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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF HELEN 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 WARREN CHENEY 
 
 ELDER & SHEPARD 
 
 
 
 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 
 
 
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THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 CONGRESS. 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 JUN. 28 1901 
 
 Copyright entry 
 QCLASS «L*Xc. N 
 COPY B. 
 
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 COPYRIGHT, I 90 I, BY 
 
 WARREN CHENEY 
 
 PRINTED BY THE STANLEY-TAYLOR COMPANY 
 SAN FRANCISCO 
 
Contents 
 
Page 
 
 The Flight of Helen 3 Contents 
 
 For a Preface 6 
 
 The Music of the Pines 7 
 
 English Lavender --------8 
 
 Song — Ah, Love Me First - - - - - io 
 
 Invocation to the Winds II 
 
 The Watcher 12 
 
 Dirge - 14 
 
 At Morn 15 
 
 In Apology - - - - - - - - -16 
 
 De Profundis 18 
 
 Love's Memories - - - - - - - _I 9 
 
 Charity - ------ 20 
 
 Good Courage - - - - - - - -21 
 
 Yosemite — Going Out 22 
 
 Marsyas ---------23 
 
 The Turning of Orpheus - 24 
 
 Morning Prayer For Strength ------ 26 
 
 Old Love 27 
 
 The First Linnet 3° 
 
 Consolation - - - - - - - - 3 1 
 
 The Poet's Inspiration 32 
 
 Declaration - 33 
 
 Waiting the Opinion of the Critics 34 
 
 The Lesson of Spring 36 
 
 As You Lie Dead ------- 37 
 
 Submission - - - - - - - - 3^ 
 
 To a Lover - - - - 39 
 
 Distrust at Parting 4° 
 
 To You Benumbed - - - 41 
 
 January ---------42 
 
Page 
 Contents February -43 
 
 March ---------44 
 
 April ----------45 
 
 October -46 
 
 November -------- -47 
 
 December -------- 4,8 
 
 Abelard to Heloise - - - - - - 49 
 
 To a Poet - - 50 
 
 The Passing of the Year - - - - - - 51 
 
 At the End --------52 
 
 The Tryst 53 
 
 Old Age to Cupid -------54 
 
 In a Strange Library - - - - - - -56 
 
 A Song for the North Wind - - - - - 57 
 
 Roman Love Song - - - - - - -58 
 
 If We Could Know -- -_.. . 59 
 
 After An Old Master -------60 
 
 If It Were Come 61 
 
 Valentine to My Wife ------- 62 
 
 Emori Nolo - - - - - - - - 63 
 
 Of Death Before Maturity ------ 64 
 
The Flight of Helen 
 
 and other Poems 
 
THE FLIGHT OF HELEN 
 
 NOW before the Paphian shrine 
 Slow the wreaths of smoke entwine, 
 While the laggard priestess toils, 
 One by one, with fragrant oils 
 The low, sputtering lamps to fill. 
 For upon the windy hill 
 Now the lovely goddess stands, 
 Eager to make good her gage, 
 And across the echoing lands 
 Calls aloud her heart's desire : 
 " Helen ! Helen ! " — And the Loves, 
 Fain to add impotent aid, 
 Lift the chorus high and higher, 
 While with sober pantomime 
 Of her joyous mien they stand, 
 Shouting through uplifted hand : 
 " Helen ! Helen ! it is time." 
 
 When the signal of her doom 
 Stirred the stillness of the room, 
 Starting from her purple bed, 
 With wide eyes and troubled face, 
 Helen stood, and for a space 
 Listened, trembling in the dark. 
 But as through the quiet place 
 Once again the echo sped, 
 Like the ebb of some great sea, 
 Fear and sin and memory, — 
 
 3 
 
The Flight All the terrors of her heart, — 
 
 of Helen God-commanded, backward rolled, 
 
 And she knew her destiny. 
 
 Then she went with willing feet, 
 All her hair about her flowing, 
 Swift her toilet to complete, 
 Thinking only of the going. 
 Soft-spun linen first she drew 
 O'er her shoulders' snowy fleece, 
 Maiden girdle round her bound, 
 Closely tied each high-laced shoe, 
 Wound her brows and through her hair 
 Wove loose sprays of myrtle blue. 
 And at length when all was done, 
 Maiden made again by fate, 
 When the far-ofF glimmering sun 
 Whitened in the cloudy East, 
 With glad eyes and willing speed, 
 From the past's sweet burden freed, 
 Forth she fared beyond the gates 
 To where her eager lover waits. 
 
 But the child, Hermione, 
 Standing at the open door, 
 Watched with growing fear to see 
 How her mother decked her hair ; 
 And the terror more and more, 
 Grew, till now the toilet done, 
 She is left within the place 
 Listening still with piteous face 
 
To the footsteps fainter growing ; The Flight 
 
 In her childish grief not knowing of Helen 
 
 Half it bodes for good or ill, 
 That the high gods have their will. 
 
FOR A PREFACE 
 
 I HAVE stood shivering in November days — 
 The sour November days that threatened frost — 
 Watching the birds that, summer long, had crossed 
 And crossed so oft my quiet garden ways, 
 I knew and loved them as I did the rays 
 
 Of sunshine there, wing southward until lost 
 At the far, misty world brim, cloud embossed, 
 Where summer still lay warm in drowsy haze. 
 
 They found the summer ? That I do not know. 
 
 Mayhap 'twas not for them — nor yet for these, 
 My books. I only stand as they depart, 
 
 Miss them and wait, not eager that they please 
 So much as wistful that they bring the glow 
 
 Of lacking summer to some chilly heart. 
 
THE MUSIC OF THE PINES 
 
 THESE woods are never silent. In the hush 
 Of the high places, solemnly there goes 
 In endless undertone the stately rush 
 Of music, — windy melody that grows 
 And ebbs and changes in uncertain time ; 
 As if some pensive god tried here apart 
 Vague snatches of the harmonies divine 
 Before he played them on the human heart. 
 
