SJJ!^;JSSSi 4S«»S»J.\;»>S^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. "P^-.^<^^' Shelf S. 57 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. / MARYT.REILEY'S POEMS. \_ ■ \' \ \ Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1879, by ANN CARROLL REILEY, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Printed by Naar. Day & Naab, Trenton, N. J, CONTENTS. Page. Preface, . . vii Memoir, .... ix Unnamed, .... 5 Longer Poems — Water Lilies, . . . .87 The Holy Grail, . 94 Class Song, .... 103 Sir Wulfere's Quest, . . 104 Voices, . . . .114 The Rover, . 120 In the South, . . .128 Retrospect, . . ... 136 Heart's Desire, .140 Long Ago, 146 Taking the Veil, .152 Solomon Grundy, . . 161 Origin of the Valentine, . . 166 IV. Dialect Poems — Frank De Lee, 175 The High Water, 181 John Gair, .... 190 The Carpet-Bagger, . • 199 Miscellaneous Poems — Southern Woods, . 209 Mistletoe, 2TI Cedar and Pine, 213 Decoration Day, 214 All-Merciful Love, 218 Trust, .... 221 Eighteen, .... 223 The School Mistress, . 225 A Fragment, 229 Indian Pipe, - 233 If You Held Your Hand to Me, . 235 Flowers, 239 A Storm, .... 240 A Prayer, 241 The Empty Nest, 242 Dead Love, 246 Page. A Haunt, .... 249 A Sunset, . . . .251 Past and Future, . . 253 Louisiana, .... 254 The Death Angel, . . 256 Parting, . . . .257 Absolvo Te, . 259 Doubts, ..... 262 The Baby, .... 263 I Weep, ..... 264 Weaving, . . . • 265 Love, ..... 267 The Ring, .... 268 Gone, ..... 269 Melusina, .... 270 A Valentine, .273 Flowers, . . . 274 Sonnet to Keats, 275 I HAVE MUCH To DO, • . 276 PREFACE. These poems were consigned to my care for com- pilation as they were left by the author at her early and sudden death. A few had been published, but the majority were in abstract books, or on scraps of paper, just as she had first written them with little or no revision from her after-thought. Only a few, and scarcely noticeable, alterations have been made by the editor. Some, perhaps, have been retained from loving recollections of the times and places in which they were written that the author's matured taste and judgment would have rejected. The wood- cut which illustrates the "Indian Pipe" was made from the author's own drawing, and generously of- fered to her friends by the publishers of "The Pacific Rural Press" in which paper the poem originally ap- peared. Her last work she had prepared for publi- cation except giving to it a name. I have called it VIII. as she left it, "Unnamed." A number of the mis- cellaneous poems also had no titles. Where the name seemed to grow out of the poem, or where I remem- bered what she liked, I have given names to such. Several I have been unable to name appropriately. To the work I have given only the patient care of a great love, wishing that the taste of a poet and the skill of a scholar had been mine to give. Ed. MARY T. REILEY. The unfulfilled promise of this bright young life is one of the sad losses brought by the yellow fever which desolated so many southern homes in the sum- mer and autumn of 1878. Mary T. Reiley was born at Blairstown, New Jersey, May 18, 1858. Her father the Rev. John A. Reiley was an earnest and efficient minister of the Presbyterian church. Her mother, whose maid- en name was Ann Carroll, was until her marriage a member of the society. of Friends. Mr. Reiley in 1866 removed with his family con- sisting of his wife and seven children, four sons and three daughters, to Oak Grove, a large plantation ten miles from Clinton, Louisiana. May, as she was always called by her family and intimate friends, then seven years old, was the fifth child and youngest daughter. The childhood which she recalled in after years was spent in the sunny south. The flowers, the skies, the trees, the air the very warmth of which she seemed to love to her were rich in memories and freighted with fancies. As a child she was remarkable for her loving and lovable disposition, her loyalty to truth, the tenderness that would spare the smallest insect pain, her early fond- ness for reading, the rapidity with which she learned, and the readiness with which she recalled. There are royal methods of passage over the com- mon road to learning ; hers, the sw^ift easy flight of the meadow lark above the dust and toil of weary plodders. But nobler and better than the sweet song that cheered their way was the willing help and en- couragement she gave to those who could neither sing nor fly. She began io write when very young, but most of her early poems are without dates and many of them have been lost. There is a little poem addressed to her mother written at the age of eleven; "Weav- ing" was written at fifteen ; " Voices," begun at six- teen and finished three years after. Nearly all the XI. poems published were written during the last three years of her life. Her creative thought was remarkably spontaneous and under its control she composed with wonderful rapidity, showing on some occasions the rare power of improvising. During the recital of "Decoration Day' ' on that Day of Memories, a year ago, several lines of the poem escaped her mind and she impro- vised others, she alone knowing that anything was missing or made. "Heart's Desire" was nearly all written amid the noise and confusion of a fifteen minutes' recess at school. At one of the meetings of a literary .society of which she was a member, there were unexpected visitors present. The presi- dent was mortified on account of having a meager programme, and noticing Miss Reiley's pencil busy during the exercises ventured to call upon her. To the surprise and delight of all she read a witty poem describing and explaining the situation. Many of the humorous things she wrote were so related to incidents local and temporary in their interest as to be unintelligible to the general reader. XII. Her humor was fine and delicate, and, though not one of the strongest elements of her poetical power, hardly finds a sufiicient representation in her printed works. Her last work " Unnamed" was written during the latter part of July and August 1878. When we real- ize that this work was done in the intense heat of a southern summer, during a few weeks after her return home following three years confinement in school, un- der the immense strain upon her sensibilities caused by the sympathies and anxieties occasioned by the reports of the approaching fever, and interrupted by her attendance upon her younger brother during a dangerous illness ; we can only wonder at the power God shrined for a little while in her slight form then called to its more fitting place with him. Her education was conducted at home, with the exception of one year spent at a boarding school in Clinton, until, at the age of seventeen, in September 1875, ^^^ came north to attend the State Normal School at Trenton, New Jersey ; from which she was graduated June 27, 1878 with the highest hon- XIII. ors, having given in scholarship and original work evidence of being the most gifted student of whom the School has record. Soon after her graduation she returned to her southern home. So eager and anxious was she to see the dear ones from whom she had been sepa- rated so long and the home she loved so much that friends who would gladly have kept her north until autumn consented to her going. No thought of the terrible fever, which did not appear in New Orleans until three weeks after, and which had never been in the neighborhood of her home, gave anxiety to those who held her dear. The father died on the 30th of September, the eldest sister Miss Amy, on the 15 th of October, Mary T., on the i6th, and during the following week Mrs. Nesom her remaining sister, and her brother William. Such is a brief record of the life that went out in the glory and promise of its twentieth year. But who shall write of what she 7vas ? XIV. " What practice howsoe'er expert In fitting aptest words to things Or voice the richest-toned that sings " Hath power to give thee as thou wert ?" Thine was the poet's gift of song; thine, the noble and pure in girlhood, the strong and true in woman- hood, the faithful and fearless in Christian love. Across the night of our sorrow and loss there ling- ers yet thy memory, dimmed by no regret, darkened by no doubt. Down the dreary way of the days that are to come, where the voice of singing is no longer heard, nor perfume felt, nor beauty seen, we peer into the gray, striving by faith to catch, far off, a gleam of the radiance of thy present, praying that it may our future be. H. M. UNNAMED. 