watch men laugh, and weep, 
 
 and love; 
 Where I may heal my heart, and mend my 
 
 lute, 
 And sing to thee of birds and beasts and 
 
 flowers, 
 And sing to thee of clouds and winds and 
 
 seas; 
 And when I have forgotten greed and gold 
 May haply make thee music of men's 
 
 hearts, 
 
 >) 
 
 And now all heaven grew fairer, for God 
 smiled. 
 
 God called his angel of the sweetest name: 
 "Go, Raphael, thou shalt lead my singer 
 
 forth. 
 Find him my poorest land where fields are 
 
 green. 
 
[i6o] 
 
 That he may heal his heart, and mend his 
 lute, 
 
 And sing to me of birds and beasts and 
 flowers, 
 
 And sing to me of clouds and winds and 
 seas. 
 
 And, after, make me music of men's hearts," 
 
 Singer and angel bowed before God's 
 throne 
 
 And went their way. Then all the seven- 
 stringed harps 
 
 Made joy in heaven. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Again God sat in heaven when harps were 
 
 still. 
 God leaned and listened, listened toward 
 
 the earth; 
 The angels stood with finger upon lip; 
 Only the stars were singing as at first. 
 God's voice in heaven was like the wind in 
 
 June: 
 "I hear my singer in a small, green land. 
 Listen, he makes me music of men's hearts." 
 
 1902 
 
THE SHEPHERDS 
 
THE SHEPHERDS 
 
 First Shepherd, a youth: 
 
 I saw a wonder as I came along: 
 Out of the sky there dropped a shining 
 song. 
 
 I do not know if stars in heaven have 
 
 wings; 
 
 But look, and listen! there it soars and 
 sings. 
 
 Second Shepherd, an old man: 
 
 My eyes are dazzled, for the light is 
 strong. 
 
 The Angel: 
 
 I bring good tidings, Shepherds, have 
 no fear: 
 
 The Saviour of the whole world is come 
 near. 
 
 A child is born to-night in Bethlehem 
 Who brings great joy to all, and most to 
 
 them 
 Who are most poor. The King! The 
 
 King is here! 
 
 163 
 
[i64] 
 
 First Shepherd: 
 
 Where is his palace? Can we find the 
 way? 
 
 Second Shepherd: 
 
 We have had kings enough. Must we 
 
 go pay 
 More taxes to a new one? 
 
 The Angel: 
 
 Come and bring 
 The love of simple hearts unto this king. 
 
 Third Shepherd^ a man of middle age: 
 I could bring only tears where a child lay. 
 
 First Shepherd {aside): 
 
 Why can he not forget his year-old pain? 
 
 Second Shepherd {aside): 
 
 Hearts that break slowly will not heal 
 again. 
 
 The Angel: 
 
 Good-will, good-will and peace to all the 
 
 earth! 
 Born in a cattle stable, lo! his birth 
 Is holy. King of Love, he comes to reign. 
 
[i65] 
 
 Third Shepherd: 
 
 When harvests fail, and all the sheep 
 are dead, 
 
 And little children cry and cry for bread. 
 
 Grow tired at last, and sicken and lie 
 still, 
 
 Will any sing of peace there and good- 
 will 
 
 To us who watch beside an empty bed? 
 
 First Shepherd: 
 
 I think that when the King of Love is 
 
 grown, 
 And hearts of men are loving like his 
 
 own, 
 He who has gold will with his brother 
 
 share; 
 There will be bread and wine and fire to 
 
 spare; 
 For who can love, yet sit and feast 
 
 alone ? 
 
 Second Shepherd: 
 
 Quick let us go! These dim old eyes 
 
 would see 
 A king who comes in peace and poverty. 
 
[i66] 
 
 First Shepherd: 
 
 I see a hundred white stars drifting down; 
 They circle yonder over Bethlehem town. 
 
 Chorus of Angels: 
 
 Glory to God! Good-will to men shall 
 be. 
 
THE DWARF'S QUEST 
 A BALLAD 
 
THE DWARF'S QUEST 
 
 SIR DAGONET was sad of heart; 
 Beneath the city gate 
 He watched King Arthur's knights depart; 
 He watched In love and hate. 
 
 He saw great tears fall from the eyes 
 
 Of Lancelot and the King; 
 He thought: "Apart the sweet Queen lies, 
 
 And knows no comforting." 
 
 Sir Perclvale and Galahad 
 
 Rode by In shining mall; 
 He marked their eyes, assured and glad, 
 
 And cursed the Holy Grail. 
 
 Though many passed and saw him not, . 
 
 He hoarded, In his pain, 
 A smile from sad Sir Lancelot, 
 
 Three sweet words from Gawaln. 
 
 King Arthur's fool was Dagonet, 
 An impish, mocking thing; 
 
 169 
 
[ lyo] 
 
 His wont by day to carp and fret, 
 At night to dance and sing. 
 
 The foot and fist of rude Sir Kay 
 He bore with jest and sneer; 
 
 But wept to meet on any day 
 The eyes of Guinevere. 
 
 That night he sat without the gate, 
 
 Close by the city wall, 
 Till King and court, returning late. 
 
 Climbed sadly toward the Hall. 
 
 He thought of all the good knights bent 
 On unknown, wandering ways; 
 
 He thought of feast and tournament. 
 And laughter of old days. 
 
 He would not enter with his King; 
 
 He heard the warder call. 
 Yet waited, crouched and shivering, 
 
 Beside the city wall. 
 
 Crooked and weak was Dagonet, 
 
 What might to him avail 
 The hope whereon high hearts were set, 
 
 To find the Holy Grail .? 
 
[171] 
 
 Yet ice and flame were in his breast; 
 
 He hid his curling lip, 
 And wept for fierce desire to quest 
 
 With the great Fellowship. 
 
 On nameless, shining paths afar, 
 
 Where'er the vision bade, 
 He saw them ride, — saw like a star 
 
 The face of Galahad. 
 
 Then on his heart fell unforgot, 
 
 More soft than April rain, 
 The smile of sad Sir Lancelot, 
 
 The sweet words of Gawain. 
 
 And Dagonet the jester laid 
 
 His face against the stone. 
 And prayed to Him who once had prayed 
 
 In blood and tears alone; 
 
 And lo! a strange voice reached his ears, 
 
 Borne on soft-drifting wings; 
 'Twas gentler than Queen Guinevere's, 
 
 'T was kinglier than the King's. 
 
 It spake: "Thou foolish one, look up! 
 Believe, and be thou glad; 
 
[ 172 ] 
 
 There waits one vision of the Cup 
 For thee and Galahad." 
 
 But Dagonet cried: "Lord, to me 
 
 What may thy grace avail, 
 Since, late, in wrath and misery, 
 
 I cursed the Holy Grail?" 
 
 Low in the dust knelt Dagonet; 
 
 The sweet voice filled the air: 
 "Thy cursing lips I do forget, 
 
 Because of thy heart's prayer." 
 
 Next day 't was told through Camelot, 
 
 With pity or with jest. 
 That Dagonet the dwarf came not 
 
 Because he rode the Quest. 
 
 Next day and next, for many a day, 
 
 Sir Dagonet rode hard; 
 Sometimes deep forest blurred his way, 
 
 Or swollen torrent barred; 
 
 But everywhere the bright spring laid 
 
 Her gold about his feet; 
 And every hour the high Quest made 
 
 Hope at his heart stir sweet. 
 
[ 173] 
 
 At hermitage and castle gate 
 
 He asked, alway in vain: 
 Nor Lancelot had passed of late, 
 
 Nor Bors, nor good Gawain. 
 
 Now once It chanced that his path ran 
 
 Along a riverside, . 
 Till, where a chestnut wood began. 
 
 He saw the ways divide. 
 
 And close beneath the roadside cross 
 There lay a wounded knight; 
 
 His blood was black upon the moss, 
 And dimmed his armor bright. 
 
 Sir Dagonet bent low and gazed 
 In eyes that knew him not; 
 
 Then, weeping, to his heart he raised 
 The head of Lancelot. 
 
 Past midnight, when the moon was set, 
 
 And utter dark the night. 
 Round Lancelot and Dagonet 
 
 There shone a sudden light. 
 
[i74] 
 
 And in the light, soft-footing, came 
 Four maidens grave and pale; 
 
 In lifted hands that burned like flame, 
 One bore the Holy Grail. 
 
 Unveiled the Holy Chalice gleamed; 
 
 Sweet odors filled the air; 
 The roadside cross an altar seemed, 
 
 The winds were chant and prayer. 
 
 The dwarf knelt low in that blest place, 
 
 Adored, and trembled not; 
 Then, with swift sorrow on his face, 
 
 He turned to Lancelot. 
 
 He cried: "My lord, awake and see! 
 
 Methinks thy quest is done! 
 The Holy Grail doth shine on thee 
 
 More bright than moon or sun!" 
 
 Sir Lancelot groaned, but spake no word; 
 
 He had nor voice, nor will; 
 Perchance the heavy eyelids stirred 
 
 One moment, and were still. 
 
 Swift as it came the vision went; 
 The dwarf moaned bitterly: 
 
[175] 
 
 "My answered prayer is punishment 
 Since my lord might not seel" 
 
 He groped to find where the cross stood, 
 
 There was no ray of light; 
 He prayed: "Thou to the fool art good, 
 
 Be gracious to the knight." 
 
 He cried and prayed beneath the cross, 
 With foolish words and wild; 
 
 But Lancelot upon the moss 
 Slept like a little child. 
 
 And in the dawning of the day 
 
 The dwarf forgot to weep, 
 Seeing how fair Sir Lancelot lay, 
 
 A-smiling in his sleep. 
 
 Sir Dagonet fell on his knee; 
 
 He fingered head and limb; 
 And said: "The Grail was shown to me. 
 
 Its healing was for him. 
 
 "He will awaken whole and strong 
 
 As ever he hath been; 
 He need not know his trance was long. 
 
 Nor what the fool hath seen." 
 
[176] 
 
 He sprang to horse: "Farewell, Sir Knight, 
 
 Thy high vow shall not fail; 
 Some happier day thou shalt alight 
 
 Upon the Holy Grail." 
 
 When birds from sky and tree and ground 
 
 Sang loud and broke his rest, 
 Sir Lancelot rose blithe and sound 
 
 To fare upon his quest. 
 
 But fast while morning hours were cool, 
 And slow when noon waxed hot. 
 
 Sir Dagonet, King Arthur's fool, 
 Rode back to Camelot. 
 
 At Camelot, with boisterous cries, 
 
 Men asked him of his quest, 
 Till something in the rider's eyes 
 
 Silenced the merry jest. 
 
 Sir Dagonet dwelt with the court; 
 
 He mused on what had been; 
 By night he made them goodly sport; 
 
 By day he served the Queen. 
 
[ 177] 
 
 One slow, still morn of summer's prime, 
 Through fields of yellow grain. 
 
 With saddened brow, before his time, 
 Rode back the good Gawain. 
 
 But when the long nights of the year 
 Darkened, and word came not, 
 
 Sir Dagonet and Guinevere 
 Prayed for Sir Lancelot. 
 
 Like swallows when winds first blow sweet, 
 The knights came one by one; 
 
 Each told of travail and defeat, 
 And how his quest was done. 
 
 Till, when the third bright June befell. 
 
 And nightingales were glad. 
 From out the east came Bors to tell 
 
 Of young Sir Galahad, 
 
 How won was the most Holy Quest: 
 
 How Percivale and he 
 Were laid 'neath sacred earth to rest 
 
 In Sarras over sea. 
 