ENGLISH LAVENDER 
 
 THROUGH the open window the hot air brings, 
 Slow and incessant, the long-drawn cry 
 Of the fakir, who, down on the sidewalk, sings, 
 In commending his wares to the passers-by, — 
 " O lavender, English lavender ! " 
 
 Small sort of song that, but somehow in tune 
 With the breathless heat of the fiery day ; 
 
 And the dreamy air of the summer noon 
 Grows dreamier, hearing him chant his lay 
 Of lavender, English lavender. 
 
 It is strange we old fellows, who fancy in truth 
 The love-life within us long withered and dead, 
 
 Can be startled and brought face to face with our youth, 
 With a random word by a stranger said, 
 Like "Lavender, English lavender." 
 
 For the cry, and the breath of perfume that floats 
 From the dead leaves down in his basket there, 
 
 Have stirred from my heart-strings the echoing notes 
 Of the past with its passion and joy and care. 
 Oh, the lavender, English lavender ! 
 
 I am thankful, ah ! thankful, I can not trace 
 One bitter thought with the sweetness blent ; 
 
 There comes to me only her girlish face 
 
 And her Quaker dress with its fleeting scent 
 Of lavender, English lavender. 
 
 8 
 
She was young — and loved me — but adverse fate English 
 Divided — the usual way — and so, Lavender 
 
 I have only the memory shelved in state, 
 
 Like the treasures that house-wives shelve and strew 
 With lavender, English lavender. 
 
 That only, — but yet after all these years, 
 
 This ghost of a love rises up unsought, — 
 And my eyes brim over with foolish tears, 
 
 When a careless word brings the sudden thought 
 Of lavender, English lavender. 
 
SONG — AH, LOVE ME FIRST 
 
 AH, love me first with tears and smiles — 
 The maiden's prelude — let there be 
 Warm brush of kisses blent, the whiles, 
 
 With tears in fickle ministry. 
 As if your heart still sought at glance, 
 New choosing on the hour's chance, 
 Nor knew how true it was to me ! 
 
 But love me last with brow serene — 
 The mate's way — lifting honest eyes, 
 
 Glad in surrender, with no lien 
 
 Of haunting doubt on love's emprise. 
 
 As if your ear caught this one tone, 
 
 So clear it heard but it alone ; 
 
 Nor wished to hear another rise. 
 
 10 
 
INVOCATION TO THE WINDS 
 
 O riders of the air, 
 Not weak but blowing soft because you will, 
 See now the smoke of wine and viands rare 
 Which we, the winnowers, who fan and toss, 
 Burn for your gladness ; and this day across 
 The hard-trod floor let such full airs be borne, 
 Shall draw the light chaff from the yellow corn 
 Each time the measures fill ! 
 
 i i 
 
THE WATCHER 
 
 I, Martin, with the rest, 
 
 Watch while the old year dies : 
 
 All prayers find answer, but unblest 
 I know mine own arise. 
 
 Across the church I see 
 
 My slim Elisabeth; 
 Upon her breast the drapery 
 
 Scarce rises with her breath. 
 
 Yet, when I look, she knows, 
 
 As if I spoke her name ; 
 And on her cheek the color goes 
 
 And flutters like a flame. 
 
 Back just a twelvemonth's space, 
 
 My brother John and I 
 Sat in this selfsame quiet place, 
 
 And watched the old year die. 
 
 To both she was the sun, 
 For both love's only way; 
 
 But if she wanted one or none, 
 Not any man could say. 
 
 That night she made no stir, 
 No sign my heart might keep ; 
 
 But when he turned and looked at her, 
 I saw her color leap : 
 
 12 
 
I saw the color rise, The Watcher 
 
 And hover like a breath — 
 I saw the challenge of his eyes — 
 
 And I, — I prayed his death. 
 
 Tonight, her tell-tale red, 
 
 I, Martin, make to play — 
 But God — He heard me- — John is dead, 
 
 And I — I dare not pray. 
 
DIRGE 
 
 TOLL, bells, and cease not. Beat by beat 
 Your fleshless psalm of praise intone. 
 Perchance the dead still finds it sweet 
 To hear it where he lies alone. 
 
 God ! how the silence must oppress 
 When the dead eyelids solder down ; 
 
 What awful pang of loneliness 
 
 Come when the senses merge and drown! 
 
 Toll, peal by peal, lest he should guess 
 How soon his very name will pass ; 
 
 Toll, while the new, black mound we press ; 
 Oblivion follows with the grass. 
 
 H 
 
AT MORN 
 
 O PATIENT soul that throbs with bitter pain, 
 And finds denied the boon of eyelids stirred 
 By touch of tears ; that hears no helpful word, 
 Or bleeds afresh to find it lost again ; 
 That sees the laurel long pursued in vain 
 
 Withered and dropped to dust through hope de- 
 ferred, 
 And every vision of fair living blurred 
 By blind unreason of the clouded brain ! 
 
 It will not all thy days be dark with thee. 
 
 His pale-leafed wreath of poppies Time will bind 
 About thy bruised brows pathetic scars ; 
 And quietude of peace shall on thee be. 
 
 Nay, more ; at morn thou wilt look back and find 
 It was but dark that thou mightst see the stars. 
 
IN APOLOGY 
 
 IS it but folly the livelong day 
 To sit in the sun and sing, 
 Haply contented to tune the songs 
 
 To the anvil's nervous ring — 
 The ring of the anvil another strikes — 
 
 Or the far-off slumbrous hum 
 Of the whirling spools and the shifting looms 
 Where the shuttles go and come ? 
 