1878. LOVINGLY DEDICATED TO MARY I. VAIL, IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE PROMISE OF OUR SCHOOL DAYS. UNNAMED. CHAPTER ONE. THOUGHT the past was dead, But it revives once more. I thought the grief was fled, But it returns once more. And oh the cruel pain ! It wakes to life again. And all my strength is vain And all my hopes are o'er. I thought the dream was dead, Laid in the grave of years. I thought they all were shed. The piteous burning tears. But out of the past's dark halls A passionate spirit calls And the dead comes forth again. UNNAMED. I thought I could look in his face With never a sigh of regret. I thought 'twas an easy thing The old sweet dream to forget. But what, when I look in his eyes, If a tender light should arise — A light I have seen before — And kindle to life once more The dying flame of regret ? And oh ! will it never vanish — The ghost of the buried years ? And oh ! must I always remember, Remember with falling tears ? Shall I never cease to sigh For a time gone forever by And a love that returns no more ? If only I need not see them — The places where we have been ! We were here when the leaves were falling, We were here when the fields were green. UNNAMED. We have trodden these paths together, We have wandered beneath these trees, And I think I should not remember If I could escape from these. And if only I need not see him Ever or ever again, I think it would fade and vanish, This piteous, gnawing pain. But he is coming, coming, And I must look in his eyes, And I tremble lest I shall see there The light that I know arise. And if only I need not see her. Need not look in her face, The woman who stands beside him In what should be my place ! For they say she is tall and stately And her face is sweet as a prayer, And I know if her husband loves her I shall die of a dull despair. UNNAMED. I met his sister this morning But she looked the other way. She will never cease to hate me That I once a "no" did say. But why should she not forgive me ? Her brother has found a wife, So it cannot be that my shadow Darkened for long his life. And oh if she only knew it ! How hard it was to speak The word that broke forever The tie that should never break. And oh if she knew how bitter Is this lonely life I live ! I think, though she is his sister. She could not help but forgive. I wonder if he is happy, If he never thinks of the past. If he never thinks of a sorrow That, he said, would always last ; UNNAMED. If he never dreams in the evening Of a time he cannot forget Till his soul grows sick with longing, And a passionate, vague regret. If it were only over, If I had only seen The man with his wife beside him Whose wife I should have been, I think I could forget him. But it always seems to me He still is the faithful lover He always used to be. The very last time I saw him — The memory will remain — His eyes were dim and heavy With a dull reproachful pain. Would he look at me so to-morrow, If to-morrow we should meet ? Oh ! that look would wound me cruelly, But pain is sometimes sweet. lO UNNAMED. Or would he stand there smiling With a smiling wife at his side, And bow to me, coolly, calmly, With careless, happy pride ? I know not which would be harder, Which of the two to bear. May God help me to forget him So well that I shall not care. I sat last night in the twilight And watched the day grow dim. What time the sorrowing south winds Were singing their vesper hymn. The soft stars shone in the stillness, Up the sky the moon did glide, When sudden the ghost of a buried pain Arose and stood by my side. It stayed till the starlight faded. And the winds were far away. And nothing remained but that shadowy form Uncertain, and vague, and gray. UNNAMED. 1 1 It is over, it is past, I have seen his face at last. Have seen his face grow white with pain, With a sudden longing, intense and vain. And I know that he has not forgotten. That he cannot ever forget. I know that he has not forgotten, I know that he loves me yet. It was just when the night was falling, And the west began to fade, That I suddenly came upon them As they walked in the cypress glade. I came, unawares, upon them As they stood by a cypress tree, And a sudden change swept over his face As he turned and looked at me. As if he had seen a spirit He neither spoke nor stirred, But stared in my face, until I bowed And passed, with never a word. 1 2 UNNAMED. And I wondered what he was thinking As I went over the hill ; But I know, whatever his thoughts were, I know that he loves me still. But oh ! the winsome woman He married a year ago, Where, and how, did her girlish face Find that look of weary woe ? O pale, and sad-eyed woman ! He has sinned against thee and me, But the sin he sinned against me was less Than his sin in wedding thee. O pale, and sad-eyed woman ! God help me to forget ! But what can the future hold for thee But the pangs of a vain regret ? It sings to me in the shadow. It sings to me in the sun. UNNAMED. The sweet, enrapturing music Whose strains are never done. Oh ! sweet as the voice of a seraph It sings and sings to me. Oh ! faint, and far, and fading, It is ever eluding me. Oh ! give me the words, lest I perish, That I may sing again The wild, enchanting music That is deeper than joy or pain. Oh ! let the tempests bluster, Let all the wild winds blow. I loved my love in a golden clime Years and years ago. But the hard and cruel fairies. They stole my love from me And bore him away to a pearly throne Far under the shining sea. 13 H UNNAMED. They changed him into a merman, Whose blood is icy cold, Who thinks no more, who dreams no more, Of the tender days of old. But let the tempests bluster. Let all the wild winds blow. He loved me true in a golden clime Years and years ago. If I could put my sorrows into words, Methinks my grief would fade. If into music I could change my pain, The sweetest ever made. If I could turn my sore heart's dripping blood To words of blood and flame, I would be willing so to live again A hundred years the same. Oh ! silvery white upon the Latmian isle The fair Endymion slept. UNNAMED. 1 5 Oh ! silvery white the goddess o'er him bowed, And love's hot teardrops wept. But fair Endymion, he stirred, he woke. The rapture broke his rest. And far within blue depths the saintly moon Slept upon heaven's breast. Methinks, alas ! I am Endymion, But Dian, who art thou ? Fair figure with the backward sweeping robes And filleted, white brow. Sleeping, sleeping, the vision came ; Waking, waking, the vision fled ; And my heart is sick, and my blood aflame, But my hope is dead, my hope is dead. Over the mountain, and over the moor. Silvery garments shimmer and shine, In her wonderful beauty she walks secure Wrapped in the robe of a light divine. 1 6 UNNAMED. Murmurous music flows and floats, The air about me is sweet with sound. In the bliss of the faint and far-off notes The sounds of the world for me are drowned. Softly sighing adown the breeze From the elysian meadows blown, A voice more sweet than murmuring seas Calls to me, calls, " Endymion." A shadowy form with wreathed arms Woos from a cloud of amethyst On before, till her half-seen charms Changing and vanishing fade into mist. Always anear me, yet always afar, A vision seen, and clasped, and gone. A face above like a beautiful star, A voice that whispers, "Endymion." Never, that star, while days go by, Will shine on me with steadier gleam ; UNNAMED. 