[178] 
 
 For Galahad brave eyes were wet, 
 
 And gentle Percivale; 
 None ever heard how Dagonet 
 
 Achieved the Holy Grail. 
 
THE DAUGHTER OF JORIO 
 
 A PASTORAL TRAGEDY 
 
 From the Italian of Gabriels D'Annhnzio 
 (unfinished) 
 
The Persons of the Tragedy 
 
 Lazaro di Roio, Candia della Leonessa, Aligi, Splendore, 
 Favetta, Ornella, Maria di Giave, Vienda. 
 
 Teodula di Cinzio, La Cinerella, Monica della Cogna, Anna 
 di Bova, Felavia Sesara, La Catalana delle Tre 
 Bisacce, Maria Cora. 
 
 Mila di Codra. 
 
 Feme di Nerfa, lenne dell' Eta, lona di Midia. 
 
 The Old Herb Woman, the Treasure Seeker, the Saint of 
 the Mountains, the Demoniac Boy. 
 
 A Shepherd, another Shepherd. 
 
 A Reaper, another Reaper. 
 
 The Crowd. 
 
 Chorus of Kinsfolk, Chorus of Reapers, Chorus of Mourners. 
 
 Scene 
 The Country of the Abruzzi, many years ago. 
 
ACT I 
 
 A room on the ground floor of a rustic 
 house. The great door opens upon a sunny 
 threshing-floor; and a scarf of scarlet wool 
 is stretched across the door to impede pass- 
 ers; the scarf is held at one end by a pitch- 
 fork and at the other hy a distaff, and 
 against one of the lintels hangs a cross of 
 wax to protect the house from evil spirits. 
 A closed door draped with myrtle is in the 
 wall at the right; and against this wall 
 stand three wooden chests. At the left, in 
 the depth of the wall, is a chimney with a 
 deep hood; and a little farther on a small 
 door, and near this a loom. 
 
 There are various utensils and pieces of 
 furniture about the room, such as chests 
 of drawers, benches, shelves, reels, spindles, 
 skeins of hemp and wool hanging upon a 
 cord stretched between two nails; mortars, 
 jars, bowls, salt-jars and flasks made from 
 gourds emptied and dried. And there is 
 an ancient kneading-trough, on which is 
 
 i8i 
 
[I82] 
 
 carved an image of Our Lady. There is a 
 jug of water and a table. From the ceiling 
 hangs by cords a long shelf laden with 
 cheeses. Two barred windows five or six 
 feet from the floor make light at the sides of 
 the great door, and each has its sprig of red 
 buckwheat to ward off evil spirits. 
 
 Scene i 
 
 Splendore, Favetta, and Ornella, the three 
 sisters, are kneeling in front of the 
 three chests that contain the bridal out- 
 fit, choosing garments for the bride. 
 Their fresh voices are like the morning 
 songs of birds. * 
 
 Splendore : 
 
 What wilt thou have, VIenda, dearest? 
 
 Favetta : 
 
 Our Httle sister, newest, nearest! 
 
 Splendore : 
 
 Wilt thou have a gown of woollen ? 
 Or wilt thou have one soft and silken, 
 All with blossoms overspread. 
 Blossoms yellow and blossoms red? 
 
[i83] 
 
 Ornella, singing : 
 
 Only green I would be wearing, 
 To San Giovanni's feast a-faring. 
 Green, for by a sweet green way 
 One came to woo me on a day. 
 Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 
 
 Splendore : 
 
 Here is the bodice of broidery. 
 And the little silver stomacher; 
 Here is the twelve-gored skirt for her 
 And here, little sister, look and see 
 The necklace a hundred corals long, 
 That thy new mother gives to thee! 
 
 Ornella, singing : 
 
 Only of green the drapery 
 
 For the chamber on a wedding-day; 
 
 Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 
 
 Favetta : 
 
 What wilt thou have, Vienda, dearest? 
 
 Splendore : 
 
 Our little sister, newest, nearest ! 
 
 Ornella : 
 
 Here are necklace and earrings for the 
 bride. 
 
[i84] 
 
 And a little red ribbon, gayly tied. 
 Now the bell goes ringing, ringing, 
 The great bell that rings at noon. 
 
 Splendore: 
 All the kinsfolk will come soon; 
 All the folk, they come a-bringing 
 Baskets of the ripe spring wheat, 
 And thou art not ready, sweet. 
 
 Ornella : 
 
 The silly sheep on the hillside 
 Feeding, does not know 
 
 How the wolf seeks through the valley 
 To find where filberts grow. 
 Fresh little filberts and pistachio. 
 
 What a bride for early waking! 
 
 Like the little mole she sleeps, 
 But he 's up when dawn is breaking. 
 
 And out the dormouse peeps. 
 And even the badger who sleeps well. 
 O listen, listen to the bell! 
 
 She sings her little song rapidly, then breaks 
 into a great laugh; and the others laugh 
 with her. 
 
[i85] 
 
 The three sisters: 
 Aligi! Allgi! art thou here? 
 
 Splendore: 
 Wilt thou wear clothes of velvet, dear? 
 
 Favetta: 
 
 Would'st thou like to sleep for a century 
 With the sleeping beauty, thou and she? 
 
 Splendore: 
 
 Thy father In the fields is reaping, 
 Brother mine, since the day-star, peeping. 
 Was mirrored bright in the sickle's blade. 
 The sickle whose toil is never stayed. 
 
 Favetta: 
 
 And thy mother has put spice in the wine. 
 And in the water is anise, fine. 
 And cloves are thrust into the meat. 
 And the newmade cheese with thyme is 
 sweet. 
 
 Splendore: 
 
 And a yearling lamb they killed last 
 
 night. 
 His head was spotted black and white. 
 He is for the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
[i86] 
 
 Favetta: 
 
 And the left shoulder is set aside 
 For the old prophet, Ustorgio 
 Of La Fara, that he may 
 Foretell good luck on your wedding- 
 day. 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 To-morrow, to-morrow is San Giovanni, 
 
 Brother dear, it is San Giovanni! 
 
 Up to La Plaia I will run 
 
 To see poor San Giovanni's head 
 
 Lie within the rising sun. 
 
 To see, in a platter of bright gold, 
 
 How his blood is bubbling red. 
 
 Favetta: 
 
 Up, Vienda, golden head! 
 Wild periwinkles are thine eyes. 
 In the harvest-field, new fallen, lies 
 The wheat that is like thy golden hair. 
 
 Splendore: 
 
 Listen, listen, what says the mother? 
 "Once I had three olive-trees. 
 And now a blossoming-plum with these, 
 My three daughters, and yet another." - 
 
[i87] 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 Pale plum-blossom, lazy one, 
 Why art thou waiting? Writing the sun 
 A little blue letter, that will pray 
 Him never, never set to-day? 
 
 She laughs and her sisters laugh with her. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 From the little door enters their mother, 
 Candia della Leonessa. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 Ah, little crickets, chatterers three, 
 One in a fury of merry song 
 Burst his sides in the poplar-tree. 
 Now the cocks will crow no more 
 To waken those who sleep too long. 
 There '11 be only cicalas singing soon. 
 Three cicalas at high noon. 
 A chamber they took with a fast-shut 
 
 door 
 For a leafy nook in the poplar's shade, 
 But the bride hears not a word that's 
 
 said. 
 Allgl! Aligi! O my son! 
 
[i88] 
 
 The door opens and the bridegroom comes in, 
 gravely saluting. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Praised be Maria and Gesu! 
 
 And you, O mother, who gave to me 
 
 This flesh baptized in the Trinity. 
 
 Mother, blessed may you be! 
 
 Blessed be ye, sisters three. 
 
 Flowers of this blood of mine, 
 
 Forgive, for me, the cross I sign 
 
 On the brow, that, there, the evil one 
 
 May never pass in life or death; 
 
 That flame touch not, nor fiery breath, 
 
 Nor taint of poison, nor any stain; 
 
 That tears bathe not, nor sweat of pain. 
 
 Holy Spirit, Father, Son! 
 
 The sisters cross themselves and gathering 
 up the garments pass through the little 
 door. Aligi draws near to his mother 
 as if under a spell. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 Flesh of my living flesh, I touch thy brow 
 With this bread that is made of finest 
 wheat, 
 
[i89] 
 
 Made In the trough that was a century 
 
 old 
 Before thy birth, yes, and before my 
 
 birth, 
 Rolled out upon the board a century old, 
 Moulded with these my hands that 
 
 tended thee. 
 
 I touch thy forehead that it may be pure, 
 I touch thy breast that it be without 
 
 pain; 
 I touch this shoulder, so, and this, that 
 
 they 
 May guide thy arms, arms that are 
 
 strong for toil. 
 And that thy love may lean her sweet 
 
 cheek here. 
 Oh, may Christ speak to thee, and 
 
 mayest thou hear! 
 
 With the bread the mother makes the sign of 
 the cross over her son who falls on his 
 knees before her. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 I laid me down and slept, and dreamed 
 of Christ; 
 
[ i9o] 
 
 Christ spoke to me and said: "Be not 
 
 afraid." 
 And San Giovanni spoke: "Be sure," 
 
 he said, 
 "Without the taper's light thou wilt not 
 
 He;" 
 He said: "An evil death thou wilt not 
 
 die." 
 
 And you, O mother! have chosen for 
 
 me my fate, 
 O! mother you have chosen a bride for 
 
 me, 
 A bride for your son. In your house to be. 
 My mother, you have brought to me a 
 
 bride. 
 That with me on the pillow she may 
 
 sleep; 
 That she and I may eat from the one 
 
 dish. 
 I pasture flocks upon the mountain side; 
 O mother! I must go back to my 
 
 sheep ! 
 
 The mother touches his brow with her hand 
 as if to drive away an evil shadow. 
 
[191] 
 
 Candia: 
 
 Rise up, rise up, my son, strange words 
 
 are these! 
 Thy words change colour even while thou 
 
 dost speak, 
 As when the wind blows through the 
 
 olive-trees. 
 
 The son rises, dazed. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Where is my father that I see him not? 
 
 Candia: 
 
 Down in the wheat-field with the har- 
 vesters. 
 
 Binding the sheaves there in the grace 
 of God. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 I reaped the grain once in his body's 
 
 shade. 
 I was so little that I had not made 
 My first communion. My head reached 
 
 his thigh. 
 The first time that I struck, I cut a 
 
 vein. 
 
[ 192] 
 
 Here, where the scar is. With fresh 
 leaves they stayed 
 
 The flowing of the blood. My father 
 said: 
 
 "Aligi, son," he said, "Aligi, son, 
 
 Give up the sickle, and take to thee the 
 crook, 
 
 And be a shepherd on the mountain- 
 side." 
 
 And all that he commanded has been 
 done. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 My son, my son, what is it pains thee 
 
 thus.? 
 Perhaps it is the burden of thy dream.? 
 Thy words are like the twilight when it 
 
 falls. 
 And one sits on the stone by the wayside, 
 And follows not the road, because he 
 
 knows 
 He may not come where his heart doth 
 
 abide, 
 When twilight falls while yet one cannot 
 
 hear 
 The Ave Maria sounding far or near. 
 
[ 193 ] 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Back to the mountain I must be return- 
 ing. 
 
 Mother, where have you put my shep- 
 herd's crook 
 
 Which knows by night and day the 
 grassy paths? 
 
 I want it, when our kinsfolk come to-day, 
 
 That they may see how I have carved 
 it all. 
 