 Folly to echo the pattering rain, 
 
 Or fix with a living word, 
 The flash of the scythe, the drift of a leaf, 
 
 Or the sudden call of a bird ? 
 Folly because on the lower ground 
 
 The wheat stands yellow and tall, 
 And the others, afield since the lambent dawn 3 
 
 Have been reaping, one and all ? 
 
 Daily I see them in silence pass, 
 
 Brawny, and bent, and slow ; 
 With pitying looks that within my yards 
 
 The garners no fuller grow. 
 Brawny, and stolid, and slow, and dull, — 
 
 But yet, at some sudden note 
 Of my foolish songs, I have seen them stop 
 
 And listen, with eyes remote, — 
 
 16 
 
Remote and wistful, — as if a chord, In Apology 
 
 Silent perchance since youth, 
 Had caught and reechoed some quickening thrill 
 
 Of sweetness, and hope, and truth. — 
 Gone, I grant you, as quick as it came, 
 
 And they turned with vision blurred 
 To stolidly plod as before, — but yet, 
 
 It was something that they were stirred. 
 
DE PROFUNDIS 
 
 THE day I, fasting, hungered for life's fruits, 
 I heard a kindly voice say *' pluck and eat." 
 But when I came, the harvest was complete 
 And but the windfalls lay about my feet. 
 
 And so my heart the bitter problem moots ; 
 
 Since — for I heard the voice — the grant was free, 
 And I believed, and came all trustingly, 
 Why was life's just reward denied to me ? 
 
 18 
 
LOVE'S MEMORIES 
 
 WHEN one by one the years have taken wing, 
 And we are old, and all my songs are still ; 
 And at your touch no more I feel the thrill 
 That stirs bare boughs in March to blossoming ; 
 Think not, within, I shall forget to sing, 
 Or dreams of you less oft my vision fill. 
 Bless God, old age has not the power to chill 
 The warmth at heart these tender memories bring. 
 
 But love be true, and being true be kind ; 
 
 That, when their spell the days have wrought in me, 
 And I sit lonely, I shall surely find 
 
 These pensive ghosts a kindly company. 
 Their breathings sweet through all the empty hours 
 With the old fragrance of the March love's flowers. 
 
CHARITY 
 
 IS a man ever wholly bad, I wonder, 
 Sunken so low compassion dares not hope ? 
 
 What said Jesus when he saw the rabbis 
 
 Pausing to curse the body of a dog, 
 
 That turned the travel in the narrow street ? 
 
 '« 'Tis a foul beast," said one, " and better dead." 
 
 Another : *' Yea, and now, at twilight, is 
 
 A means of stumbling to a heedless man." 
 
 "And thievish was he," added then another, 
 
 " For see the scars that scalds left on his skin. 
 
 His mouth is foul with dust. Come. Onward — ' 
 
 Then, seeing Jesus gazing on the beast 
 
 And them, felt in his serious look 
 
 Rebuke. And, half defiant, said in challenge : 
 
 '* Well, what seest thou ? " He answered gently : 
 
 " Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." 
 
GOOD COURAGE 
 
 WHEN the sullen seas come shoaling 
 Up the beach with thunder and boom ; 
 When the bleak gray mists are rolling 
 
 And the night begins to gloom ; 
 I find the sorrowful sunset sweet 
 With a promise the morrow will make complete ; 
 And which stirs the heart to a quicker beat. 
 
 I and fortune are sorry friends, 
 
 We are parted many a day; 
 Hair may frost ere he make amends, 
 
 But still I sing by the way. 
 For the crusts and the crosses alike are sweet 
 With a promise tomorrow will make complete ; 
 And it stirs my heart to a quicker beat. 
 
 When love enters and sweeps his place, 
 
 I share in his laughter and tears. 
 When he departs for a little space, 
 
 I fret with no foolish fears. 
 For his empty house is still subtly sweet 
 With the promise some morrow will make complete 
 And my heart is stirred to a quicker beat. 
 
 21 
 
YOSEMITE — GOING OUT 
 
 BUT when the gates of pearl were closed again, 
 And the transfigured earth no more gave back 
 The wondrous vision, in the downward track 
 Plodded the awed disciples, saddened men. 
 
 What if the world showed its old fairness then, 
 Since they at heart knew its supernal lack ! 
 Having seen God, what but the drift and wrack 
 
 Ot prescience was the range of human ken ! 
 
 And I, like them, go with but laggard feet, 
 For discontent divine within me calls , 
 
 That I must leave this peace and rest complete 
 To dream it only in restraining walls ; 
 
 And hear forever, in the crowded street, 
 The roar of traffic like the roar of falls. 
 
 22 
 
MARSYAS 
 
 POOR faun ! Thou hadst the fatal gift of song ; 
 Felt its hot pulses beat and did not see 
 It was not meet to urge it vauntingly ; 
 Nor that thy boasting did Apollo wrong. 
 Yet when the pitying, reluctant throng 
 
 Gave their dread verdict, and upon the tree 
 Thy brown limbs hung, they say all humanly 
 Thy cries resounded, plaintively and long. 
 
 This is thy glory, that they voiced no word 
 Of shame at failure, nothing of regret ; 
 Only thy human fear of the long knife 
 Apollo whetted. For within thee stirred, 
 
 Though dulled, a thrill thou couldst not all forget, 
 That thou hadst striven, though thou lost the 
 strife. 
 
 2 3 
 
THE TURNING OF ORPHEUS 
 
 SO they toiled upward in the narrow way ; 
 And Orpheus felt the inclination grow 
 To turn and look upon her following. 
 For, through the crowded measure of his thoughts - 
 The weary quest, the pride of end attained — 
 The echo of her footsteps there behind, 
 Crept always in and out like undertone 
 In music. Ever and anon he heard 
 The rustle of her garments ; saw before 
 Upon the gloomy slope her shadow go 
 Like frightened ghost fled from the fires behind, 
 And trembling more with each step toward release. 
 