1 7 Only under the moonlit sky I clasp my Beautiful in my dream. Yet the far-off music greets my ear, My soul is filled with its tender tone ; And on the flying winds I hear A sweet voice calling, " Endymion." To-day I met him as I walked alone The quiet forest road. And swift, at seeing me, a sudden light Within his dark eyes glowed. I passed him by, he turned abrupt and said, "Rejoice in what you see. My house is left unto me desolate, Your hand has ruined me." My heart beat quick within me at his words. I turned away my head. "Oh mock me not with what yourself have done, Your own hand's work!" I said. 1 8 UNNAMED. " My work !" he slowly answered, and his voice Was hoarse, and changed, and low. " I loved you better than my own soul's life, And can you wrong me so ? The weary days crept by and made the weeks, The weeks have made the years ; And life has brought me nothing yet more glad Than slow, remorseful tears. The day and night are all alike to me, For dark are all my days. A pall of night has settled o'er my life And marred its pleasant ways. Forgive me that I say it. I am mad ! I know not what I say. Forgive me for the madness you have caused And I will go my way. Because I love you I will not unbraid ; You could not love me true. UNNAMED. I Q Alas ! and what was I to seek to mate So low a soul with you?" I stopped him there, " You shall not wrong me so. My love was deep as life." I said no more. Before my spirit gaze I saw the sad-eyed wife. I would have gone, but he constrained me still. " One question answer me. If I had come to you as once I came, Pure from that stain, and free, Could you have loved me even yet, my love, After the weary years?" He caught my hands, he looked into my eyes, My eyes were dim with tears. I caught my hands away. I turned and fled. God help me ! What was I That I should throw away the precious love For which I fain would die? 20 UNNAMED. Every morn When a new day to the earth is born, The soft light kisses my waking eyes, The soft winds say, Awake, arise. See what glories grow out of the gray. Behold the day. Every night The far stars shine with trembling light. The winds are sighing unsatisfied. The want of the world is unsupplied. The glory has faded and died away Into the gray. I am weary, weary, weary. Weary of day and night, I would that my ears were deaf to sound And my eyes were blind to sight. Since I hear not the one sweet music, And see not the one dear face. What to me are all other sounds. All other beauty and grace ? UNNAMED. 2 1 The one true friend of my childhood Stood at my door to-day, And, "Child," he said, "You are white as a ghost. What is the matter? Say!" The one true friend of my childhood, He knew the tale of the past, And I said, "He has come, and I shall die If this horrible pain must last." His face grew kind and tender. He looked at me pityingly, "Child," he said, "You are young and weak ; Give your burden to me. Come to my heart, my blossom, I will teach you how to forget. I will show you, darling, a tenderer love Than you have dreamed of yet." But I shrank away and whispered, "I can love no more, no more. Dead is love's flower within my soul, Poisoned the fruit it bore. 22 UNNAMED. Oh ! my heart is dust and ashes, Thence never can new love bloom ; Deep in my soul a grave is made, And love lies in that tomb." "O Child, Child, Child," he said, "What of love do you know? What is that weak and trivial boy That you should grieve for him so ? O Child, Child, Child," he said, " What do you know of pain ? Would you make the love of all these years For a girlish fancy vain ? That love is over and perished. You love him not, it is dead." — "I love him with all the soul of my life, With all my heart," I said. His face grew pale before me. His voice grew suddenly stern, "The man you love has a wife," he said, "You forget where his love must turn." Forget ! Nay, I remember. Oh ! I remember well. 23 UNNAMED. He loves me, loves me, loves me, More than my lips can tell. He loves me, loves me, loves me ! Can such a love be sin ? But the sad-eyed sorrowful woman Can never such sweet love win. stern white face of my childhood's friend Why do you gaze at me ? Why do you haunt me, sorrowful wife ? What have I done to thee ? 1 do not love him, I cannot love him, And strange to me it seems How the face of a man I do not love Gets tangled into my dreams. But that face it is never tender, It looks at me stern and pale, And all alone in the darkness It makes rne shrink and quail. 24 UNNAMED. I met him to-day in the meadow Where we plighted our troth lang syne, And he held out his hand as he passed me For the rose I held in mine. Did I mean to give him the rosebud ? Or did I but let it fall ? Why should he ask for a rosebud ? And what is it worth after all ? They call, the far sweet voices. They call and cry to me, "Sing us again the songs we sing Over and over to thee." But when I fain would sing them The mystical words are gone, And I think how lone upon Latmos' shore Sat sad Endymion. If I should give up all that I have loved, — My life of careless ease, UNNAMED. 25 The long days filled with day dreams, the long nights With pleasant fantasies, If I should give up all, and lay my life Down low before thy feet. Could I be sure of gaining what I seek, O Goddess proud and sweet ? If I should toil through weary years and years. And work in grief and pain. Could I be certain that my faithful toil Would not be all in vain ? Oh ! still it seems to me, I cannot yet Give it up all, up all, Although for me love's rosy-tinted hours Are gone beyond recall. How can I be content to live through all the years And ever be alone ? Wast thou contented on the Latmian isle, White-limbed Endymion ? 2 6 UNNAMED. I cannot get rid of the hateful words, — The words of my childhood's friend, — "Have you thought of what you are doing? Have you thought where this must end?" I have sinned no sin though my heart is sore ; Have given my love no sign. What is a faded and withered rose Betwixt his heart and mine ? stern of face and stern of voice, Why do you follow me ? 1 am no child to slip and fall. I ask no help of thee. Why do you haunt me ever ? Begone, nor come again ! For I know your voice is stern and cold Though your face is white with pain. One man has kissed my lips, And that is enough for me. One love has filled my heart. There never another shall be. A letter lies on my table, And the writing I have not forgot. UNNAMED. A letter lies on my table, Shall I break the seal or not ? sad -eyed, sorrowful woman, Would your pale face flush to see The writing upon the letter That is lying here by me ? Oh I had greeted this letter With kisses long ago ! And now it lies beside me, — Shall I break the seal or no ? THE LETTER. What a flood of recollections Sweeps over heart and brain, As I trace your name on the paper, After the years again ! How can I help hut remember What pride bids me forget ? How can I teach my spirit That I may not love you yet? 1 have striven through all the long years- But all in vain I strove — 27 28 UNNAMED. To hanish the one sweet image By another I did not love. Enough of that. I write not Feebly to make my moan. I loill try like a man to hear it Silently and alone. You know the pitiful story How I wedded where love was not. Long in the past I told you, And the tale is not forgot. Divinely you can pity ; I saw it in your eyes The day that you came upon us Suddenly, angelwise, And enough of that. The story Is painful to you and me. Not thus have I broken the silence, Which henceforth unbrokeyi must be. I have never sent you your letters, They were the last sweet tie Binding my soul to its heaven That far aioay doth lie. UNNAMED. And I could not bear to sunder The golden cord — the last That held me to all that was sacred To me in the beautiful past. But a sense of your right constrains me. Ah me! What right have I To hold myself to my heaven Even by one sweet tie ? To-morrow^ if you will m,eet me In the place where we met Ixng syne, I will give you back your letters, And you shall give me mine. Fear not to come for this last time. Solemnly, friend, I swear I will say no word that the angels Could shrink from, hovering there. I will say no loord to awaken The ghost of the buried past. I would only see you a moment For the last time, the very last. And if I take him his letters? — In that there could be no harm, 29 30 UNNAMED. Yet from the thought of this meeting 1 shrink with a vague alarm. What would he say about it ? My childhood's stern-faced friend. "Have you thought what you are doing? Have you thought where this must end?" It is right I should give him his letters. It is right he should give me mine. But what if I go to meet him Where we plighted our troth lang syne ? — But what if I go to meet him In our long ago trysting place ? Should I ever shrink, O sorrowful wife, From your pale, reproachful face ? And why should I care for my letters ? They are nothing now to me. Better give them up to devouring flame Or toss them into the sea. I seem to care for nothing, For life, or love, or light. I have lived so long I am weary. And my strength is faded quite. UNNAMED. 