 The mother brings the crook from a corner 
 near the fireplace. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 Here it is, son; thy sisters, look and see, 
 For San Giovanni they have decked it 
 
 out 
 With red clove-pinks and spicy garden 
 
 herbs. 
 
 Aligi, showing the carving: 
 
 I have them in the red wood of my crook, 
 Always, and in my hand, my sisters three. 
 Who go with me along the grassy paths. 
 Here are three little maidens, mother, 
 look, 
 
[ 194] 
 
 And here three angels flying over them, 
 And here three trailing stars, and here 
 
 three doves. 
 And for each one I have made a little 
 
 flower. 
 And this is the sun, and this the crescent 
 
 moon; 
 This is the stole, and this the sacrament; 
 And this, see, this is San Biagio's tower. 
 This is the river, here, and this my house, 
 But who is this that stands within the 
 
 door? 
 
 Candia: 
 Aligi, Aligi, why wilt thou make me 
 weep ? 
 
 Jligi: 
 
 And there, low down, near to the iron 
 
 foot. 
 There is the shepherd, and there are the 
 
 sheep; 
 Shepherd and sheep and mountain all are 
 
 there. 
 I must go to the mountain and the sheep. 
 Even though you weep, my mother, even 
 
 though I weep. 
 
[195] 
 
 He leans both hands on the crook and hows 
 his head absorbed in thought. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 And Hope, Aligi, where hast thou put 
 her? 
 
 Jligi: 
 
 Her face I never yet could learn to know, 
 That I might carve It, mother, verily. 
 
 j4 wild clamor is heard far off. 
 
 O mother, who is this that shrieks so 
 loud? 
 
 Candia: 
 
 It is the tumult of the harvesters; 
 God save them from the madness of the 
 
 sun; 
 And may the Baptist keep their hands 
 
 from blood! 
 
 jiligi: 
 
 Mother, whoever put that red scarf 
 
 there. 
 Stretched out across the doorway of our 
 
 house. 
 And leaned the distaff and the pitchfork 
 
 there? 
 
[196] 
 
 If evil things are not to enter there, 
 Ah, pile the plough and cart and oxen 
 
 there. 
 Against the sill, and heap up stones and 
 
 sods, 
 And all the lime of all the furnaces. 
 And the rock with Samson's footprint 
 
 pile above, 
 And heap Maiella there with all its 
 
 snows. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 My son, what is it stirring in thy heart? 
 Christ said to thee that thou shouldst 
 
 have no fear. 
 Art thou awake.? Look at the cross of 
 
 wax, 
 For it was blessed on last Ascension Day; 
 And holy water was sprinkled on the 
 
 hinge. 
 There is no evil thing can enter there. 
 It was thy sisters stretched the scarf 
 
 across. 
 It is the prize that thou thyself didst 
 
 win. 
 
[ 197 ] 
 
 Before thou hadst turned shepherd, O 
 
 my son, 
 Didst win it, victor in the ploughing 
 
 match. 
 Dost thou remember? They have placed 
 
 it there 
 That it may stop our kinsfolk as they 
 
 pass. 
 That, passing, each may give a pleasant 
 
 gift. 
 Why dost thou ask? Thou knowest 
 
 the custom well. 
 
 O mother, I have slept seven hundred 
 
 years. 
 Seven hundred years; and I am come 
 
 from far. 
 My cradle, mother, I remember not. 
 
 Candia: 
 
 What is the matter, son? Are thy 
 
 words mad? 
 Has thy bride poured for thee, perchance, 
 
 black wine. 
 And thou, from fasting, art frenzied by 
 
 the wine. 
 
[198] 
 
 So that thy feeling overbears thy 
 
 thought? 
 O Mary, Virgin, give, oh, give me peace! 
 
 Voice of Ornella, singing: 
 Only the green I would be wearing. 
 To San Giovanni's feast a-faring; 
 Green, for by a sweet green way 
 One came to win me on a day, — 
 Well-a-way, ah, well-a-way! 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 The bride enters, accompanied hy the 
 sisters of Aligi and is welcomed by his 
 mother with various household ceremonies. 
 An evil omen follows: Vienda and Aligi are 
 solemnly seated before the door of the bridal 
 chamber, when Vienda, rising suddenly, lets 
 the split loaf of bread, which Candia has 
 given her, fall to the floor. All are filled with 
 dismay. Ornella calls upon San Sisto to 
 drive all evil from their home. 
 
 ^ Miss Jewett was at work upon this translation during 
 the last summer of her life, but did not complete it. The 
 editors have briefly indicated the plot of the longer por- 
 tions omitted: Act I, Scenes 3, 4, and 5, and Act III. 
 
[i99] 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 The kinswomen come in, bearing on their 
 heads baskets of grain trimmed with ribbons. 
 Upon the grain in each basket lies a loaf of 
 bread and in each loaf a flower is thrust. 
 The women enter one by one with rural cere- 
 monies, calling down blessings upon the 
 bride at whose feet they place the baskets. 
 They scatter a little grain upon the heads of 
 bride and bridegroom. A bell is ringing. 
 Without are heard the voices of reapers; 
 they seem to increase in number and to draw 
 nearer. Suddenly a woman's cry is heard: 
 ^'' Help for Chrisfs sake. People of God, 
 people of God, save me! " 
 
 Scene 5 
 
 The woman rushes in, breathless from 
 haste and fright. She is covered with dust 
 and thorns, like a hunted animal. She 
 cowers in the chimney corner, calling upon 
 the good people to save her; to shut and bolt 
 the door: the reapers, crazed by sun and by 
 wine, are after her like mad dogs. The 
 
[ 200 ] 
 
 Other zvomen crowd together on the opposite 
 side of the room. Suddenly Ornella runs 
 and shtits and holts the door. She approaches 
 the frightened stranger, speaking gently, and 
 brings her a howl of wine and water. The 
 uproar without grows louder and nearer; 
 the reapers call brutally and beat upon the 
 door. One of them looks through the window 
 bars and spies the stra^iger; at this the mob 
 grows zvilder. They call out to Candia that 
 the girl she is hiding is Mila di Codra, the 
 daughter of the magician, Jorio. They use 
 threats and evil words at which the sisters 
 stop their ears. The kinsfolk clamor, urging 
 Aligi to drive the stranger forth; his mother 
 commands him to do so. He approaches 
 Mila and draws aside the veil which has 
 covered her head. He stares at her as if 
 bewitched, forgetting to drop the end of the 
 veil. Then he starts to drive her out. Mila 
 begs for protection and warns him that the 
 hearth is sacred, where she has taken refuge. 
 Aligi, blind with rage and fear at the viola- 
 tion of his hearth, raises his crook to strike 
 her. His sisters try to protect her, weeping. 
 Suddenly Aligi falls on his knees, crying 
 
[201 ] 
 
 out that he sees the mute angel weeping like 
 his sisters. It is he who has sinned against 
 the hearth. He begs his sisters to pray for 
 him and to care for Mila, and he takes 
 the flowers of San Giovanni from his crook 
 and lays them at her feet. He tries to hum 
 the offending hand with a coal from the fire. 
 The threats of the reapers are renewed with 
 more and more violence. The women kneel 
 and begin the Litany. Aligi places the wax 
 crucifix upon the threshold and opens the 
 door: "Good Christians, this cross was 
 blessed upon Ascension Day. I have placed 
 it on the threshold that you may guard your- 
 selves from sinning against the poor girl 
 who has taken refuge on this hearth. Reapers 
 of Norca, may Heaven help you.'''' The 
 reapers uncover, reach out their hands to 
 touch the cross, put their hands to their lips 
 and silently withdraw. The Litany con- 
 tinues. Lazaro di Roio comes in, wounded, 
 his head bound up. Mila veils herself 
 again and creeps to the door, waiting a chance 
 to escape. 
 
[ 202 ] 
 
 ACT II 
 
 A mountain cavern partly furnished with 
 hoards, brushzvood, and straw, with a wide 
 opening toward a stony path. Through the 
 cave'' s great mouth are seen green pastures, 
 snowy peaks, wandering clouds. There are 
 couches of sheepskins, tables of rough wood, 
 wallets and wine skins, full and empty. 
 There is a turner'' s lathe for turning and carv- 
 ing, with hatchet, plane, knife, file and other 
 instruments, and near by finished objects: 
 distaffs, spindles, ladles, spoons, mortars 
 and pestles, shepherds^ pipes, whistles, candle- 
 sticks. There is a block of walnut wood that 
 at bottom still appears formless, incased in its 
 hark, hut above shows the figure of an angel 
 roughly hewn out with the chisel, down to the 
 waist, and with the wings almost finished. 
 An olive-oil lamp is burning before the image 
 of Our Lady in a hollow of the rock as in 
 a niche. A shepherd's pipe hangs near. 
 Sheep bells are heard in the silence of the 
 mountain. It is late afternoon of a day 
 in early autumn. 
 
[ 203 ] 
 
 Scene i 
 
 Malde, the treasure-seeker^ and Anna 
 Onna, the old herb-woman, stretched out in 
 their rags, are asleep on the sheepskins. 
 Cosma, the saint, dressed in a coat of skin^ 
 sleeps also, hut seated, with his chin resting 
 on his clasped knees. Aligi is sitting on a 
 bench, engaged in carving with his tools the 
 block of walnut wood. Mila di Codra sits 
 opposite him, looking at him. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Oh, he was mute, the Saint 
 
 Carved of the walnut tree; 
 Deaf was the holy wood, 
 
 Sant' Onofrlo naught said he. 
 
 But then the maiden spoke 
 
 {Miserere Domine). 
 But then the beauty spoke: 
 
 "Here is my heart," said she. 
 
 " If he will have blood for his cure, 
 Take my heart's blood of me; 
 
 But cover the secret sure, 
 Let him never, never see." 
 
[ 204] 
 
 And, sudden, a shoot is seen 
 
 Between the wooden lips. 
 Then Sant' Onofrio grows green 
 
 At all his finger tips. 
 
 She stoops to pick up shavings and splinters. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Mila, this, too, is wood of the walnut 
 
 tree. 
 Will it grow green, Mila, grow green 
 
 again .f* 
 
 Mila, bending down to the ground: 
 "If he will have blood for his cure. 
 Take my heart's blood of me" -^ 
 
 j^ligi: 
 
 Will it grow green, Mila, grow green 
 again? 
 
 Mila: 
 
 "But cover the secret sure, 
 Let him never, never seel" 
 
 Jligi: 
 
 O Mila, let the miracle absolve us! 
 Let the mute angel here protect us still, 
 
[205 ] 
 
 For, carving him, I do not use my 
 
 tools, 
 I work but with my soul held in my 
 
 hand. 
 What art thou seeking there? What 
 
 hast thou lost? 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I gather up the splinters and will burn 
 
 them. 
 And with each one a little grain of 
 
 incense. 
 Aligi, hasten, hasten, for time passes, 
 Half-full already is the September moon. 
 The shepherds already they begin to 
 
 leave. 
 Those who go Puglia way, and those for 
 
 Rome. 
 And whither will my love, my shepherd, 
 
 go? 
 Where he may take his way let there be 
 
 meadows 
 And springs of water, and never any 
 
 wind, 
 And let him think of me when it grows 
 
 night! 
 