 Once, where the way was dark and very steep, 
 She pressed so close that her long, fragrant hair 
 Swept like fresh, wind-blown leaves along his side ; 
 And on his hand was her hot panting breath. 
 Then half he turned, with thought to comfort her : 
 Remembered and stood still ; and trembling, said : 
 " Not so, sweet love," and then again, " Not so," 
 And gathering all his sinews like a deer 
 Affrighted, ran, without a glance aside, 
 And left temptation toiling far behind. 
 
 Anon he took his lyre and let his hand 
 Go wandering here and there among the strings, 
 Touching long, dreamy chords of radiant sound. 
 And each recalled Euridice. This strain 
 Had echoed her first kindling tones of love ; 
 
And that attuned their common hymn of praise The Turning 
 
 At many a ruddy morning sacrifice. f Orpheus 
 
 So, struggling in this net of vanished days — 
 
 Ah, days forever sweet for her sweet sake — 
 
 His feet went slower, and he did not heed 
 
 How she drew nearer, dragging leaden feet, 
 
 And weeping, half in weakness, half in fear. 
 
 Nor how she strove to reach him, seeing not 
 
 The roughness of the road, and stumbling oft ; 
 
 Till, as she stretched her hand to touch his cloak, 
 
 Her weary limbs forsook her and she fell, 
 
 And falling, called to him — that sudden cry 
 
 Cut like a knife the meshes of his dream ; 
 
 And knowing only that she stood in need 
 
 And called him, he let fall the lyre and turned. 
 
MORNING PRAYER FOR STRENGTH 
 
 ALMIGHTY GOD, that hearest from on high 
 The anxious pleading of my humble cry, 
 Draw near me, bending from thy sovereign place, 
 And clasp me in thy sheltering embrace, 
 As one would clasp a child till harm passed by. 
 Even as I pray, the sunrise splendors die, 
 Thirsty and fierce, hot-footed noon draws nigh, 
 O help me ! lest I faint and lag apace, 
 Almighty God ! 
 
 The little slurs that so much signify, 
 The evil thought and the convenient lie, 
 Parade of right to hide a purpose base, 
 From these, and all the follies that disgrace, 
 O keep me clean and help me as I try, 
 Almighty God ! 
 
 26 
 
OLD LOVE 
 
 MY love has gone to a far country. 
 " Heart," I said, "when the south winds 
 blow, 
 Days will shorten and rains will fall. 
 New ties grow as the seasons grow ; 
 Heed not the lost that is past recall : 
 Wait for the birth that will surely be." 
 
 "Love," I said, " God give you speed — 
 
 Speed, and housing where you go. 
 
 All the bonds of empty need, 
 
 Tearful laughter, foolish cares, 
 
 That with cunning, to and fro, 
 
 Like a spider spinning snares, 
 
 Spinning, spinning from within, 
 
 You have bound about our lives — 
 
 All your maze of pleasant gyves — 
 
 In your absence, we unspin. 
 
 For the quickening hopes you brought 
 
 Full shall your requital be. 
 
 For the moving spells you wrought 
 
 We will keep your memory. 
 
 It shall lie like any king, 
 
 Shrined in silver, smoked with myrrh ; 
 
 Day shall follow day to bring 
 
 Tribute to its sepulcher. 
 
 So your face no more we see, 
 
 The incomparable pageantry 
 
 Of regret shall stir and gloom 
 
 27 
 
Old Love Decently about its tomb. 
 
 But the seal is firmly set, 
 Life to death will pay its debt 
 But of death it has no need. 
 And, no longer blind with sight, 
 We would part you company. 
 Be the future dark or bright, 
 Time of blossom, time of seed, 
 From your bondage we are free." 
 
 Free of love ! — ah, foolish thought ! 
 
 For while we waited, my heart and I, 
 
 The south wind blew and its coming brought 
 
 Premonitions vague and strange, 
 
 Pregnant prophecies of change — 
 
 Sallow haze along the brim 
 
 Of the dull horizon rim ; 
 
 Conscious stir of grass and tree ; 
 
 Migrant birds that southerly 
 
 Lined long angles on the sky ; 
 
 Shadows of the rising clouds, 
 
 Drawn like somber funeral shrouds 
 
 Over the face of the dying earth — 
 
 Till lo ! the rain and the promised birth. 
 
 But the stir in grass and tree 
 Wrought no quickening in me. 
 And in vain, ah me ! in vain, 
 Proved the promise of the rain. 
 As of old the happy lark 
 Fifed the sharp call of the dawn ; 
 
 28 
 
Wonted pomp of sunsets gone Old Love 
 
 Ushered in the peaceful dark ; 
 
 Blossoms blew, and hungry bees 
 
 Stirred in the acacia trees : 
 
 But not bee nor bird nor flower 
 
 Conjured with its olden power. 
 
 Gone the glory, gone the glow, 
 And behold my foolish heart, 
 Standing in the growing weather — 
 Standing there a thing apart — 
 While with awkward hands and slow, 
 Wistful eyes and bosom swelling, 
 Blinded by the tears upwelling, 
 It essays to draw together 
 Once again the raveled strands 
 Of the old love's broken bands. 
 
 29 
 
THE FIRST LINNET 
 
 OMANY and many a weary day 
 Has lagged since I last heard linnets sing ; 
 And now this pretender would have me say 
 Because he is with us the time is spring. 
 
 Where are the leaves and the drifting bloom 
 
 And poppies that shoot their green caps in the sun ? 
 
 Came ever a spring without yellow of broom, 
 And the shy, sweet stir of new life begun ? 
 
 He is a pretender — but when he sings, 
 
 Somehow the spell of him round me grows ; 
 
 And I hear soft rains, and the sound of wings, 
 And a breath as of violets past me flows. 
 