3 1 I cannot forget the words he spake, Herman, my childhood's friend. — "Have you thought of what you are doing ? Have you thought where this must end?" I will look on the past and future, Before it is yet too late; For I seem to stand on the threshold Of some dark, mysterious fate. Why are my pulses throbbing ? Why burns my cheek with flame, At sight of the paper he has touched, Where he has traced my name ? What mad, sweet dream am I dreaming While my fears are hushed to sleep ? Shall I ever awake from this torpor ? Awake to mourn and weep ? For I seem to stand unconscious On some dark cavern's brink. — And where this might have ended, O God, I dare not think. I will go away and forget him For I cannot forget him here 32 UNNAMED. I will give myself soul and body To the work that I hold most dear. I will never see his face again I will think of him never more. I will sing a dirge for the beautiful dead Whose sorrowful life is o'er. The seasons come, the seasons fade, Deep in my heart a grave is made, A still, cold form is in it laid. The flowers bloom, and fade, and fall, The clouds hang low and like a pall, The ghostly winds each other call. The dead lies calm within its grave, And hears no winds of winter rave. Its rest is still. Deep is that grave. A Secret folded round from sight, A Secret dread, and cold, and white. Shrouded in silence, wrapped in night. UNNAMED. 33 Silent I sit beside my dead, The hours keep their wonted tread, My soul to grief long since was wed. Grief watches while the sun is high. Nor sleeps while stars are in the sky. We, watching, see the years go by. The still, unchanging years go by. Now all is over ! Yet a moment's space Furl back, O mists of time, from off the face Of my dead love, and let me gaze thereon. Now all is over ! Three short years agone How were all words too weak, all looks too cold, To tell the love whose deep tide ever rolled From his heart unto mine unceasingly. Now all is over ! Then this thing can be. And love, the true, the tender, and the deep. Can fade as fades the vision of a sleep And leave behind no trace that it hath been. 34 UNNAMED. Sunset upon the waters, And sunset in my soul. The light of the cloudy day goes out With a golden anreole. The weary struggle is over, From pain I have found release ; I walk in a quiet country Beside the white-robed Peace. I watch and pray for the dawning, May it herald a better day. A day that shall banish the phantoms That lurk in the shadows gray. CHAPTER TWO. The waving hair of the willows Is long upon the breeze, The clouds are the beautiful billows Of azure deeps of seas. The winds are the summer's kisses, On laughing lips they fall. God fills the earth with blisses, And his love is over all. UNNAMED. 32 O brave true heart, upon whose strength Ilean, And resting there grow strong, Forgive me that in madness once, I did Thy truth and kindness wrong. O brave strong spirit, in whose strength I trust, And trusting it, find rest. Of all good gifts to me thy friendship is The dearest and the best. I have bowed low and worshiped at the shrine Where dwells the Beautiful. The past indeed is past, and life for me Is round, complete, and full. God, I thank thee that thy guiding hand Has thus far led me on. 1 thank thee that the present still is mine And that the past is gone. I thank thee that more dear than love's wild dream Thy hand has given me 36 UNNAMED. The poet's dream of glory yet untold, The poet's ecstasy. The name and fame for which I fondly longed I know cannot be mine. It is enough for me that I have drunk The poet's mystic wine. My book is finished — my first book, the child Beloved of my brain, Brought forth in pangs of utter weariness And throbs of pain. Written in hours of rapture when my soul Was filled with life and light, And words poured freely forth intense and strong Instinct with living might, They rippled forth like upward gushing streams In music flowing on. Now all is over. Rapture, pain, despair Alike are gone UNNAMED. Z7 My one wee book ! What fate awaits thee now Torn from the parent nest ? Henceforward thou must make thy way alone, My first, my best. I can do nothing for thee though the world Should spurn thee from its feast. Go bravely forth, O little book of mine, Fly west, fly east. Poor little book ! I pity thee, my child. Thou art not what I would. Thou wilt go forth into the busy world, And be misunderstood. But if, while great ones spurn thee, thou shalt bear Comfort to one sad heart, I am repaid for all my toil. I am Contented, for my part, If some sweet maiden trembling with the spell Of love just opening, 38 UNNAMED. Find in thy leaves one little, little song She shall delight to sing. If my book were only worthy The name on an opening page, It were worthy a name in the records Of the noble works of the age. For who is so true as my true friend ? And none is so wise and strong. Forgive me that once, my one friend, I did your friendship wrong. I wonder if he has forgotten What he said to me that day. Would my life have been better and nobler If I had not said him nay? I think of those things calmly They lie so far in the past. And I know I have heard love's story For the last time, the very last. UNNAMED. Once when my heart was younger, When my cheek was not so pale, I have felt at a well-known footstep The swift blood flood and fail. I had half forgotten the feeling Which, after all, I know Is the sweetest joy that ever Our human lives can know. Yet oft when the flowers are springing In the morning of the year, I wake to that hopeless sorrow. That old, long-past despair. Never again can a new love Bloom on the grave of the old, Never again while the stars shine Shall I hear love's story told. I used to long so madly For happiness on earth, But I feel as I grow older That joy is little worth. 39 40 UNNAMED. Better to live in sorrow, To know life's glory past, If so in the dusk and shadows Some good be done at last. Life's colors grow more sober, Life's joys seem not so sweet To our eyes, as we grow older And find all things so fleet. Our joys like sorrows perish, Not love itself can stay ; Ourselves and all around us Must change and pass away. I sigh no more for splendor, I am content with shade, Content to be sad and lonely Until the daylight fade. If only out of the shadows Shall shine one burning star UNNAMED. To gladden, not my pathway, But souls that faint afar. If only when all is over Somewhere, in some sweet heart, A song of mine shall linger Not ever to depart. If, because my life was lonely, I leave some word to cheer Another soul in the shadows When I am no longer here. But my songs are all unworthy, Till ashamed I bow my head. And where my poor voice faltered The hot tears come instead. When the weary day is over, And pale, the glowing west. The stars shine white in heaven And still my wild unrest. 41 42 UNNAMED. So free from earthly sorrow, So pure from earthly strife, So still, and white, and saintly Above the storm of life. I forget the restless struggle, The baffled search forget. While the white stars shine in heaven There is beauty to live for yet. Somebody liked my wee book. Somebody liked it not. And the world agreed to lay it aside To moulder and be forgot. The critics took my wee one And tore it limb from limb. But Herman said it was like myself And therefore dear to him. And some one said in a letter, "Friend dost thou know thou hast Perfumed thy book with the fragrant breath Of the balmy land of the past?" UNNAMED. White in the moonlight lies the world Beauty rapt from toil and pain, Dreaming dreams perchance of Eden And her far-off youth again. Would to God the holy quiet Now might steal into my soul, And that off its face illumined Back the clouds of care might roll. Dian, sweeter than the starlight, Dian, purer than the snow. Image of that dream of beauty That I worshiped long ago, — Over soul and sense is drifting. Passion strong, and spirit sweet. Once again the mystic story How a god and mortal meet. Once when youth was at its flood tide. And when strength was at its hight, 43 44 UNNAMED. I, too, hoped, divinely striving. To attain divine delight. Like Endymion on Latmos I am wrapped in stupor sleep, But no god-smile cleaves the darkness Of that slumber still and deep. Far away, and unattained Now as then that vision fair. And its beauty fills my spirit With an infinite despair. I suppose before long I'll be sighing The vanished days of my youth, I shall find that the gray hairs are coming Before I am ready in sooth. I shall sit in these rooms solitary. And, with my old voice out of tune. With no one around to console me, To myself I shall mournfully croon, — UNNAMED. 4^ "I'm very old and there's no one to love me, No one to care for my trouble and pain, None to remember the lonely old woman. Oh for the days of my sweet youth again ! Oh for the days when I whirled through the dance, When life wore the glamour of sweet romance, When the clasp of a hand made the whole world sweet, And my life moved in time to my flying feet ! Oh for the days of my plighting kiss When nothing in life ever happened amiss ! For I'm growing old and there's no one to love me, No one to care for my troubles or pain. None to remember the lonely old woman. Oh for the days of life's springtime again !" Apparent is the Spirit of the woods. She smileth ere she sinks into her sleep. The long, long sleep of winter falling down Upon her lids as falls the dew on flowers. 