[206] 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Mila, Aligi toward Rome will travel. 
 He will go where they go by all the roads, 
 Leading his flock toward Rome, toward 
 
 Rome the Great, 
 That he may get him pardon from the 
 
 Vicar, 
 Forgiveness from the Vicar of Christ 
 
 Our Lord, 
 Because he is the Shepherd of the 
 
 shepherds. 
 Not to Apulia this year will he journey. 
 But to Our Lady of the Schiavonia 
 Send by the hand of Alai of Averna 
 These candlesticks carved out of cypress 
 
 wood. 
 And with them he will send two little 
 
 candles, 
 That she may not forget him, though a 
 
 sinner, 
 Our Lady who keeps watch upon the 
 
 shore. 
 And the Angel, Mila, when it shall be 
 
 finished. 
 This Angel he will load upon a mule, 
 And with him, step by step, will carry it. 
 
[207] 
 
 Mila: 
 
 O hasten, hasten, Aligi, for time passes, 
 
 From the girdle down the Angel still is 
 hidden 
 
 In the block, and still its two feet are 
 fast bound 
 
 In the wood, and still its hands are with- 
 out fingers. 
 
 And the eyes are on the same line with 
 the forehead. 
 
 Thou didst linger long making the 
 Angel's wings 
 
 Feather by feather, but it cannot fly. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Gostanzo the painter, he will aid me, 
 
 Mila. 
 Gostanzo of Bisegna, he who paints 
 The histories that make our carts so gay. 
 Already he and I have planned together 
 How he will give me of his finest colors; 
 And the brothers, it may be, at the Badia, 
 For a little lamb will give a bit of gold 
 
 leaf 
 To put upon the wings and round the 
 
 throat. 
 
[ 208 ] 
 
 Mila: 
 
 O hasten, hasten, Allgl, for time passes, 
 Already the night is longer than the day, 
 And from the plain the shadow rises 
 
 early, 
 Early and swiftly when one is not think- 
 ing, 
 So that the eye directs the hand no 
 
 longer, 
 And the blind chisel cannot aid thy skill. 
 
 Cosma stirs in his sleep and moans. Far 
 off is heard the holy chant of the 
 pilgrimage. 
 
 Cosma is dreaming, and who knows what 
 he dreams? 
 
 Listen, the song of the company of pil- 
 grims. 
 
 Who are crossing over the mountain to 
 go down. 
 
 Perhaps, to Santa Maria della Potenza, 
 
 Aligi, toward thy land, thy land they go; 
 
 Toward thine own house there where 
 thy mother dwells; 
 
 Perhaps they will pass by at little dis- 
 tance, 
 
[ 209 ] 
 
 And the mother will hear them singing, 
 
 and Ornella, 
 Perhaps, and they will say: "Listen, 
 
 these pilgrims 
 Are coming down from the cabins of the 
 
 shepherds. 
 And never a message has been sent to 
 
 us!" 
 
 ^ligi is bending down shaping roughly with 
 the hatchet the lower part of the block. 
 He gives one blow and, leaving the iron 
 in the wood, rises anxiously. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Why wilt thou touch the heart where 
 
 most it hurts? 
 I will run down and meet them in the 
 
 roadway, 
 Mila, and beg the crucifer to carry 
 A message — but, oh, what, what shall 
 
 I say? 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Say to him : " good crucifer, I pray thee, 
 If thou pass through the valley of San 
 Biagio, 
 
[2I0] 
 
 Through the countryside that they call 
 
 Acquanova, 
 Ask for a house, the house there of a 
 
 woman 
 Who Is called Candia della Leonessa. 
 Halt there, for thou wilt surely have from 
 
 her 
 A bit of food and drink, and It may be 
 Thou wilt have more. Halt there, and 
 
 say: 'Thy son 
 Allgl salutes thee, and salutes his sisters 
 With thee, salutes also his bride, VIenda, 
 And sends his promise that he will 
 
 descend, 
 That he may have thy blessing once 
 
 again 
 In peace, before he needs must go away; 
 And he assures thee that he now Is free 
 From evil and from peril; he is free, 
 Forever free, from the false enemy; 
 And never again will he be cause of 
 
 anger. 
 And never again be cause of grief and 
 
 tears 
 To his mother, to his bride, nor to his 
 
 sisters.' " 
 
[211] 
 
 Jligi: 
 
 O Mlla, Mila, what is the wind that 
 beats 
 
 Upon thy soul and sways thee? A sud- 
 den wind, 
 
 A wind of fear. And thy voice is grown 
 faint 
 
 Upon thy lips, and all the blood has left 
 
 Thy face. Mila, why wouldst thou have 
 me send 
 
 A lying message to my mother's house.'' 
 
 Mtla: 
 
 In truth, in truth, in very truth I speak, 
 O brother, brother mine, dear to thy 
 
 sister. 
 As true as that I never sinned with thee. 
 But I was as a taper burning ever 
 Before thy faithj and shining with the 
 
 light 
 Of love immaculate, adoring thee. 
 In truth, in truth, in very truth I speak. 
 And say: Go, go, run down into the 
 
 road. 
 And seek the crucifer, that he may bear 
 The message of thy peace to Acquanova. 
 
[212 ] 
 
 The parting hour has come, the hour has 
 
 come 
 For Jorio's daughter, and so let it be. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Surely of the wild honey thou hast eaten, 
 And all thy mind is vexed. Where wilt 
 thou go.^ 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I will go where they go by all the roads. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Ah, come with me then, Mila, come with 
 
 me! 
 The way is long, is long, but thee also 
 I will mount on my mule, and we will go. 
 We two, with hope, and travel toward 
 
 great Rome. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 No, no, I must needs go another way. 
 Swiftly, on myown feet, and without hope. 
 
 Aligi turns to the old woman, who sleeps. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Ho, Anna Onna, there! Wake up! Get 
 up! 
 
[ 213 ] 
 
 And go and seek for me black hellebore, 
 That it may bring this woman's wits 
 again. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Do not be angry, Aligi, for if thou art, 
 Even thou, angry with me, how shall I 
 
 live 
 Until the night? From underneath thy 
 
 heel, 
 Aligi, I shall not gather up my heart. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 To my own house I never will return, 
 Daughter of Jorio, except with thee, 
 Mila di Codra, mine by sacrament. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Aligi, Aligi, shall I again pass over 
 
 That threshold where the cross of wax 
 was laid? 
 
 There where a man appeared with bleed- 
 ing head; 
 
 And the man's son spoke there and said 
 to him: 
 
 "If that blood is unjust, thou mayst not 
 pass." 
 
[214] 
 
 And it was noon, the vigil of the day 
 Of San Giovanni. It was harvest time. 
 The sickle now hangs idle on the wall, 
 The grain lies resting in the granary, 
 But the pain sown that day is growing 
 still. 
 
 Cosma stirs ^ groaning in his sleep. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 But dost thou know who will lead thee 
 by the hand.^ 
 
 Cosma, shrieking: 
 
 No, do not loose him! do not let him go! 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 The saint opens his arms, lifting his face 
 from his hands. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 What art thou dreaming, Cosma.? Cosma, 
 speak! 
 
 Cosma wakens, and rises. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 What hast thou seen, O Cosma.? Cosma, 
 speak! 
 
[215] 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 Horrible things came to me in my sleep. 
 I saw — I dare not tell what I have seen. 
 Oh, every dream that comes from God 
 
 must be 
 Made pure with fire, before it can be 
 
 told. 
 I saw, I saw, and, surely, I will tell — 
 But let me not profanely use the name 
 Of God, my God, interpreting the dream, 
 Now, while the darkness still is over me. 
 
 j4ligi: 
 
 Cosma, thou art a saint, for many years 
 
 Thou hast bathed thyself with water 
 from the snow, 
 
 With water flowing from the mountain- 
 
 • side 
 
 Thou hast quenched thy thirst under 
 the open sky. 
 
 To-day thou hast been sleeping in my 
 cave, 
 
 Upon my sheepfells that have been made 
 clean 
 
 With sulphur that can keep the night- 
 mare off. 
 
[2l6] 
 
 Thou hast seen visions, Cosma, in thy 
 
 sleep, 
 The eye of the Lord God is upon thee. 
 Then with thy understanding succor me. 
 Now I will speak to thee; do thou reply. 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 O boy, true wisdom I have never learned, 
 And I have no more understanding mind 
 Than has the pebble in the shepherd path. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Cosma, man of God, listen to me. 
 
 1 pray thee by the Angel hidden there 
 In the block, that has no ears and yet 
 
 does hear. 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 Speak out then, shepherd, speak straight 
 
 words. 
 And do not put thy faith In me, 
 But In the holy truth have faith. 
 
 Malde and Anna Onna rise up and rest on 
 their elbows to listen. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 O Cosma, Cosma, this is holy truth: 
 
[ 217 ] 
 
 From the plain of Puglla I came back to 
 
 the mountain, 
 Leading my flock, the day of Corpus 
 
 Christi. 
 When I had found a spot to make my 
 
 sheepfold, 
 Down to my house I went to spend three 
 
 days. 
 And in my house, Cosma, I found my 
 
 mother 
 Who said to me: "My dear son, I will 
 
 give thee 
 A bride." And I made answer: "Mother, 
 
 always 
 I have kept thy commandments," and 
 
 she said, 
 " 'T is well, my son, this is thy bride." 
 
 They made 
 The wedding feast, and all the kinsfolk 
 
 came 
 With me, to bring the new bride to our 
 
 house. 
 And I was like a man on the farther 
 
 shore 
 Of a stream, who sees the things that lie 
 
 beyond 
 
[2l8] 
 
 The water, while through the midst he 
 
 sees 
 The water flow, that flows eternally. 
 Cosma, 'twas Sunday, and I had not 
 
 drunk 
 Of wine made heavy with the poppy 
 
 seeds. 
 Cosma, why did a great sleep fall on me, 
 And overpower my forgetful heart? 
 Cosma, I think I slept seven hundred 
 
 years. 
 On Monday It was late when we arose. 
 My mother broke the loaf of bread 
 
 above 
 The maiden's head, who only wept and 
 
 wept. 
 And I had never touched her. Then our 
 
 kin 
 Came bringing baskets filled with wheat 
 
 for us. 
 But I was silent, always, and most sad, 
 As if I stood within the shadow of death. 
 And, see, upon a sudden enter there 
 This woman trembling all from head to 
 
 foot. 
 The reapers they were persecuting her, 
 
[219] 
 
 The dogs! And she was praying us for 
 
 help. 
 And none of us, Cosma, not one would 
 
 stir, 
 Only my little sister, the smallest one. 
 Ran, and was brave enough to close the 
 
 door. 
 And then the door is battered by those 
 
 dogs, 
 Cosma, with every sort of vile abuse. 
 And they cry out against this woman 
 
 here. 
 With lying mouths and hateful words. 
 And the kinsfolk wish to throw her to 
 
 the pack. 
 And she, all sorrowful, close by the 
 
 hearth, 
 Begs mercy that they may not slaughter 
 
 her. 
 Then I, myself, I seize and drag her 
 
 there, 
 In hate and fear; and 't is as if I dragged 
 My own heart when I was a little child. 
 And she cries out, and I, — O, I lift up 
 My staff against her. And my sisters 
 
 weep. 
 
[ 220 ] 
 
 And then, behind her, Cosma, with these 
 
 eyes, 
 I see, I see the Angel stand, that weeps. 
 
 Saint, I see it! The Angel looks 
 
 on me. 
 It weeps, and does not speak. And then 
 I kneel. 
 