 3° 
 
CONSOLATION 
 
 I STOOD with Christ beside my shrouded dead, 
 And like a prisoner who has seen the light 
 Fade through his narrow casement into night, 
 I felt upon me all the heart-sick dread 
 Of the long bitter hours, grief tenanted, 
 
 Before another dawn. "If thou hast might, 
 Restore my lost," I cried in blind despite. 
 "Lost," echoed Christ, and smiled and shook his 
 head. 
 
 But at the word my soul rose up and stood 
 Before him, shook with a great questioning ; 
 Till from dumb moments while believing crept 
 Slow into faith, I found the words I would : 
 " Then — there — will I yet find ?' ' and answering, 
 "Ay, find," said Christ and took my hands and 
 wept. 
 
THE POET'S INSPIRATION 
 
 AS THE forgotten child that stands and waits 
 Questions with wistful glance each passing face, 
 Feeling the frightened heart leap in its place, 
 At each new hope its eagerness creates ; 
 And, centered on the help that chance belates, 
 Is loth to venture from the bidden space, 
 But ever scans the throng that goes apace 
 With loyalty that never hesitates : 
 
 So he who stands and serves forgot of fate, 
 
 Heeds not the careless crowd that round him flows ; 
 
 But listens the far call that, soon or late, 
 Shall bring his vigil to a happy close. 
 
 His only meed the soul divinely stirred 
 
 By what he might be could he find the word. 
 
 32 
 
DECLARATION 
 
 I FIND no flame-tipped words upon my tongue — 
 As the apostles once at Pentecost — 
 To speak for me. No kindly love has glossed 
 My uncouth speech, and my rough passion hung 
 With tapestry of words so deftly strung 
 Upon each other that the warp is lost 
 And the woof only shows. Nay, love, the frost 
 Of fear to all my heart would say has clung. 
 
 Yet when I say «« I love you,'* what remains ? 
 
 Strange how this time-worn phrase will come and 
 
 come, 
 "I love you,'' and "I love you," o'er and o'er, 
 As if the sheer devotion it contains 
 
 Sufficed to hold all pettier utterance dumb, — 
 My love, I love you, what can I say more! 
 
 33 
 
WAITING THE OPINION OF THE CRITICS 
 
 GRANTED the soil was barren — I have worked. 
 Worked till the arms cracked and the stiffening 
 back 
 Bent like a hard weighed branch. Look at these 
 
 hands ! 
 It was the honest heart put in the toil 
 That made them firm. To you the soil is soil, 
 No more, no less. But I who have not shirked 
 To thrust my hands deep down in the brown mold, 
 Have felt the vague, slow quickenings of life 
 Rise up beneath them with responsive thrill, 
 Now blind, now prescient, till the hindering bands 
 Burst at their birth. And feeling, came to hold 
 A tender kinship with these struggling things, 
 And loved them. It was very much to me 
 That the brown buds grew green, the shadows black 
 Under their leafage, and the myriad wings 
 Of drifting petals fluttered in the sun. 
 For though the presage of return was small, 
 It was my harvest, and I found the will 
 To turn the soil or hold the heavy knife, 
 Through the long watches of laborious noons, 
 Because there was a promise. And at eve, 
 When passing workmen paused beside the wall 
 To lean and let their practiced glances run 
 In silent questioning from tree to tree, 
 I felt their quiet shrugs and cautious words: 
 "The boy does very fairly — for a boy," 
 Sweet, if faint-hearted. 
 
 34 
 
But the days have passed Waiting the 
 
 And Nature, haply lavish with her boons, Opinion of 
 
 Has dressed the fruit with purple, set the cloy the Critics 
 
 Of sweetness in its juices, and at last 
 Brought harvest near when patience might receive 
 Some pittance of her wage. And now, the birds ! — 
 
 35 
 
THE LESSON OF SPRING 
 
 AH heart, so early tired, rise up and see 
 How young the old earth looks in its new white 
 How once again the rainy fields are bright, 
 With tender blue of the nemophilae! 
 
 Today I saw, about my tulip tree, 
 
 Returning linnets linger in their flight ; 
 And lo ! the punctual sun has set alight 
 
 The poppy fires to warm the early bee. 
 
 The wind forgets its gusty winter tune ; 
 
 Over last summer's haws pink blossoms grow ; 
 
 In the warm dusk is born again the moon, 
 
 And sweet, moist smells of spring lurk everywhere. 
 
 Will you not lift again your pipes and blow, 
 
 Because a rift once made the music blare ? 
 
 36 
 
AS YOU LIE DEAD 
 
 AS you lie dead, my friend, with hands at rest 
 For all the years upon your weary breast ; 
 With ears that naught need question, nothing hark, 
 Of all this aching world of care and cark — 
 O you are blest ! O you are doubly blest ! 
 
 Life has no secrets hidden or expressed, 
 Death has no mysteries cunningly suppressed, 
 But you see clear as daylight after dark, 
 As you lie dead. 
 
 And I, who know the pain, the biting jest, 
 The desolate sigh, the wrongs all unredressed, 
 
 That set on life their cankering, blackening mark, 
 If I could by a word relight your spark 
 Of life, I would not feel it best, 
 As you lie dead. 
 
 37 
 
SUBMISSION 
 
 YEA, if it please thee, down upon thy knees, 
 And ask thy God for daily drink and meat. 
 Pray earnestly that from his judgment seat, 
 He launch his bolts and crush thine enemies. 
 Beg that thy poverty be turned to ease, 
 Thy gall to milk, and trustingly repeat 
 The prayer at will, if through a faith complete, 
 Thy better sense with this belief agrees. 
 
 But ask not me to do it. Who am I 
 
 That God should interrupt creation's plan 
 To grant to me such gracious benison ? 
 I dare not think that my most bitter cry 
 
 Would change him. No, to me the honest man 
 Offers one prayer alone : Thy will be done. 
 