46 UNNAMED. The air is dim with autumn's quivering haze, The trees are dark with autumn's somber robes, Save where between their sober ranks of brown The pine trees lift their heads superbly clear Against the glowing azure of the sky. In every hollow lie the withered leaves, But pine, and bay, and mystic mistletoe. Still stand in vivid greenness to declare Life sleeps within the wood, and is not death. The holly berries gleam upon the boughs, The barbed shafts of glossy leaves between ; And from the hoary trees, the pendant moss Streams long and weird upon the autumn wind Like tattered shrouds of years forever gone. There is a calm within the ancient woods, A solemn hush that calls the soul to prayer. Escaped at last from city toil and strife, I feel the life of God about my life. And all my soul lies open to his love. I dream of higher things. I seem to feel UNNAMED. 47 An inspiration from the solemn woods And wide autumnal skies. My soul expands To grasp the greatness of the thought divine That works in forms of beauty 'neath my eyes. If he had loved me truly that bright day That now is long gone by, Would he have suffered me to say him nay So quietly? It was his tender pitying heart that placed Love words upon his tongue. He grieved to see me left so lone, and sad, And yet so young. He would have given me such tender care I should not ever miss. In the new joy, the wild ecstatic thrill Of first love's kiss. But that is past for me. Alas ! it seems That everything is past. There is no joy of earth however sweet Whose life can last. 48 UNNAMED. I sit here shocked and silent ! pale and sad -eyed wife, Was thy husband never a whit to blame That thou wast weary of life ? I sit here shocked and silent And my cheeks are hot with shame, That thou wast sick of the burden of life Was I never a whit to blame ? O Louis, Louis, Louis, Thou wast false to me lang syne. Thou hast been how false to the gentle girl Whose life was merged in thine. O Louis, Louis, Louis, What would thy hard heart care If a dozen women as sweet as she Should die of love's despair? O Louis, Louis, Louis, 1 pray to God above To save my soul from the cruel snare Of thy wild and selfish love ! UNNAMED. 49 I have come through the bustle hither To hear some Solons explain What the rights of a woman on earth are, And decide whether she shall remain. The speaker who holds the chief station Is very well known to me ; He is a doctor of laws, and of logic, And I think of divinity. The doctor has turned on the faucet Of the well-spring of knowledge now. Behold the deep corrugations That learning has carved on his brow ! Behold as his thoughts soar higher How they carry his eyebrows along ! And his voice swells up with a deafening roar That would madden the genius of song. Capacious, enormous, stupendous. And more, is the doctor's mind; For all of his vast personality Within it is snugly enshrined, — A grand, white image of beauty Symmetrical, perfect, and fair. 50 UNNAMED. And ever around it his hovering talk Lingers, or flies here and there, Then back to the thing that attracts it, Like a bird that hangs quivering o'er The serpent's eye that has charmed it And, leaving, comes back evermore. With all that vast weight to withhold them No wonder in trying to fly His thoughts overburdened grow weary And never pierce far in the sky. Of old one King Midas, the same one Who had very long ears as we're told, Had a wonderful power of turning Whatever he touched into gold. The doctor 's like Midas in one thing, — I don't mean the length of his ears, — Which is, that whatever he touches In a figurative sense disappears And assumes a new form in an instant ; Not just in the old Midas way. For these things turn earthy and dreamlight Grows the commonest light of day. UNNAMED. 5 1 He touches the angels, and, presto ! They're clayey, and weak, and frail ; Their glory is wan and faded ; The glow of their beauty is pale. And heaven itself, at his mention, Is paved with the poorest of gold That was mined for so much a nugget. And was probably bought and sold. The man that sits next to the doctor For a poet of fancy was made ; But Necessity, hard-hearted spinster. Her hand on his shoulder has laid, And said, "Leave your dreams and your visions. The haunting sweet voices that call. Go, teach to the young generation That this planet is round like a ball." He has bartered the visions of glory To the, which, as his right, he was born. For the blackboard, the crayon, the ferule ; And he dies of a bitter self-scorn. 52 UNNAMED. Poor poet ! Like Esau his father He has given his birthright for gain, And finds no place for repentance Though he seek for it, yearning, in pain. That woman, I wish I could paint her ! So placid, self-poised, and strong, Who knows only one thing she shrinks from, A word or a thought that is wrong. She is like to a fountain in summer Whose margin with dew is impearled. Clear, pure, and deep, and whose being Is spent for the good of the world. Said Herman, "Don't grow strong-minded, Be as brilliant and wise as you can. But remember the work of a woman Is never the work of a man." I wonder if I am strong-minded. My head feels sufficiently weak To make me a womanly woman, I'll not wait for another to speak. UNNAMED. But across the rows of faces What face at me looks pale ? My treacherous cheeks are burning As I hastily draw my vail. And I hurry away from the speaking Into the open street, And I hurry, hurry homeward Lest a well-known face I meet. That well-known face, I could paint it As it looked 'neath my girlhood's skies, Tender, and proud, and pathetic, With its haunting beautiful eyes. Herman sent me these flowers. Fairer ones never grew. They were fresh as the breath of the morning New-baptized with dew. Now they are wan and faded. And my eyes are dim with tears ; For these flowers seem like emblems Of all our hopes and fears. 54 UNNAMED. And most of all like symbols Of the tender dream of love,. So sweet to the soul of the dreamer Yet frail as a flower to prove. Dead, all dead. This lily was white as the drifting snow, This rose once flushed with a passionate glow When it blossomed in fragrant summer air. But it faded and died of a slow despair. This mignonette had the soul of a saint, Around it still lingers a fragrance faint, Long as it lived it blessed the earth. But a spirit has whispered its spirit forth. This jessamine see ! In the passionate south The Spirit of Love kissed it mouth to mouth. Remembering ever that rapturous kiss. The breath of its life was a dream of bliss ; And the soul of its soul was lavishly spent In passionate love's abandonment. Nor beauty, nor faith, nor purity, Nor the might of love's divinity, UNNAMED. 55 Could save them from the destroyer's tread. The tale of their life is a tale that is said, Dead, all dead. Four blank walls that stare at me Bound my narrow house of life. There no sweet wild flowers come, Chirp of bird, or wild bee's hum, Dream of sweetheart or of wife, Love's caress, or friendship's tone ; Fate has built my house alone. When the moon beams down the night To enfold me in her light, When the stars shine, and winds blow, More and more this truth I know, — Whatsoever I may be. Wheresoever I may go, All the years that come to me As they found, will leave me so, By these four blank walls shut in, Growing sad as days go on. And forever left alone. 56 UNNAMED. By the friends who once were mine In the far-off days, lang syne, Half-remembered, half-forgot ; And my books, my only joys, Speak to me, yet love me not. And the world sings to its own While its bonny days go on. Only I am all alone. And these blank walls stare at me Till I sicken, heart and brain. And they throb before my eyes Like an ever-present pain. And they never widen grand As I dreamed in days by gone, Down long vistas stretching far All alight with glory's star. Evermore I am alone. Out of the past a sweet strong wind Is blowing, and blowing on, UNNAMED. 27 And my heart is wildly yearning For the joys of a day that is gone. It blows from a land of fragrance, It has kissed the roses abloom, But it dashes my cheeks with a rain of tears. And wraps my spirit in gloom. For the fragrant land is haunted, Haunted its blooming bowers. Haunted the strong, and sweet, sweet wind, Haunted the swaying flowers. Faint to the ear of my spirit. Fainter than long ago, Faint, and far, but divinely sweet, The mystical voices flow. Oh but to catch for a moment ! — Oh but to sing them again ! — The songs of the far, sweet voices That are deeper than love or pain. How fair a thing is the summer ! How fair a thing is the world ! 