 1 beg for pardon. And to punish this 
 My hand, I reach and take from off the 
 
 hearth 
 A burning coal. "No, do not burn thy- 
 self!" 
 The woman cries. And then she speaks 
 
 to me. 
 O Cosma, O thou saint, with water of 
 
 snow 
 Thou dost baptize thyself dawn after 
 
 dawn; 
 And thou, old woman, canst tell all the 
 
 herbs 
 That heal all evils known to Christian 
 
 flesh. 
 The virtues thou dost know of every root; 
 And thou, Malde, with that forked wand 
 
 of thine 
 Discernest where the buried treasures lie 
 
[221 ] 
 
 At the feet of the dead, who have been 
 long time dead — 
 
 For a hundred years, for a thousand 
 years, I know. 
 
 And deep they are buried in the moun- 
 tain, deep — 
 
 And now I will ask of you, of you who 
 hear 
 
 The things that come from far, and far 
 away. 
 
 What voice was It, and from what dis- 
 tances, 
 
 That came and spoke so that Aligi heard? 
 
 Answer me, all of you. She said to me: 
 
 "How wilt thou tend thy flock if thou 
 thyself. 
 
 Shepherd Aligi, hurtest thine own hand?" 
 
 And with that word she seemed to gather 
 up 
 
 The very soul of me from out my bones, 
 
 As thou, old woman, gatherest an herb! 
 
 Mila weeps silently. 
 
 Anna Onna: 
 
 There is a red herb that they call 
 glaspi, 
 
[ 222 ] 
 
 And another, white, and it is called 
 egusa, 
 
 And the one grows and the other, far 
 apart. 
 
 But the roots beneath the ground they 
 find each other. 
 
 Under the blind earth, and they inter- 
 twine 
 
 So closely that not even Santa Lucia 
 
 Discerns them. And their leaves are 
 different, 
 
 But they bear the same flower, each 
 seven years. 
 
 And this also is written in the books. 
 
 And Cosma knows the power of the Lord. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 O listen, Cosma, that forgetful sleep, 
 From whence, from whom was it sent 
 
 to my bed? 
 A maiden's innocent hand it was that 
 
 closed 
 The door of safety; and to me appeared 
 The Angel of good counsel; and one 
 
 word 
 Upon the lip made an eternal bond. 
 
[223 ] 
 
 Which woman was my wife there by the 
 
 sign 
 Of the good grain, of the bread and of 
 
 the flower? 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 Shepherd Aligi, listen, the just scales 
 And the just weight and balance are of 
 
 God. 
 And do thou still take heed to understand 
 The mind of Him in whom thy safety 
 
 lies; 
 Take thou from Him a pledge for the 
 
 unknown one. 
 But she thou didst not touch, where is 
 
 she now.? 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 I left for the sheep-fold at vesper-time, 
 That vigil of San Giovanni. At the 
 
 dawn 
 I found myself above at Capracinta, 
 And stood, and waited for the rising 
 
 sun. 
 And in the sun's red ring I saw the face 
 Of the Beheaded. Then I sought my 
 
 fold, 
 
[ 224] 
 
 Took up again my pasturing and my 
 
 pain. 
 And it seemed always that my sleep 
 
 endured, 
 And that my flock was feeding on my 
 
 life. 
 And, oh, my heart, how heavily it 
 
 weighed ! 
 O Cosma, I saw her, saw her shadow 
 
 first, 
 And then herself upon the threshold 
 
 stone. 
 It was the day of Santo Teobaldo. 
 This woman was sitting there upon the 
 
 stone. 
 At the threshold and she could not rise, 
 
 because 
 Her feet were wounded. Then she said: 
 
 "Aligi, 
 Thou knowest me?" And I answered: 
 
 "Thou art Mila." 
 And then we spoke no more, because no 
 
 more 
 Were we two souls. We did not sin that 
 
 day. 
 Nor ever after. I tell thee in very truth. 
 
[225 ] 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 Shepherd Aligi, truly thou hast Hghted 
 A holy lamp in the darkness of thy night, 
 But thou hast set it in place of the old 
 
 mark, 
 The ancient boundary that thy fathers 
 
 raised. 
 Thou hast removed that consecrated 
 
 stone. 
 And what shall come to thee if thy lamp 
 
 fail.? 
 The counsel of man's heart is like deep 
 
 water; 
 And yet the honest man may understand. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 I pray to God that he will place on us 
 The seal of that eternal sacrament. 
 Dost thou see what I do? With soul in 
 
 hand 
 I carve this block of wood into the form 
 Of the Angel who appeared. It was 
 
 begun 
 On last Assumption Day, and I intend 
 At the Rosario to finish it. 
 Then, listen, I will lead my flock to Rome, 
 
[226] 
 
 And carry this angel with me on a mule, 
 
 And I will go myself to the Holy Father, 
 
 In the name of San Pietro Celestino 
 
 Who did long penance on the moun- 
 tain-side. 
 
 I am going to the Shepherd of the shep- 
 herds 
 
 And with this offering ask that he may 
 grant 
 
 That the bride whom I did never touch 
 may go 
 
 Back to her mother, loosed from every 
 bond. 
 
 And that I may take unto myself this 
 woman, 
 
 The stranger who can weep and make 
 no sound. 
 
 And now I ask of thy great knowledge, 
 tell, 
 
 O Cosma, will that grace be granted me.f* 
 
 Cosma: 
 
 Now all the pathways of a man seem 
 
 straight 
 To the man; but it is God who weigheth 
 
 hearts. 
 
[227] 
 
 High walls, high walls are built around 
 
 the City, 
 It has great gates of iron, and all about 
 Great tombs are builded where grass 
 
 grows and grows. 
 Thy little lamb will browse not on that 
 
 grass, 
 Shepherd Aligi. Inquire of thy mother. 
 
 j4 voice outside, shrieking: 
 
 O Cosma, Cosma, art thou there? Come 
 forth! 
 
 ******* 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 ******* 
 
 j^ligi: 
 
 I follow, for I did not tell thee all. — 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Aligi, true thou didst not tell the whole! 
 Go to the road and seek the crucifer 
 And pray that he will take thy message 
 home. 
 
[ 228 ] 
 
 The saint goes away across the pastures. 
 Now and then is heard the singing of 
 the pilgrims. 
 
 Aligl, Aligi, all we did not tell! 
 
 And In my mouth 't were better I should 
 
 have 
 A good handful of dust, yes, or a stone 
 To shut It fast. But listen just to this, 
 Aligi, I have never done thee harm, 
 And harm I will not do thee. Now my 
 
 feet 
 Are healed again, and well I know the 
 
 road. 
 The parting hour is come for Jorio's 
 
 daughter. 
 The parting hour is come. So let it be. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 I know not, thou knowest not the hour 
 
 that comes. 
 Fill up our lamp with oil. There still is 
 
 oil 
 In the skin. And wait while I go to the 
 
 pilgrims, 
 For now I know right well what I will 
 
 say. 
 
[ 229 ] 
 
 He turns to go. The zvomauj overcome by 
 dismay J calls him hack. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 My brother, Aligl, give thy hand to me. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Mila, the road is there, not far away. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Give me thy hand that I may kiss it, 
 
 dear. 
 It is the one spring granted to my 
 thirst. 
 
 Aligi, drawing near: 
 
 Mila, this is the hand I would have 
 
 burned. 
 This is the wicked hand that did thee 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I have forgotten. I am but that creature 
 Whom thou didst find seated upon the 
 
 stone — 
 And who knows by what pathways 
 
 she had come! 
 
[ 230 ] 
 
 jiligi: 
 
 Upon thy face the tear Is not yet dried, 
 In thy lashes, trembling, still a tear 
 
 doth linger 
 While thou dost speak, and yet it does 
 
 not fall. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Aligi, listen! there has fallen a great 
 
 silence. 
 They are not singing now. With the 
 
 grass and snow 
 We are alone, brother, we are alone. 
 
 jiligi: 
 
 Mila, thou art now as on that first even- 
 ing 
 
 There, sitting on the stone, when thou 
 wouldest smile 
 
 With thine eyes and all the time thy 
 feet were bleeding. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 And thou, art thou not he who knelt 
 
 that day. 
 Who laid the flowers of San Giovan 
 
 Battista 
 
[231 ] 
 
 Upon the ground ? And one he gathers up 
 And carries it hid in his shepherd's scrip. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Mila, there is a cadence In thy voice 
 That comforts me, and yet that makes 
 
 me sad, 
 As in October when one leads one's 
 
 flocks. 
 And walks and walks along beside the 
 
 sea. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 To walk with thee on the mountains and 
 
 the shore, 
 I would to God that this might be my 
 
 fate. 
 
 j4ligi: 
 
 O my beloved! gird thee for the journey. 
 Long is the way, but love, but love is 
 strong. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Would I might walk with thee on burn- 
 ing fire, 
 Aligi, and the journey never end! 
 
[232 ] 
 
 Upon the mountains thou shalt gather 
 
 gentians, 
 And little starfish down upon the sands. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Aligi, I would crawl and plant my knees 
 In thy footsteps, if I might follow thee. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Think of the hours of rest when night 
 
 shall fall! 
 For pillow thou shalt have the mint and 
 
 thyme. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I do not think, no. And yet let me stay 
 This one night more and live here where 
 
 thou breathest. 
 And listen to thy sleep yet one night 
 
 more, 
 And let me watch thee even as thy dogs 
 
 watch. 
 
 j4ligi: 
 
 Thou knowest, thou knowest, Mila, the 
 thing that comes! 
 
[233] 
 
 With thee I share water, and bread, and 
 
 salt. 
 And thus with thee I will share bed and 
 
 board 
 Even to death. Mlla, give me thy hands ! 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Ah, how one trembles, trembles, thou 
 
 art cold. 
 Aligi, thou art white — Where is it 
 
 gone — 
 The blood that leaves thy face to the 
 
 last drop.f* 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Oh, Mila, Mila, I hear sound like 
 
 thunder — 
 And all the mountain falls and crashes 
 
 down. 
 Where art thou, Mila.? Everything 
 
 grows dark! 
 
 He stretches out his hand to her as one who 
 staggers. They kiss, then they fall upon 
 their knees facing each other. 
 
 Mila: < 
 
 Have pity upon us, O Holy Virgin! 
 
[234] 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Have pity upon us, O Jesus Christ! 
 
 There is a great silence. 
 
 A harsh voice is heard outside. 
 
 Voice: 
 
 Shepherd, they seek you at the fold, 
 A black sheep there has fallen lame. 
 
 Aligi rises, wavering, and goes in the direc- 
 tion of the voice. 
 
 The keeper seeks for you, and bids you 
 
 run, 
 And says there is a woman with a basket, 
 They don't know who she is, asking for 
 
 you. 
 
 Aligi turns his head to look hack at the 
 woman who is still kneeling; and his 
 look embraces everything in the place. 
 
 Aligi, in a low voice: 
 
 Into the lamp there, Mila, pour more oil, 
 Lest it go out. For see, it scarcely burns. 
 Take the oil from the skin, there still is 
 more. 
 
[235 ] 
 
 And wait for me, I will be back by night. 
 And do not be afraid. God pardon us; 
 Because we tremble, Mary pardons us. 
 Fill up the lamp, and pray to her for 
 grace. 
 
 He goes off across the pasture. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Virgin, holy Virgin, grant this grace, 
 That I may stay with face upon the 
 
 ground, 
 Grown cold here, that I may be found 
 
 here, dead, 
 By those who come, at last, to bury me. 
 There was no sin, beneath thy holy eyes, 
 It was not sin: 'twas thou didst grant 
 
 it us. 
 We sinned not with our lips (thou art 
 
 thyself 
 Our witness). With our lips we never 
 
 sinned. 
 