 38 
 
TO A LOVER 
 
 THEY say the simple patriarch of old 
 Sat by his tent at fall of even-tide, 
 And scanned the desert levels far and wide 
 For passing angels ; till the dusty gold 
 Of the fair sunset took a fleeting mold 
 
 Of heavenly gates ; and earth grew deified 
 Through his belief; and lo ! there at his side 
 All unawares, stood angels manifold. 
 
 So to thy vision will the earth grow fair, 
 
 The south wind warmer, and the summer hour, 
 Hurry with quickened pulse its length along. 
 And listen ! All about thee in the air 
 
 The rush of winged thoughts that marks love's power 
 To lift thy soul above the duller throng. 
 
 39 
 
DISTRUST AT PARTING 
 
 IF I could only know that till we meet, 
 Here where our ways cross, you would surely 
 keep 
 Love's beacon lamp aflame; that never sleep, 
 Nor sloth, nor care would turn your eager feet 
 From their dear service; and, content to greet 
 The dull hours fairly, you would find them creep 
 But slowly by, did not its soft light leap 
 Athwart their darkness kindling memories sweet — 
 
 For then the touch of your warm hands would come 
 The echo of your voice, this ecstasy 
 
 Of parting — all the memories that grow 
 Up from love's certainty to complete the sum 
 Of lover's happiness. But now — Ah me ! 
 If I could know — if I could only know ! 
 
 40 
 
TO YOU BENUMBED 
 
 TO YOU, benumbed by winter's chill, 
 And tingling with the bitter thrill 
 Of frosty winds, this Christmas day, 
 We send this little fragrant spray 
 Of Christmas roses, plucked at will 
 From our abundance. They will fill 
 Your hearts with warmth, if they instil 
 The half intrusted them to say 
 To you, benumbed. 
 
 A tale they bear of daffodil 
 
 And summer wind and robin's trill, 
 But hark ! our Christ bells' melody 
 Rings through it too. Dear friends, we pray 
 
 The word come not, by any ill 
 To you, benumbed. 
 
 4i 
 
JANUARY 
 
 WHEN garden plats are pinched and brown, 
 Because the sun itself is cold ; 
 When streams are sullen, freighted down 
 With sodden drift and the red mold ; 
 When plum trees, stripped of leafy gown, 
 Toward the salt mist lean branches sere ; 
 Then hey, my heart, and ho, my heart, 
 The turning of the year. 
 
 When crows fly low, and dusks are gray, 
 
 And mists lie fleecy on the hills; 
 When walks are white at break of day, 
 
 And from the hedge a robin trills ; 
 When leaf buds feel the rising play 
 
 Of spring's intoxicating brew, 
 Then hey, my heart, and ho, my heart, 
 The year begins anew. 
 
 42 
 
FEBRUARY 
 
 SMALL, kindling pulses in dry stems, 
 Green carpets on the lanes ; 
 Bold, little, sudden winds that whirl, 
 
 And warm, sweet blustering rains — 
 The earth is warm, the heart is warm, 
 
 The gay acacia blows ; 
 And lo ! the lovely march of flowers 
 In glad procession goes. 
 
 43 
 
MARCH 
 
 ALL day from the north the fierce wind blows 
 And the stunted oak trees bow ; 
 All day as I plod in the endless rows 
 The sea gulls follow the plow. 
 
 I hear in a tumult of sound their cries 
 And the shock of the bending trees, 
 
 And up from the west like a call arise 
 The roar of the breaking seas. 
 
 And bitter within burns the old unrest, 
 
 With the old unquiet heart — 
 The maddening pulse of the life repressed, 
 
 The fret for the higher part. 
 
 44 
 
APRIL 
 
 OTHE pale pink briar roses, 
 And the Judas tree that poses 
 Pinkly public with its rueing. 
 In the grass, the hot hare closes 
 Drowsy eyes and listless dozes, 
 Thankful of the breathless hush ; 
 Yonder, where the tree limbs brush, 
 And the slopes with bloodworts blush, 
 Plaintively a dove is cooing, cooing, cooing. 
 
 Oh, the sunny April weather ! 
 (Pull, heart, pull at sorrow's tether, 
 
 To the winds gray trouble flinging.) 
 In the fields, gay prince's feather 
 And tall poppies flaunt together, 
 
 Giddy with the warm wind's wine. 
 
 Hark to April's spell divine ! 
 
 Overhead, where cool leaves twine, 
 All the air is soft with singing, singing, singing. 
 
 45 
 
OCTOBER 
 
 HOW clean the trees look since the first, short rain! 
 The dark comes quicker now ; and with the sun, 
 Like patter of small feet, distinct and plain, 
 The dew drips in the roadways. One by one 
 The leaves show yellow and wind-loosened pass 
 To rust unseen among the withered grass. 
 And, in the silence, lo ! the sluggish year, 
 Stirred by a vague dismay of vigor lost — 
 Each day adds sharpness to his growing fear. 
 See how he huddles at the thought of frost ! 
 
 + 6 
 
NOVEMBER 
 
 OVER the island the mists hang low, 
 And in the dull belt between 
 Wheel the migrant birds, as if to glean 
 The last of the summer from sand and sea — 
 The senile summer, that tremulously 
 Goes on outspreading its weakened snares, 
 And will not see that they must go. 
 
 But love, ah, love ! where fares thy flight ? 
 God help me, look in my eyes ! 
 Is the charm outworn and the bond grown light 
 And nothing at heart but sighs ? 
 
 47 
 
DECEMBER 
 
 THE satin glint of trampled stubble fields 
 Is gray as gorgon's face. 
 Haggard the old year stands and patient shields 
 The young year's fro ward green against the cold 
 The young year, all impatient of the old 
 And struggling hard to push him from his place. 
 