58 UNNAMED. Lit by a thousand glimmering stars, By silvery dews impearled. Last night when the winds were sighing Love tales in the linden tree, I heard a voice from the garden And my heart stood still in me. Why did he call me Alice ? What right had he to my name ? He came and called me Alice. And my cheeks burnt hot with flame. And I fear, I fear he noticed The sudden burning blush ; And I fear he thought 'twas returning love That made my pale face flush. But I did not call him Louis, As I had done before. For once I called him Louis, My Louis, Louis D'Or. And shall I write to Herman That Louis has called on me ? UNNAMED. 59 Herman would think from my telling That a dozen things might be. He would think I cared for Louis, And cared to have him call. While the fact is known to my heart and me That we do not care at all. Never again, O Louis, Never, never again, Can the touch of your hand awake in me The echoing chords of pain. It is dead at last now, Louis, And I knew not it was dead Till you came and called me Alice As you did in days tha^are fled. But I did not call him Louis, As I had done before. For once I called him Louis, My Louis, Louis D'Or. It is enough for me to do my work. And trust God for the rest. 6o UNNAMED. If I indeed have drunk the poet's wine, My work for me is best. O woman heart ! O longing woman heart ! How weak a thing you prove, Hungering, thirsting, growing sick and faint, Sick for a little love. Are there not infinite stores, divinely sweet, Of heavenly love for thee ? And hast thou not thy work, thy work on earth. Thy work, enough for thee? They were not meant to bless thee, O sad heart. The clasp of clinging hands, The thousand sacred mysteries of sweet love. The lore love understands. They were not meant for thee. Be thou content ; Content with what is left, — The pure, good work, which, if thou bravely do, Thou shalt not be bereft. UNNAMED. 6 1 Wherever I go, I see a face That I knew so well lang syne. Wherever I go, those beautiful eyes Follow and seek for mine. Did you really love me, Louis, So long and long ago ? Wide is the gulf between our souls. Why do you seek me so ? Why has not Herman written While all these days went on ? Why is my book unfinished That long since should be done ? I wonder at Herman's silence. Till my heart is sick with dread. In his letter that came so long ago He was coming here he said. But if he came to the city. Would Herman not come to me? And if he were not in the city, Would Herman not write to me ? 62 UNNAMED. It is thousands of years ago since I sang In my careless joy to love's sweet tune. My heart was as light as a dancing leaf, And the air about me was sweet with June. It was ages ago when my heart was young, Sweet was the meaning life held for me. The stream of my blood had a jubilant flow, ' And I dreamed of delights that were yet to be. Every flower of the world was yet in the bud, Every bud of the world would soon be a rose. The dew was not dried on the beautiful wold Ere the hours of dawning drew on to a close. I sat in the sunshine. I dreamily sang. The hours slipped by with a musical chime. Ages, and ages, and ages ago In the flowery fields of the olden time. There was a time, O Louis, I had given my life to you. UNNAMED. 6. But the time is come, O Louis, When that I will not do. And can you not see as I see it That the past is over and gone ? That it cannot awake into being While the days of our lives go on ? Believe that I care no longer. Believe that I love you not. Do you think those eyes too potent For their spell to be forgot ? It is true. Hearts can change as seasons do. Love, like sweetest flowers that bloom, Finds at last a certain tomb. For I know Long-lost love of long ago, All the passion and the tears Of those far and faded years Are as they had never been \ And there lies our hearts between But a shade of cold distrust Where warm love lies low in dust. 64 UNNAMED. Woe is me ! That this bitter thing should be That the Lethean river rolls While we live above our souls, That oblivion's waters steal All the grief our hearts can feel, And the deepest wounds must heal. Fare thee well. Nevermore awakes the spell Of the sweet forgotten past. All is over, dead at last. Fare thee well. Lightly the years go by me. I cannot die of regret. The past slips out of my keeping. I cannot choose but forget. The withered leaves lie not more dead Beneath the icy north-wind's tread Than lies the heart you once could move, Unanswering, to your words of love. The spell is broken, and I am free. Henceforth your love is naught to me. UNNAMED. I fain would do my duty Forgetting selfish ease, But should I give my life up A fickle love to please ? Have I the power of doing All for you that you say ? Would my love make strong and noble The life so weak to-day ? For Louis says, but for losing My love so long ago, His life had been brave and helpful, Nor missed its purpose so. He says though the years are flying Time holds one chance for him. Can I, whom he loves so dearly, His life's sole brightness dim? I am tired of doubt and query, Tired spirit and brain. 65 66 UNNAMED. I cannot believe I should sell my soul Though it be for another's gain. Why has not Herman written ? Over and over again, I ask myself that question With a dull and heavy pain. There are rumors of plague in the city And the people are fleeing away, Louis is going to-morrow. But I think that I shall stay. I wonder at Herman's silence Till my heart is sick with dread. For those who dwell in silence. Are they not the hosts of the dead ? It seems but a wretched pittance To offer, this life of mine, For I give what I would be rid of — A gift they cannot decline. Lo ! Poor and sick of the city, I offer to you to-day UNNAMED. A life of worth to no one, That I fain would give away. I have lived to myself these long years, Now I will live to you. For the short few weeks remaining Some good, at last, I may do. Louis is going to-morrow. He would tease me with useless prayers To flee from the coming terrors. I must let him go unawares. And if I die in the city, O Herman, Herman, my friend, — If I die in the plague-cursed city. Will you ever hear of the end ? Louis has fled from the fever. And left a letter for me Pleading for sake of his future I, too, from the plague would flee. You care so much for your future. Have you never a thought of mine ? I think, of old, I was drunken With love's bewildering wine. 67 68 UNNAMED. Blue are the heavens above me, The whispering winds are bland. — Lie there on my table, O letter ! For I cannot understand. " Why have you so deceived me About your future life ? And why not told me sooner You were to he his wife ? I cannot believe you did it My faithfulness to moch ; You thought 1 loved so dearly I could not bear the shock. But there, m,y child, you wronged me. If you are happier so, I can bear to see you another's wife, Though 't is terribly bitter to ; But 1 cannot bear the knowledge That you have doubted me. Well ! Well ! Let it pass ! There 's no reason That I should indignant be. You never wanted m,y love, child, I knew it as well as you. UNNAMED. 69 You xoill never hnoio what it cost me, But I loved 1/ou, loved you true When I went last week to the city, A man whom 1 knew of old, The man you are soon to marry, Your new betrothal told. I did not come to see you, I could not bear the pain. With the deep, deep hurt so fresh in my heart. Of seeing your face again. If you had not deceived me. It were easier to hear ; But perhaps you did it to save me a pang. Knowing how 1 must care. I hope you may be happy. It is late for me to speak. — But how can I trust your future To one so cruel and weak ? Is it foolish, weak, unmanly ? I am blotting my page with tears. I have loved you, darling, with all my heart These many weary years. JO UNNAMED. Alice ! my poet woman, Alice my woman saint ! How can 1 hear to lose you now Nor die as my hopes grow faint ? 