 1 dare to die beneath thy holy eyes, 
 Mary. I have no power to go away. 
 But live with him, — that, Mila will 
 
 not do. 
 I was not wicked, Mother of gentleness; 
 
[236] 
 
 I was a trampled pool, too much, too 
 
 much, 
 Have I been shamed under the eyes of 
 
 Heaven. 
 And who shall take from out my memory, 
 Mother, that shame of mine, save it be 
 
 thou ? 
 Mother, I was reborn when love was 
 
 born, 
 And thou didst will it, faithful Virgin, 
 
 thou. 
 And all this other blood that fills my 
 
 veins. 
 It comes from far away, from far away, 
 Comes from the depths of earth, from 
 
 where she sleeps 
 Who suckled me; (O let her see me now!) 
 From far it comes, comes from my inno- 
 cence 
 Of far-off childhood; Mary, thou canst 
 
 see. 
 Not with our lips (thou art our witness. 
 
 Mother), 
 We sinned hot with our lips, — not with 
 
 our lips. 
 And if I tremble, 't is because I bring 
 
[ 237 ] 
 
 The trembling In my bones from out the 
 
 past. 
 Here with my fingers now I close my 
 
 eyes. 
 
 With the first and middle fingers of both 
 hands she presses down her eyelids; 
 and bends her face down to the ground. 
 
 I feel death near me, feel death very near. 
 The trembling grows. My heart will 
 not be still. 
 
 She rises impetuously. 
 
 Oh, wretched me! what I was told to do 
 I have not done. Three times he said 
 
 to me 
 "Fill up the lamp," and, see, 'tis going 
 
 out. 
 
 She runs to the oil-skin that hangs from a 
 beam, but she zvatches the little tremblijig 
 flame and strives to sustain it by her 
 murmured prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria! gratia plena, Dominus 
 tecum — 
 
[238] 
 
 She seizes the skin, pressing it in her hands, 
 seeks for the flask into which to pour 
 the oil, hut from the shrunken skin she 
 can squeeze out only a few drops. 
 
 'TIs empty, empty! Three drops, 
 
 blessed Virgin! 
 They shall be holy for my extreme 
 
 unction, 
 Two for my hands, the other for my 
 
 mouth. 
 And all the three upon my soul! 
 But, if I live still when he comes again, 
 What shall I say to him? What shall 
 
 I say? 
 Before he sees me, he will surely see 
 The lamp gone out. Oh, Mother, if even 
 
 love 
 Might not avail to keep the lamp alight. 
 What help to him shall be this love of 
 
 mine? 
 
 She presses the skin yet again, searches 
 about in a hamper, turning the jugs 
 upside down, all the time murmuring 
 a prayer. 
 
[ 239 ] 
 
 O make it burn, Madre intemerata! 
 Still for a little, still, while we might say 
 An Ave Maria! while a prayer might last. 
 Salve Regina! Madre di Misericordia! 
 
 In her breathless search she approaches the 
 threshold^ she hears a step and perceives 
 a shadow. She cries out: 
 
 woman, O good woman. Christian soul. 
 Stay, stay, and may God bless thee! 
 
 Woman, stay! 
 
 For it may be that God has sent thee 
 here. 
 
 What hast thou In thy basket .f* Hast 
 thou oil.? 
 
 Give me a little oil for charity. 
 
 Then enter here and thou may'st have 
 thy choice 
 
 Of spoons and mortars, spindles, dis- 
 taffs, all! 
 
 1 must have oil to fill Our Lady's lamp. 
 Lest it go out. For, if the lamp go out, 
 I shall not find the road to Paradise. 
 Good Christian, dost thou hear me, 
 
 wilt thou give 
 This gift to me for charity, for love? 
 
[ 24o] 
 
 The woman appears upon the threshold^ her 
 face covered with a black mantle; she 
 takes the wooden measure from her head 
 and without a word sets it on the ground. 
 She removes the cloth, seeks within, takes 
 a flask full of oil a7id holds it out to 
 Mila di Codra. 
 
 Oh, blessed, blessed one! God will 
 
 repay 
 This deed of thine in heaven and on 
 
 the earth! 
 Thou hast it, hast it! Thou art clothed 
 
 in black, 
 Ah, but Our Lady surely will grant to 
 
 thee 
 To see again the dear face of thy 
 
 dead. 
 Because of this that thou hast done for 
 
 me. 
 
 She takes the flask and turns anxiously to 
 run to the dying lamp. 
 
 Oh, I am lost! I am lost! It is gone 
 out! 
 
[241] 
 
 The flask slips from her hafids and is 
 shattered on the earth. She stands motion- 
 less for some minutes, spell-bound by the 
 horror of the omen. The veiled woman bends 
 down with a single silent motion to the spilled 
 oil, touches it with the fingers of her right 
 hand and crosses herself. 
 
 Scene 4 
 
 Mila looks at the woman with quiet sadness, 
 and her desperate resignation makes 
 her voice dull and slow. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Pardon me, wanderer of Christ. 
 
 Thy charity avails me not. 
 
 The oil is spilled, the flask is shattered. 
 
 An evil fate is fallen on me. 
 
 Tell me what thou wilt have. These 
 
 things 
 The shepherd carved with his own hand. 
 Distaff and spindle, all are new. 
 Mortar and pestle would'st thou like.'' 
 Tell me, for nothing can I tell. 
 Now am I in the depths of hell. 
 
[242 ] 
 
 The Veiled One, with trembling voice: 
 
 Daughter of Jorlo, I came for thee, 
 It was for thee I brought these gifts, 
 That I might ask one grace of thee. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Ah, voice of heaven, heard In my soul! 
 Heard always in my heart of hearts! 
 
 The Veiled One: 
 For thee I came from Acquanova. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Ornella! Ornella, it Is thou! 
 
 Ornella uncovers her face. 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 I am the sister of Aligi, 
 
 I am the daughter of Lazaro. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 In humbleness I kiss the feet 
 
 That brought thee to me so I might 
 
 In this hour see thy face again, 
 
 The hour of mortal agony. 
 
 'Twas thou who showed me pity, first, 
 
 Ornella, and, now, thou art the last. 
 
[ 243 ] 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 If I was first to pity thee, 
 
 For that I have done great penance since, 
 
 Mila di Codra. I speak truth, 
 
 My penance is not ended yet. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Thy sweet voice trembles while thou 
 
 speak'st. 
 The knife that trembles in the wound 
 Makes far more pain, — so much more 
 
 pain! 
 Ah, little girl, thou dost not know. 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 Oh, did'st thou know the grief I have! 
 Know all the ill thou hast returned 
 For the little good I did to thee! 
 The house I left is desolate, 
 There is only dying there and tears. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Why art thou wearing only black? 
 Oh, who is dead? Thou dost not speak, 
 Perhaps, perhaps, — it is the bride? 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 Ah, thou would'st gladly have her dead! 
 
[ 244 ] 
 
 Mila: 
 
 God sees my heart. No, I have feared, 
 I have had terrors here within. 
 But tell me, who then.^ Answer me, 
 For God's sake, and for sake of thine 
 own soul! 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 No one of us has died as yet, 
 But all of us w^ear clothes of black 
 For that dear one who went away 
 And brought down ruin on his head. 
 But, ah! if thou could'st look on her. 
 If thou could'st see my mother now. 
 How would'st thou tremble! Upon us 
 Has come black summer, there has come 
 A bitter, poisoned autumn; sorrier 
 The saddest leap-year could not be. 
 Oh, when I shut the door, to save 
 Thy life, I brought black ruin down 
 On my own head. Thou did'st not seem 
 Unpitying then, thou who did'st pray 
 To us for pity! 
 
 And thou did'st ask of me my name. 
 That thou might'st speak of it in praise! 
 And on my name they call down shame, 
 
[245 ] 
 
 Morning and evening In my house; 
 And I am cursed and driven out. 
 And stay apart, for every one 
 Shrieks: "Look at her! she Is the one 
 Who slipped the bolt In the great door, 
 So that vile creature might remain 
 Huddled there in the chimney, safe." 
 And I can bear no more, and say 
 " 'T were better to draw out your 
 
 knives 
 And tear me Into bits." And this, 
 Mila di Codra, Is thy gratitude. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 'T is right, oh. It is right that thou 
 Should'st strike me, it Is right that thou 
 Should'st pour this bitterness on me, 
 Follow my sin with punishment 
 Like this Into the world below. 
 Perhaps for me the stone and hedge, 
 The straw and the Insensate wool 
 Will speak; and the mute Angel, living 
 To thy brother's hand there in the 
 
 block. 
 And the Virgin, with her light gone out. 
 Will speak; and I, I will not speak. 
 
[ 246 ] 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 O Mila, now It seems to me as If 
 
 Thy soul were but a garment thou dost 
 
 wear, 
 And I could touch It, reaching out to 
 
 thee 
 My hand of faith. 
 How is It thou dost cast 
 Such evil on God's people? 
 
 Did'st thou see 
 Our poor VIenda thou would'st fall a- 
 
 trembllng. 
 Her parched skin scarcely covers her 
 
 dry bones, 
 And her poor gums look whiter In her 
 
 mouth 
 Than her white teeth. And when the 
 
 first rain fell 
 On Saturday, our mother said to us, 
 Weeping: "See, daughters, see, now she 
 
 will go; 
 When the cold comes she will droop 
 
 down and die." 
 Ah, but my father does not weep! His 
 
 bitterness 
 He chews upon, and does not even move. 
 
[247 ] 
 
 That dreadful wound of his is grown 
 infected, 
 
 And erysipelas laid hold on him. 
 
 (May San Cesidio and San Rocco help 
 us!) 
 
 And with the inflammation in his mouth, 
 
 He shrieks and cries aloud by day and 
 night. 
 
 His head is as if burned by a black fire. 
 
 And all the time he speaks such blas- 
 phemies 
 
 Enough to set the house a-quivering. 
 
 And we are terrified. How thy teeth 
 chatter! 
 
 Hast thou the fever .^ What has come 
 upon thee.^* 
 
 Mila: 
 
 So, always, at the sinking of the sun 
 The chill takes hold upon me, because I 
 Have not been used to night among the 
 
 mountains. 
 This is the hour when fires are lighted 
 
 up. 
 But speak on, speak to me now without 
 
 pity. 
 
[248] 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 From some hint, yesterday, I knew 
 That he was brooding in his thought 
 To mount here to the fold. Last 
 
 evening 
 I did not see that he came home. 
 And all my blood stopped in my veins. 
 And then I made this hamper ready, 
 And my three sisters aided me. 
 For we are three born of one mother. 
 And all the three are marked for grief. 
 To-night I came from Acquanova, 
 I passed the ford across the river 
 And to the mountain took my way 
 Oh, woman! Christian woman, 
 I cannot bear to see thy pain! 
 Tell me, what can I do for thee? 
 Now thou art trembling even more 
 Than when thou wert beside the hearth 
 And all the reapers clamored, 
 
 Mila: 
 
 And did'st thou meet him? Art thou sure 
 That he has come? and is he at the 
 
 fold ? 
 Art thou sure? art thou sure, Ornella? 
 