 + 8 
 
ABELARD TO HELOISE 
 
 GRIEVE not, beloved, that a space too late 
 We filled our lamps, to enter like the rest. 
 Love is the same — the same — and its dear zest 
 Remains here in the darkness where we wait. 
 
 While the dull feast goes on within the gate, 
 I feel your heart beat warm against my breast. 
 Henceforth we are each other's host and guest. 
 
 Shall we lack cheer where love heaps up the plate ? 
 
 The vantage ours of silence. None may say, 
 " Thou shalt, thou shalt not," limiting our bliss, 
 
 Out in love's open we are free to stray. 
 And I, I ask naught other having this : 
 
 Wide room to walk and love in all our day, 
 With heaven ever ready in your kiss. 
 
 49 
 
TO A POET 
 
 I READ once how a chieftain hard bestead, 
 After long fight all one heroic day, 
 His liegemen scattered and the foe alway 
 About him, faltered — in despair, not dread — 
 Thinking in scorn : " Had not the cravens fled, 
 I had not wavered. Were ten loyal, — nay, 
 Were one heart true, I would not yield the fray ! 
 But now, alone " — when, suddenly, the tread 
 Of feet came trampling, and the tumbling dust 
 Shook with his slogan, and with answering shout, 
 Roused by the cry, he made such desperate fight, 
 The day was turned. So to my soul's distrust, 
 When the night blackened, has thy voice rung out, 
 And thy humanity made plain the right. 
 
 5° 
 
THE PASSING OF THE YEAR 
 
 FIVE o'clock and already dark ; 
 The fingers are stiff" as horn and hark ■ 
 The passing ghost of the year that is sped, 
 Once for his live self and once for his dead, 
 In time with the changing song he sings, 
 Taps by turns on the window's verge — 
 One ! Two ! 
 
 And mark you his pasan and then his dirge, 
 How strangely alike they grew. 
 
 Passing ghost with the troubled face, 
 Glooming and gladdening in your place, 
 It must be wonderful to stand, 
 With the old and the new in either hand, 
 Certain at twelve of the clock to find, 
 The new life come, with the old behind. 
 
 Dead is the old year — cold as its snows. 
 Born is the new year — fresh as its rose. 
 Ah, who could comfort you, 
 Mourning your manhood dead — 
 Yet with new life ahead, 
 Why grieve in gloom and grue ? 
 Tears and laughter, death and life, 
 Move you with alternate strife ; 
 It is not all strange your dirge 
 Should in pagan half-way merge. 
 
 51 
 
AT THE END 
 
 WHEN I shall die, let no bells toll, 
 As if my death brought tidings sad ; 
 Why should they selfish voice but loss, 
 Since I, in going, am but glad! 
 
 If bells must speak, then ring them loud, 
 Each watcher stand with shining face, 
 
 Breathless in seeing that last fight 
 Which gives to me a victor's place. 
 
 And let no more be said than this — 
 No more, no less, ere tribute cease — 
 
 " He found life glad and full and sweet ; 
 Fought well with death and took his peace. 
 
 52 
 
THE TRYST 
 
 IF I skirt the cherry hedge 
 As the clock is striking eight ; 
 Turn there by the grass-plot's edge, 
 Passing by the iron gate — 
 Ugh ! I hear its hinge creak still ! — 
 And, silent as the whip-poor-will 
 Flitting on before me, wedge 
 Through a gap I know, and gain 
 The great passion vine they train 
 Up around her window ledge. — 
 Then, at the last silvery stroke, 
 If I whistle, once, twice, — so — 
 Like the little house owl's call — 
 Somehow in the dark I know, 
 Though I hear no sound at all, 
 That the door there on the right 
 Opens slowly; and a patch 
 Of shadow drifts along the wall 
 Somewhat less than woman's height. 
 Drifts and flutters; and no more 
 Till I hear the smothered scratch, 
 In the gravel, of swift feet, 
 Rush of garments, and I see 
 There, where nothing was before, 
 By me close, the shadow sweet, 
 Hands outstretched my hands to greet, 
 And her face leaned out to me. 
 
 53 
 
OLD AGE TO CUPID 
 
 LOVE'S dead leaves rustle in the winter wind ; 
 Unchecked, the breezes through its branches 
 blow ; 
 No tender green a new year there will find : 
 Boy, bend on me no more your golden bow. 
 
 Let the young lover vital deem his flame, 
 And pale and glow contented in my stead ; 
 
 Finding more precious far than gain or fame 
 That eyes be blue and hair white filleted. 
 
 To him let come the vagrant, tender pain 
 Of watching love grow in a maiden heart. 
 
 I neither praise, nor envy him his gain ; 
 
 Boy, sheathe your arrow, sheathe your gilded dart. 
 
 For now I have so shaken hands with life, 
 
 That to his lures 1 lift but level eyes ; 
 No more for me love's tears and hapless strife, 
 
 Its restless fears and blisses of surprise. 
 
 Ay, sheathe your shaft, boy, no more will I lie, 
 Wide-eyed at sleep's shut gate because love guiles ; 
 
 Nor thread the pleasing maze where pulse beats high 
 But heartbreak trembles in the train of smiles. 
 
 54 
 
For now the calm, sweet quietude of age, Old Age 
 
 The warmth of windless sunlight and the glow to Cupid 
 
 At peaceful dusks, comes as just heritage — 
 Boy, bend on me no more your golden bow. 
 
 LofC. 
 
 55 
 
IN A STRANGE LIBRARY 
 
 AS HE who journeys through far Ispahan 
 Starts at the stillness of the empty streets, 
 Half timid of the silence that he meets, 
 Half vexed so small a thing should him unman ; 
 And pauses as he goes to stand and scan 
 
 The lines of buildings — once the mighty seats 
 Of traffic — while his mind the view completes 
 With the old life of mart and caravan : 
 
 So I, in silence, on the threshold wait, 
 
 And gaze along the alcoves, where the books 
 Stand like old houses ; feel with bated breath 
 All the strong human wills, immensurate, 
 
 They represent ; and own with reverent looks 
 How the dead move the living after death. 
 