1 shall not see you again, child, I have grown so sham,efully weak I fear I cannot hear yet To hear your sioeet lips speak. Some time, perhaps, in the future, If fate is kind to me, I shall grow used to my hurden And this loill cease to he. Perhaps you had pitied me, Alice, Had you knoion hoio all must end. Always through all time, darling. Believe me, your truest friend." I cannot understand it ! O Herman, inio beti ! Have you loved me on in silence Through all these summers then ? How could you so much wrong me That specious lie to believe ? UNNAMED. How could you so much wrong me To doubt I would deceive ? If Herman truly loves me Life grows more sweet to me, Yet I may die in the city Before his face I see. And I fain would see him once more Before my life is past To tell him I was faithful, 1 loved him at the last. Yet even for love of Herman, Though he loved me in tender truth, Could I forego the visions That glorified my youth ? Forget the dreams, and longings, The glory, and the bliss ? Forego them all for the rapture Of love's betrothal kiss ? Oh ! not for me was love made. It never was made for me. 71 72 UNNAMED. I have grown used to the knowledge That this can never be. I have given my strength of spirit, My strength of body and brain, All to my Art's sweet service ; What gifts for Love remain ? For Art will have all or nothing. All that is mine or me, And love demands that his portion Soul, body, and spirit be. Only one life is given, Only one life to live. Could I sunder spirit from spirit And to each a portion give ? How poor and helpless is our human love How weak our human strength. I cannot even reach my friend and say, "I love, thee, dear, at length." I cannot even say, "Though great my fault. Of this thing I am free, UNNAMED. 7 In all the days when I was most beguiled I never doubted thee." But, wrapped within the dreadful arms of Death, Into the shadows dim I must go down, and never see his face. And never speak to him. For I will give my life though it be i)oor, My strength though it be weak. Perchance to die for men were poetry More sweet than I can speak. I would that I had done some good on earth Before the bitter end. I would my lips had drunk one soul-deep draught Of love's delight, my friend. Alas ! my life has failed of all its ends, Well may my soul make moan. Into oblivion's unending night I must go down alone. The one dream of my life was but a dream, A flower without its fruit. 74 UNNAMED. The songs that sang so sweetly in my soul Upon my lips were mute. The one, true friend who gave me all he had, What have I given him ? A heart stab, and a blight that made the light Of his best days grow dim. My life has missed its purpose. Evermore A voice is at my side, — A voice that croaks to me of wasted life, And will not be denied. Sick unto death am I, yet would not die ; Sick of my life, yet fain more days would live ; If so, perchance, I might e'en yet, tho' late. The wasted past retrieve. The pestilence walketh in darkness, Destruction at noon is abroad. We bow down our heads in our weakness. And call on the name of our God. Oh God in humanity clothed, Have mercy on man Thou hast made ; UNNAMED. 75 Grant, ere there is none to beseech Thee, The terrible plague may be stayed. Oh sweet ! oh sweet ! the idle joys of living, — The summer sky's intense, delicious blue. The winds a-whisper, and the flowers a-blos- som. The fresh earth dashed with white baptismal dew. The far-off joys of life for aye renounced. Warm life, filled up with color, light and bloom. I shiver from the cold unknown hereafter. The mist and darkness, the engrossing gloom. Dead silence broods above the fated city. An atmosphere that chills the soul with dread, A horror curdling through the very life- blood. — It seems some haunted city of the dead. Changed is the air, the very sky is changed. Dead horror, still, impalpable, intense. 76 UNNAMED. How vain seem now our loves and hates, how trifling, The idle things of life, the joys of sense. O mystic land before me stretching endless, 'Twixt me and thee a veil of mist outrolls. With longing eyes I search the gloom demand- ing Thy secret, O thou unknown land of souls. Trembling I stand before the mystic portals. Beyond is darkness, cold, and hushed, and dread. Gray, flitting ghosts, vast mist-engendered phantoms. The shadowy armies of the shadowy dead. O Infinite Supreme, Source of our being, Giver of life. Endless of life, Eterne, Grant now to me one holy revelation For which in darkness and despair I yearn. Reveal Thyself to me, O God the Father, The Father of our spirits, God alone. Reveal Thyself to me, O God the Spirit. Reveal Thyself to me, O God the Son. UNNAMED. 11 Brought face to face thus with the dread Hereafter, Life's fictions torn away, the soul stands bare ; But for our faith in thee we die, we perish Crushed by the weight of a divine despair. God give us grace to do our simple duty ; Be brave, be strong, content to work and wait, Ready to do His will until He sendeth His angel to throw wide the unseen gate. Yesterday in the fever ward The doctor told a tale Of a man who bravely entered the homes That made the strongest quail. He seemed to feel no burden, Fatigue he did not know. Where danger was the greatest. He was always first to go. But lately he had missed him, And dared not hope that he 78 UNNAMED. Had failed to fall a victim To his humanity. He was so worn in the service His frame could not resist The fever as it should do, He would be greatly missed. "What is his name" I queried, Grown curious to hear. "His name," the doctor answered "Was Herman Delaterre." And art thou dead ? Entered through starry gates into thy heaven? While evermore my spirit unforgiven Dwells in the awful Valley of the Shade, Yet cannot die. Perchance, if thou art dead, Thy soul can hear me when to thee I cry, "True to thy love forevermore am I." I love thee, O my love, and art thou dead ? UNNAMED. 79 Not dead perchance But fighting in these noisome haunts of pain The fiend of fever that with burning chain Has bound thee. Never loving glance Benignant meets thy own ; No loving hands assuage the fever pain. My friend ! My Herman ! Dying, dead, perchance, Dying — my love — alone. If thou art gone, and life for me is done. And I should meet thee far beyond the sun Where flit gray ghosts of warm humanity, Phantoms of things that were, and things to be, Should I be aught to thee ? or thou to me ? It cannot be when life for me is o'er That I shall see my love no more, no more, Somewhere, somewhere, upon a golden shore, I yet shall feel his arms about me fold. God plans a meeting for us far away. In other climes, upon another day. 8o UNNAMED. When I, too, pass beyond the shadows gray And see my sad life as tale that's told. There is no grief — One wipes away all tears. There is no death through endless blessed years ; There is no night, and there shall come no fears. There lives immortal love, and grows not old. Last evening I went sorrowing Soul wrapped in one idea, To pray for the soul of Herman my friend. In the church of St. Sofia. The church was dark and lonely, But, in a column's shade, A single lonely worshiper Like myself, in silence prayed. I gazed o'er the stately altar At a figure of the Christ, The Lamb of the Atonement For sinners sacrificed. UNNAMED. I gazed at the stately altar, But soul and lip were dumb. I had come to pray for Herman, But the prayer thought did not come. I could not shape a prayer. I knew that all was vain. Silent I sat, unmoving. Mute in a trance of pain. I saw through the realms of phantom That dreamlike stretched away, My lonely Life Henceforward Stand desolate and gray. With even Death like a lover Proven false in the hour of need My dreary Life Henceforward Stand desolate indeed, — A wounded thing, creep slowly Through lengths of weary years With nothing brighter than heart ache. Nothing sweeter than tears. Forevermore unloving. Forever unbeloved. 82 UNNAMED. Down wearisome gray vistas My Life Henceforward moved. — Suddenly just beside me I heard a gentle stir, And glancing up I saw there The lonely worshiper. His face was toward the window, — How can I tell the rest ? For before I thought 'twas Herman I was sobbing on his breast. A peace came out of heaven And wrapped the world from sin. Opened the gates of heaven, And our spirits entered in. When the dusk was softly falling, And down the lonely street The light winds kissed the dead leaves. And the dead leaves kissed my feet ; Out of the dark cathedral, Into the silent night, We went away together As the moon swam into sight. UNNAMED. 