[ 249] 
 
 Ornella: 
 
 I have not seen him since, nor know- 
 Surely that he came up here to the 
 
 mountain. 
 At Gionco he had business, as I know; 
 Perhaps he will not come. Don't be afraid, 
 But, oh, do listen to me. For the sake 
 Of thine own soul's salvation, Mila,Mila, 
 Be penitent and take away from us 
 This evil spell. O give us back Aligi, 
 And may God pity thee, and go with thee! 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I am content, Aligi's sister, 
 Always content to do thy bidding. 
 'Tis just that thou should'st strike me 
 
 down. 
 Me, woman of ill-life, magician's 
 Daughter, me, shameless sorceress! 
 Who but for charity did beg 
 The Christian traveller to give 
 A little oil, only a drop of oil 
 To keep the holy lamp alight. 
 Perhaps behind me yet again 
 The Angel weeps. Perhaps the stones 
 Will speak for me again. But I, 
 
[250] 
 
 I will not speak. By the name only 
 
 Of sister I say this to thee: 
 
 (And if I do not speak the truth 
 
 May my dear mother from her tomb 
 
 Arise and seize me by the hair 
 
 And strike me down into black earth 
 
 speaking out 
 Against her lying daughter.) Only this 
 I say to thee: No sin have I 
 Sinned ever with thy brother. Nay, 
 I swear to thee that I am innocent. 
 
 Ornella: 
 Almighty God! Thou hast wrought a 
 miracle! 
 
 Mila: 
 
 This is the love of Mila. Child, 
 This is my love. 
 
 I say no more. 
 I am content to do thy will, 
 And Jorio's daughter knows her way; 
 Her spirit ere this was departing. 
 Ere thou did'st come to call it, innocent! 
 And do not fear more, sister of Aligi, 
 Thou hast no need to fear. 
 
 *Jm ^ ^ ^ ^ •At 
 
 ^ft 0f* ^» *^ •^ 'J* 
 
[251] 
 
 Scene 6 
 
 Mila di Codra lets fall the sack torn from the 
 old woman, and looks at the man who 
 has come, standing tall against the light. 
 But recognizing him she gives a cry and 
 takes refuge in the shadow at the hack. 
 Then Lazaro di Roio enters, in silence, 
 carrying a cord twisted about his arm, 
 like a herdsman who has set his hull free. 
 One can hear on the stone the hurrying 
 staff of Anna Onna, who escapes. 
 
 Lazaro di Roio: 
 
 Now, woman, do not be afraid, 
 Though Lazaro di Roio comes 
 He brings no sickle in his hand. 
 He seeks not a revenge on thee. 
 More than one drop of blood was drawn 
 On the field of Mispa, and thou knowest 
 The cause of that fight and its end. 
 That thou should'st pay him drop for drop 
 He does not wish, spite of the scar 
 That always burns and pains his head. 
 
 He laughs a short, rough laugh. 
 
 When he lies on his bed he hears 
 The women weeping and lamenting 
 
[252] 
 
 Not for him, no, but for the shepherd 
 
 Enchanted by a sorceress, 
 
 Upon the mountain far away. 
 
 My woman, surely, thou choosest ill, 
 
 And now I have not much to say, 
 
 But thou 'It go with me, and no need, 
 
 Daughter of Jorio, of more words. 
 
 Down there I 've ass and pack-saddle, 
 
 A cord of hemp I also have. 
 
 And one of rushes. God be praised! 
 
 Mila remains motionless, with her hack to 
 the rock, without answering. 
 
 Mila di Codra, dost thou hear? 
 
 Or art thou turning deaf and dumb.'* 
 
 Now I speak to thee peaceably; 
 
 I know well how it was that time 
 
 With the reapers of Norca, there below. 
 
 If now thou thinkest by the same defence 
 
 To stand against me, thou dost trick 
 
 thyself. 
 There is no hearthstone here; there are 
 No kinsfolk; nor does San Giovanni 
 Ring the great bell to keep thee safe. 
 I move three steps and have thee fast. 
 Besides, I 've two strong fellows here. 
 
[ 253 ] 
 
 Yet, none the less, I speak in peace, 
 'T is better thou should'st yield to this, 
 And not compel me to use force. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 What would'st thou with me? Thou 
 
 dost come, 
 Now, when death is already here. 
 Death moved aside to let thee in, 
 But she remains there none the less. 
 Look in that sack. In it there are 
 Roots that would kill a dozen wolves. 
 Though thou, thyself, bind up my jaw, 
 I shall be chewing poison sweet 
 Just as a heifer chews its cud. 
 Take me then, me, when I am cold, 
 Put me across the saddle, bound 
 Fast with thy cords and take me down 
 With the ass, and bring me to the judge 
 And say: "Here is the shameless one. 
 The Sorceress!" And burn my corpse, 
 And let thy women come to look, 
 Rejoicing over me. Perhaps 
 One will reach out and put her hand 
 In the flame, and without burning it, 
 To draw my heart forth from the fire. 
 
[254] 
 
 Lazaro, at the first suggestion, gathers up 
 the sack of simples and scrutinizes it. 
 He throws it behind him with fear and 
 disgust. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Ah, thou dost try to spread a snare for 
 
 me. 
 Thou seekest to entrap me, who knows 
 
 how? 
 I hear deceit sound in thy voice. 
 But I will take thee in my noose. 
 
 He makes a noose with his cord. 
 
 Lazaro will have thee by God's grace, 
 Will have thee neither cold nor dead. 
 Mila di Codra, he will tread 
 The vintage with thee this October. 
 His wine vats are already waiting, 
 And he will tread the grapes with thee 
 And wallow to his neck in must. 
 
 He goes toward the woman, smiling slyly. 
 Mila crouches ready to fly. The man 
 follows her. She leaps here and there 
 but cannot escape. 
 
[255] 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Don't touch me! Let me go! for shame! 
 Thy son is there, behind thee, there! 
 
 Scene 7 
 
 Aligi appears on the threshold. Seeing his 
 father he loses every trace of color. 
 Lazaro stops and turns on him. Father 
 and son look at each other fixedly. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Who is it? Who is it? Aligi? 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Father, however did you come? 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Is thy blood sucked? that thou art grown 
 So white? It runs as if strained thin 
 As whey when it runs through the bag. 
 Shepherd, thou art so terrified. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 What, Father, Is thy will to do? 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 My will to do? To ask 
 Of me is not permitted thee. 
 
[256] 
 
 But I will tell thee that I want 
 To take the fat sheep in my noose 
 And take her with me where I please. 
 Then I will settle with the shepherd. 
 
 Father, father, thou shalt not do this. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Dost dare to lift thy face against me? 
 Take care I do not make thee blush. 
 Go, go back to the hut and stay 
 There with thy flock inside the fold 
 Until I come and look for thee. 
 Now for thy very life obey! 
 
 ^ligi: 
 
 Father, may the Lord forbid 
 
 1 should obey thee in this thing. 
 Thou hast the power to judge thy son, 
 But leave this woman to herself; 
 Leave her, leave her to weep alone. 
 Do not offend her. It is sin. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Now God has made thee go clean mad! 
 Is it a saint of whom thou speakest? 
 Dost thou not see (thine eyes were shut), 
 
[257] 
 
 Can'st thou not see she has beneath 
 Her eyelids and about her neck 
 All of the seven deadly sins ? 
 I tell the truth that if thy sheep 
 Should see her they would butt at her. 
 Dost thou dare bid me not offend her! 
 
 ******* 
 
 j!4ligi: 
 
 If before God it were not sin, 
 If before man it were not crime, 
 My father, I would say to thee 
 That thou hast lied now in thy throat. 
 
 He takes a jew steps slantwise and places 
 himself between his father and the 
 woman, covering her with his body. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 What dost thou say? May thy tongue 
 
 wither! 
 Get down upon thy knees and beg 
 Pardon, and fall upon the ground, 
 And do not dare to stand again 
 Before me, but crawl forth. 
 Away, and stay there with the dogs. 
 
[258] 
 
 Jligi: 
 
 My father, let God be our judge; 
 But this poor creature to thy rage 
 I will not leave, I cannot 
 While I live. Let God be judge. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 'T is I who am thy judge. Now who 
 Am I to thee, and to thy blood? 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Thou art my father, dear to me. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 I am thy father, and can do 
 Exactly what I please with thee. 
 Thou art mine as much as is the ox 
 In my stall; thou art like my spade 
 And like my hoe. And if I choose 
 To drive the harrow over thee 
 And break thy back, it is well done. 
 And if I need for my knife here 
 A handle and should make me one 
 Out of thy thigh, that is well done; 
 Because I 'm father and thou son, 
 Dost understand? For over thee 
 I 've all power, to the end of time. 
 
[259] 
 
 And just as I was to my father 
 
 Thou art to me though dead and buried! 
 
 Dost understand? And If this goes 
 
 Out of thy head, I '11 bring it back 
 
 To mind. Down on thy knees, and 
 
 kiss 
 The earth and creep out on all fours; 
 Go, and don't turn to look behind. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Drive over me with plough and harrow, 
 Father, but do not touch the woman. 
 
 ■J 
 
 Lazaro comes near, unable to contain his 
 fury; and, lifting the cord, strikes him 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Down, get thee down to the ground, dog, 
 down ! 
 
 Aligi falls on his knees. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 My father, see me ; here I kneel 
 Before thee, kneel, and kiss the earth. 
 And in the name of the living God 
 And true, by my first cry, then when 
 
[26o] 
 
 I was born to thee and thou didst take 
 Me in your hands and lifted me, 
 Ere I was wrapped in swaddling bands, 
 Up toward the Holy Face of Christ, 
 I pray thee, pray thee, father mine; 
 Do not so trample under foot 
 The heart, the heart of thy sad son, 
 Nor give him shame like this. I pray 
 Do not put out his light of life, 
 Nor throw him to the host of fiends, 
 To the enemy that circles round. 
 I pray thee by that Angel mute 
 That sees and hears there in the block! 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Go now, go now, begone, begone. 
 And afterward I '11 judge thy case. 
 Begone, I say, begone, begone from here. 
 
 He strikes him cruelly with the cord. Aligi 
 raises himself all trembling. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Now may the Lord be judge, and judge 
 Between us two, and see, and do 
 Me right; but I, against thee here, 
 Father, I will not lift my hand. 
 
[26l] 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Accursed! I will strangle thee! 
 
 He throws the noose to catch Aligi by the 
 head, but Aligi avoids the catch, seizes 
 the cord and pulls his father with a 
 sudden jerk. 
 
 Aligi: 
 
 Lord Christ, do thou give aid to me! 
 That I lay not my hands on him, 
 That I touch not my father, no! 
 
 Furious, Lazaro runs to the threshold calling. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Ho, Jenne! Ho you, Femo! Come! 
 Come, come and see this fellow here. 
 How he acts. (May a serpent sting him !) 
 Bring here the cord. He is possessed 
 For certain. See, he threatens me his 
 
 father! 
 He has rebelled against me, he! 
 He was accursed in the womb. 
 And all his days, accursed forever. 
 The devil has entered into him. 
 Look at him there. There is no blood 
 In his face. Ho, Jenne, take him, thou. 
 
[262 ] 
 
 Femo, thou hast the cord. So, bind 
 
 him. 
 Now bind him fast, and throw him out. 
 
 sfe *tf sb sb *l* *c* ^* 
 
 Brothers in God, don't treat me so! 
 Oh, Jenne, do not lose thy soul. 
 Jenne, I know thee. I remember 
 How when I was a little child 
 I used to go and gather olives 
 In thy field, Jenne dell' Eta. 
 Yes, I remember. Do not, Jenne, 
 Do not abuse and shame me so! 
 
 The peasants throw him down and try to 
 bind him, dragging him about while he 
 becomes furious. 
 