 56 
 
A SONG FOR THE NORTH WIND 
 
 WORK swiftly through the cool, keen days 
 Toil yet may prove too late, too late. 
 Incessant through the northern gate 
 Pours the strong windy flood that none delays 
 Nor any stays. 
 O, work ! 
 For in its tireless rush that impulse burns 
 For which in vain thy duller spirit yearns. 
 
 57 
 
ROMAN LOVE SONG 
 
 THE roses of Paestum bloom twice in a year ; 
 Twice may be gathered their glory of yellow. 
 But love, ah, love, not twice in a life — 
 Not twice in this cycle of turmoil and strife — 
 Is joy to be gathered and faith proved sincere ; 
 
 And wanting my love you may not find its fellow! 
 
 The roses of Paestum are musky and sweet, 
 
 Twice the warm air with their fragrance is heavy. 
 But love, true love breathes but once round the 
 
 heart ; 
 Its fragrance once spent will forever depart! 
 Today it spreads round you its perfume complete, 
 Tomorrow it may not respond to your levy. 
 
 58 
 
IF WE COULD KNOW 
 
 FATHER of light, if we could only know 
 In surety that the little good we do 
 Served in its way to help some other soul ; 
 And that our piteous habit here below 
 Of hoping what our aching hearts want true, 
 Would some time bring us to the longed-for goal, — 
 Then would our way seem hopeful, clear and sweet, 
 And we should journey on with willing feet. 
 
 Is it so much, this guerdon that we ask ? 
 Now fear as heavy as new-broken wings 
 Hangs on us, lest we do unconscious wrong. 
 But if upon us groping at our tasks 
 Came the clear light that this assurance brings, 
 There would be comfort for us sweet as song, 
 And radiance and the breath of peace be there, 
 Like soft leaf-whisperings echoing everywhere. 
 
 59 
 
AFTER AN OLD MASTER 
 
 NOW doe I wishe that I a garden were, 
 Flowred so riche that shee would come to mee, 
 
 And pluck some little blossoms, two or three, 
 To decke the frills upon her stomacher. 
 Then, an shee were Love's gentle almener, 
 
 Neere should shee lacke the goodlie smells, perdie, 
 
 Of stocks and violets and rosemarie ; 
 For these to timid love well minister. 
 But an shee should her love from mee transfer, 
 
 I can not in my mynd full cleare agree 
 If I would growe sadd rue and bitter myrre 
 
 And symbole my despaire in willow tree ; 
 Or bee a waste, so dreare men should aver 
 
 Love ill repaide such piteous constancie. 
 
 60 
 
IF IT WERE COME 
 
 IF it were come, that great millennial day, 
 And each within his man-appointed sphere 
 Toiled tranquilly for other, with no fear 
 Of want, no care, no wish to break away, — 
 
 In that calm life of measured work and play 
 Could we tread patiently year after year 
 The endless levels, while sublime and clear 
 
 The far peaks glistened all along the way ? 
 
 Nay, rather would our foolish spirits stir 
 
 At each new dawn, and voiceless longings fret, 
 
 And leaven of ambition — ay, the myrrh 
 And honey of the unattained — beget 
 
 Such ferment in us that against our will, 
 
 Our silver found, we should go searching still. 
 
VALENTINE TO MY WIFE 
 
 WHAT shall I plead for now, my valentine 
 Of years agone, who set the wine and bread 
 
 Of thy existence out with lavish spread 
 Long since to feed this hungry heart of mine ? 
 Well do I know how ill thou wouldst incline 
 
 To have me lift my hand above my head 
 
 And strew the crumbs, to draw the birds, ill-fed 
 And chattering, to this feast of mine and thine. 
 But let me lift love's torch up 'twixt us two, 
 
 And blow it, till the fitful sparkles show 
 How my eyes but give back the joy and rue, 
 
 The smiles and tears, of thine. And as I know 
 Thy heart now as I did not then, I will 
 Not plead, "O, love me," but "O, love me still !" 
 
 62 
 
"EMORI NOLO" 
 
 [Cicero, Tusc. Disp. I, 8.] 
 
 NAY, but I will not yield me tamely, Death. 
 Come not to me while yet my lips are wet 
 With the warm draught of life, the fragrant breath 
 Of love within my nostrils — come not yet. 
 
 I do not fear to die, but find it sweet 
 
 Simply to be alive, to do my part, 
 To strive, to long, to feel my pulses beat 
 
 True with the throbbings of the world's great heart. 
 
 Later, perchance, when head and heart are gray, 
 And my dulled senses pass unheeded by 
 
 The thrills of action, come to me — but now, 
 I fear you not, but do not wish to die. 
 
 63 
 
OF DEATH BEFORE MATURITY 
 
 ALERT in the dusky glooms of the early morning, 
 Eager for food and full of clamorous, low-voiced 
 cries, 
 The knots of sheep unravel, deaf to the herder's 
 warning, 
 Wandering wide and far, with restless, unsatisfied 
 eyes. 
 
 Never a stop or a stay till a morsel be swallowed — 
 Mark you the fallen flowers, in the wake of their 
 wasteful feet — 
 A moment's content and quiet, by unrest followed, 
 And onward they trample and tread, till the time 
 of the noonday heat. 
 
 Many years have I lived and learned and arisen from 
 slumber, 
 Eagerly foraged life's ..fields for the herbage they 
 scantily yield. 
 I have cropped the heads of love's clover, and pain's 
 bitter buds without number, 
 And now — ere the time of the noontide — I will 
 go to another field. 
 
 6+ 
 
JUN 28 1901