83 Far down the fading twilight Glimmered a trembling star, And I knew 'twas the tender star of love That shone for us afar. Under the saintly moonlight, Under the smile of heaven. The weary world after penance sore Lay peaceful and forgiven. When the day awakes with a rosy flush And skies grow bright above me, When the sweet winds sigh from the blossom- ing south Then most, my love, I love thee. When the sun sinks away to his palace of rest And skies grow dim above me. When the sweet winds sleep in the arms of the south Then most, my love, I love thee. 84 UNNAMED. Once to my eyes my Love and Art seemed hostile. I stood between and doubted which to choose Lest, though I found a joy beyond my hop- ing, The sweeter blessing I might chance to lose. But something now has taught me clearer vision. I walked in darkness long, but found the light. No longer foes, but reconciled in spirit, The twain seem now as one before my sight. For Love and Art are but the humble service I offer unto Him who gave them both ; Who crowned my spirit with a threefold blessing. And laid upon my soul a marriage oath. LONGER POEMS. WATER LILIES. HEN Spring comes slow, Reluctantly from the voluptuous south, The kiss of southern lovers on her mouth, The smell of southern flowers in her hair ; And Cometh loath because her heart is there. And turneth oft and weepeth tears of pain And to be gone is fain. When all the days grow dim And filled with gloom, Then nature breaks into her advent hymn, Then water lilies bloom. The days wane on. The Spring grows kind again. Ceaseth the frequent rain, Ceaseth the chill and gloom, Over the land stealeth a faint perfume. The water lilies bloom. 8 WATER LILIES. The days wane on. Over the northern hills th' inconstant Spring has gone. Up from the sweet south comes a fairer guest, The loved, the best, The Summer with rich gifts of largesse come From her far southern home. She comes, and lo ! Before her flowers blow. The vales are fragrant with all rare perfume. The water lilies bloom. They bloom, and lo ! From chaliced cups of snow Their incense fling upon the grateful air. The white leaves open, slow And timidly, revealing In chaliced cups of virgin snow The golden, tremulous, quivering heart ; Whence rarest odors stealing When the white petals dream apart. Tenderly, timidly, stealing forth. WATER LILIES. 89 Like prayers of saints are heavenward borne Yet sweeten earth. They lie at rest On the dark water's breast Like a white star upon the veil of night. Soft color tints their leaves With faint auroral light, The glow of sunset in the flushing west. What spot on earth Is found of so much worth To bear this loveliness ? Where rivers to the sea Flow onward gladsomely There surely is their fitting place of birth. Upon some flashing river That floweth on forever 'Twixt banks of blossoms to the solemn sea, — Where giant forests spread Wide-reaching arms o'erhead And make for it a path of fragrant gloom, 90 WATER LILIES. There is the place on earth Fittest to give them birth, There should the lilies bloom. And bloom they there, Rejoicing in the beauty and the light Spreading their petals white Upon the limpid stream, Upon the happy water flowing onward in a dream Of light, and sound, and motion, to the solemn- sounding sea? The banks are bright with blossoms, but for them there still is room. The air is filled with music and with delicate per- fume. There do the lilies bloom ? Not there. Not there. Not on the flashing river That floweth on forever Not where the forests bending make fragrant dells of gloom. WATER LILIES. 91 Not where the streams are flowing With light, and sound, and motion To join the throbbing ocean Do the water lilies bloom. Where shall we seek them ? For their home is low. In dark, dull pools the lilies grow. From murky depths of night Stoled all in spotless white, From murky depths of gloom Tinted with faint auroral light The water lilies bloom. The days wane on. The first spring flowers have faded long ago. Faded the hyacinthine glow. Faded the purple of the violet. The Spring has gone with all her wealth of bloom. No loiterer lingers yet On vale or hill, Yet still The water lilies bloom. 92 WATER LILIES. The days wane on. The Summer days are long and still, By vale and hill, The Summer flowers begin to fade. In all bright places where are warmth and light The -flowers fade from sight. Yet still in their low homes of murky gloom The water lilies bloom. So have ye seen, When all life's fields were green, From lonely and neglected spots Grow sudden flowers of love and faith, Bloom wild forget-me-nots, And heart 's-ease, and each flower that hath Some fragrant mission to the soul. So ye have seen, if ye have seen the whole, The flowers of love and faith Live through the spring's warm days, Bask in the summer's blaze. And sweeten all the dreary road to death. WATER LILIES. 93 So have ye known Light out of darkness, joy from sorrow grown, Life's waves of bitterness Yield snowy flowers to cheer and bless. From depths of deepest gloom White lilies bloom. It seems the earth has not One barren spot That Spring cannot awaken and gladden into bloom, It seems to darkest things Summer her largesse brings, With white hands overflowing with sunlight and with bloom. There is no place so sad But Spring can make it glad. No spot so full of gloom But when the word is spoken Its long night shall be broken. Its spotless lilies bloom. THE HOLY GRAIL. IN the days when wise King Arthur Ruled over his Table Round, „,^ The gallant knights went on a quest T Seeking east, seeking west, For the Holy Grail that had vanished away Many and many a year before, — That had vanished away, and been seen no more, Though holy men had fasted and prayed, With tears, and sighs, and penance sore. For the Holy Grail to come once more. Sometimes before the longing eyes Of holy monk, or praying nun, A light like that of noonday sun Sudden flashed, and sudden died. In shining clouds of dazzling white, The Holy Grail upon their sight Flashed a moment and was gone. THE HOLY GRAIL. And none could tell the way it went So soon the sudden light was spent ; And never knight, Or anchorite, Or holy monk, or virgin pale, Had sought and found the Holy Grail. One day King Arthur's gallant knights, Clad all in panoply of mail, Went riding forth upon their quest. Seeking east, seeking west, To find the Holy Grail. They vowed to heaven a solemn vow To right the wrongs of the opprest, To keep their honor white and pure, And leave unto high heaven the rest. Then bound upon each knightly breast The badge, where all the world might see. Of Honor, Truth, and Courtesy, And fearless rode forth to their quest. Seeking east, seeking west. Seeking south, seeking north. 95 96 THE HOLY GRAIL. All bound upon the selfsame quest The gallant knights rode forth. And one found in a mossy glade A bower of bloom, a smiling maid, A fount that in the sunlight played, A cool stream rippling through the shade. Sore with the heat of toil opprest He turned aside to rest. Beside the murmuring stream he stayed. Forgot his holy quest. And a mystic song through the forest rang, And a mystic voice low sang, — 'Weali hope, weak faith must fail, must fail. He who seeks the Holy Grail Will seek in vain if he turns to rest. Endeth here the warrior's quest, And one tale is done. And one rode over hill and vale And came to a palace great and strong. Around him the vassals began to throng THE HOLY GRAIL. Saying, "Thou who wearest King Arthur's mail Right for us now the wrong we bear, Free from the foe these stately towers, And thou shalt be lord of us and ours." The good knight turned from his holy quest To right the wrongs of the opprest. They made him lord, and bowed the knee. He stayed to reign where he went to free. In the fruitful lands of the blooming west He laid aside his burnished mail, He sought no more for the Holy Grail, Forgot his holy quest. And a mystic song through the palace rang, And a mystic voice low sang, — The weak of purfosp nxu&t Jail, must fail, He cannot find the Holy Grail, Though long he seek, he loill seek in vain, For the lust of power and love of gain Will prove too strong for such an one. And another tale is done. And one rode over field and moor Till a wide plain opened before his sight. 97 98 THE HOL V GRAIL. Whereon in clouds of dazzling light, The Holy Grail shone white and pure. But straight before, and on either hand, Came the spirits of evil, band on band ; Back to the sunshine flashed in light Their burnished helms and weapons bright, Behind them, pure and grand. The Holy Grail shone white. He had not shuddered at mortal foes. He had not trembled at giant's might. But he turned away from the spirit fight. And straight before him the vision rose. And the Holy Grail into heaven was caught. Then his bosom was filled with a wild despair. The wild despair of a soul unblest. He threw aside his burnished mail, He sought no more for the Holy Grail, Forgot his sacred quest. And a mystic song o'er the wide plain rang, And a mystic voice low sang, — The faint of heart must fail, must fail, He cannot find the Holy Grail. THE HOLY GRAIL. 99 Only