 Dogs! May you die of pestilence! 
 
 No, no, no, Mila, Mila, run. 
 
 Give me that iron there. Mila ! Mila! 
 
 His voice is heard hoarse and desperate, 
 while Lazaro prevents Mho's escape. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Aligi, Aligi, God will help! 
 
 God will avenge! Do not despair. 
 
 I have no power, and thou hast none. 
 
[263] 
 
 But while my heart Is left to me, 
 
 Aligi, I am thine, am thine! 
 
 Have faith! have faith! For aid will 
 
 come. 
 Take heart, Aligi. May God help thee! 
 
 Scene 8 
 
 Mila remains with eyes fixed, and ear 
 strained to hear the voices. In the brief truce, 
 Lazaro examines the cave, slyly. Far off is 
 heard the song of another company of pilgrims 
 passing through the valley. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 So, woman, thou hast seen how I 
 Am master here. I give the law. 
 And now thou art alone with me. 
 Evening begins, and here, inside, 
 'T is almost dark as night. Don't fear, 
 Don't be afraid, Mila di Codra. 
 
 '> 
 
 Here in the shepherd's hut thou could'st 
 Not have fat pasture. Down below 
 Upon the plain thou canst have better, 
 For Lazaro di Roio, he 
 
[264] 
 
 Is well to do, Mila, Is rich! 
 
 What art thou looking at, expecting? 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I look for nothing. No one comes. 
 
 She watches in the hope of seeing Ornella 
 appear to save her. She dissimulates 
 and temporizes^ seeking to deceive the 
 man. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Thou art alone with me. Don't fear. 
 Don't fear. Art thou convinced, Mila.'' 
 
 Mila: 
 
 Lazaro di Roio, I am thinking. 
 
 I think what thou didst promise me. — 
 
 I think. But how can I be sure? 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Don't shrink away. I will keep my word. 
 
 All that I promise I will do, 
 
 If God will prosper me. — Come here. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 And Candia della Leonessa? 
 
 ^£ ^If ^If ^rt ^If ^If 2^ 
 
 And thy three daughters In the house? 
 
[265] 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 Come here. Don't doubt me. Here, 
 
 look here: 
 I Ve twenty ducats sewed up safe, 
 Sewed in this skin. Dost thou want 
 
 them ? 
 There, hark! dost thou not hear them 
 
 ring? 
 Twenty good ducats of pure silver. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 I want to see them first. I want 
 To count them, Lazaro di Roio. 
 I '11 take scissors and rip them out. 
 
 Lazaro: 
 
 What dost thou stare at? Witch, for cer- 
 tain 
 
 Thou dost plan some trick to cheat me 
 here. 
 
 Thou think'st to keep me dallying so. 
 
 He tries to take her. The woman flees into 
 the shadow, and takes refuge near the 
 walnut block. 
 
 Mila: 
 
 No! No! Let me alone! No! No! 
 
[266] 
 
 Don't touch me! See! she comes! she 
 
 comes! 
 Thy daughter comes! Ornella comes. 
 
 She grasps the Angela despairingly, to resist 
 the man's violence. 
 
 No! No! Ornella! Ornella, help! 
 
 Suddenly, at the mouth of the cave, appears 
 Aligi, unbound. He sees the confusion 
 back in the shadow. He throws himself 
 upon his father. He sees where the 
 light strikes the walnut block, the hatchet 
 still fixed. He brandishes it, blind with 
 horror. 
 
 Aligi : 
 
 Let her go, quick, upon thy life! 
 
 He strikes his father dead. Ornella arrives; 
 she sees the body stretched at the Angel's 
 feet. She gives a great cry. 
 
 Ornella : 
 
 I let him go! I let him go! 
 
[267] 
 
 ACT III 
 
 A great threshing floor. At the hack an 
 old oak, behind it the open country bounded 
 by mountains, the river between. At the 
 left, the house of Lazaro. The door stands 
 wide; under the porch are harvest tools; at the 
 right, the hay-loft and straw-rick. 
 
 Scene i 
 
 The corpse of Lazaro lies on the bare 
 floor within the house, his head pillowed upon 
 a faggot of vine branches, as is the custom. 
 The mourners kneel around. Under the 
 porch are the kinsfolk with Splendore and 
 Favetta. Vienda is seated upon a stone as 
 if half dead, comforted by her mother and 
 godmother. Ornella stands alone under the 
 tree, watching the path. 
 
 The chorus of mourners laments the death 
 of Lazaro. Ornella, watching, sees far ofl 
 a cloud of dust and a black standard. She 
 calls to her sisters to prepare their mother for 
 
[268] 
 
 what is coming. Femo, one of the peasant 
 witnesses, rushing in breathless, brings tidings 
 of Aligi, condemned as a parricide, and now 
 being led to his mother that he may ask her 
 pardon before he dies, and that she may give 
 him, as is her right, the cup of comfort. 
 Afterward, his hand is to be cut off, and he 
 is to be tied in a sack with a mastiff and 
 thrown into the river. The muffled roll of 
 the funeral drum is heard. Femo tells how 
 Aligi confessed his guilt, looking humble 
 and innocent, and how the carved angel has a 
 spot of blood upon it. The women crowd 
 around asking what has become of Mila and 
 cursing her. As the chorus of mourners 
 breaks forth again, the mother rises from the 
 chimney corner where she has been crouching, 
 and approaches the door. 
 
 Scene 2 
 
 The mother wanders in her mind, confus- 
 ing her sorrows with those of the Blessed 
 Virgin. The frightened women kneel in 
 prayer. The daughters try to bring their 
 mother back. Ornella cries: ^' Mother, Aligi 
 
[269] 
 
 is coming, Aligi is coming now to ask thy 
 forgiveness and to drink the cup of comfort 
 from thy hands. Rise, and be strong. He is 
 not damned. By repentance and the sacred 
 blood he is saved.'''' 
 
 A crowd of people, all the countryside, 
 approaches in silence, lona di Midia bear- 
 ing the black standard. In the midst is 
 Aligi, bound, bare-foot, a black veil over his 
 head. They bring with them the angel, the 
 leathern sack, and the dog. The kinswomen, 
 mourning, tell how to mix the wine with herbs 
 to make the cup more stupefying. The voice 
 of lona breaks the silence: "0 widow of 
 Lazaro, kinsfolk of this stricken household, 
 up, up, here comes the penitent''' 
 
 Scene 3 
 
 lona appears with the black standard; 
 behind him is Aligi, bound. Following them 
 is a man carrying the carved shepherd's 
 crook, another with the hatchet, and others 
 bearing the angel figure, wrapped in a cloth. 
 They set it down. The crowd presses 
 close. 
 
[270] 
 
 The chorus of mourners laments the 
 terrible death of Aligi, now so near, the 
 cut-off hand J the cord, the sack. lona an- 
 nounces the condemnation of Aligi, and tells 
 Candia that she may lift the veil and hold 
 the cup to the lips of her son, because his 
 death will be so bitter. Aligi falls at her 
 feet: he may no longer call her mother, he 
 will not drink her cup, for his death is no 
 more painful than he deserves. The crowd 
 looks pityingly upon the mother, grown white- 
 haired in two nights. Aligi addresses his 
 sisters: he must not speak their names nor 
 call them sisters any more. They ought to 
 drive him away like a dog. He has two 
 things to leave them, the crook on which he 
 had carved three little maidens like them, 
 that he might have their company out in the 
 pastures, and the mute angel he had been 
 carving from his heart, now with the awful 
 spot upon it. " The spot will disappear some 
 day and the mute angel will speak, and you 
 will see and hear.^^ The crowd looks pity- 
 ingly on the sisters who have no more tears 
 to shed. 
 
 Aligi speaks to Vienda, ^^ virgin and 
 
[271 ] 
 
 widow, whose next marriage shall he in 
 Paradise and Christ shall be the bride groom ^ 
 The crowd echoes his words. lona hurries 
 him, for it grows late, and ''''he must not hear 
 the Ave Maria nor see the evening star.^* 
 The mother, approaching, lifts the veil from 
 Aligi's face, presses his head against her 
 breast and holds the cup to his lips. A cry 
 is heard from the crowd, interrupting the 
 Miserere: ^^ Mila di Codra, the daughter of 
 Jorio, the witch of hell, is coming. Let her 
 come on; make place. 
 
 >5 
 
 Last Scene 
 
 Mila di Codra rushes in, parting the 
 crowd. She calls upon them all to listen. 
 Aligi is innocent, she says, it is she who 
 killed Lazaro. Aligi does not know this for 
 she has bewitched him. She has brought 
 many evils upon them all, as the woman 
 knows who accused her on the eve of San 
 Giovanni. She made Aligi carve a bad 
 angel, that one there, covered with the cloth. 
 The Saint of the Mountains has turned her 
 heart, and has sent her to confess and to save 
 
[272] 
 
 the innocent. Aligi at first denies all this, 
 tells her that she is lying, and calls on Ornella 
 to witness. "Do not listen to her. She is 
 misleading you. When all of you cried out 
 against her on the eve of San Giovanni I saw 
 the mute angel behind her. With these 
 mortal eyes of mine which must not see again 
 the vesper star, I saw it look at me and weep. 
 It was a miracle, lona, to show that she is 
 of God.'' 
 
 Mila replies: "(9 poor shepherd Aligi, 
 youth so credulous and so deceived, the angel 
 was apostate. 'Twas a wicked, a false 
 angel."" All sign themselves except Aligi 
 in his bonds and Ornella who stands apart, 
 her eyes fixed upon the voluntary victim. 
 Mila tells how, when Aligi came to the fold, 
 she made him carve the had angel, that one 
 there, covered with the cloth, and how, when 
 Lazaro seized her, that night in the dark hut, 
 great power came upon her; she drew the 
 hatchet from the block, brandished it and 
 killed him. The kinsfolk cry out against 
 her: " Let her alone, Ornella. Aligi is 
 innocent. Take off his bonds, lona. Let 
 him go free." The crowd takes up the cry 
 
[273] 
 
 and adds: " To the flames, to the flames with 
 the witch, the daughter of JorioT Mila 
 replies: " Yes, yes, righteous people, people 
 of God, take vengeance on me. And add to 
 the pyre that apostate angel. Let it make 
 the fiame to burn me and he consumed with 
 
 Aligi, more and more overpowered by the 
 potion, cries out desperately: if it is he who 
 heard, who believed, who hoped, who adored 
 the wicked angel, let them cut off both his 
 hands, and sew him into the sack and cast 
 him into the river, that he may sleep seven 
 hundred years and never remember how the 
 light of God illumined those eyes. Ornella 
 cries: ^^ Mila, Mila, it is the mixed wine, 
 the cup of comfort that his mother gave him.'' 
 Aligi, as he is unbound, calls still more 
 wildly on all the dead and the forgotten to 
 curse her, and Mila answers with a tortured 
 cry: ^^ Aligi, no, not thou. Thou shouldest 
 not, thou must not.'' 
 
 Aligi falls in his mother's arms. The 
 thongs are put upon Mila, the black veil on 
 her head; the black standard is raised once 
 more, and she is led away. Ornella calls to 
 
[274] 
 
 her: ^^Mila, Mila, my sister in Christ, I 
 kiss thy feet as they go.^' And Mila, 
 from the midst of the mocking throng, is 
 heard: " The flame is beautiful, the flame is 
 beautiful^ 
 
EC 13 t9lO 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 OL/ 13 ISiO 
 
,4^.^.'^"^ OF congress' 
 
 018 597 803 5