)OOR 
 
Rnnlc, A t 11 U 
 
 CXIPXRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
THE DOOR 
 
 and other poems 
 
 BY 
 
 DANIEL SARGENT 
 
 Author of "Our Gleaming Days" 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 RICHARD G. BADGER 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 
Copyright, 1921, by Daniel Sargent 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 
 m 13 1922 
 
 Made in the United States of America 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 ©nU653533 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 / lay this lureath of <verses on the grave 
 Of Barrett Wendell for the smile he gave 
 To verses ivhen I layed them on his knee, 
 Just yesterday when still he sat ivith me. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FAGB 
 
 The Door 9 
 
 Old People in the Spring ii 
 
 Luigia 12 
 
 Of Star and Stone and Tree 13 
 
 The Moon at Noon-Day 14 
 
 The Little Streams 15 
 
 Hunger 16 
 
 A Voyage 17 
 
 The Annunciation 19 
 
 The Seven-Fifteen 22 
 
 What Might Have Been 24 
 
 A Visit to the Pope 25 
 
 The Hearth 27 
 
 Dream Well! Dream Well! 28 
 
 The Burial of Saint Elizabeth 30 
 
 The Joy of Columbus 35 
 
 Shame on Them 37 
 
 What Shall Your Wishing Be? 39 
 
 Verdun 41 
 
 Greenland 44 
 
 Midnight 45 
 
 Visitors 47 
 
 The Stream 49 
 
 Sunlight 50 
 
 The Winter That Came in the Nineties .... 51 
 
 Often at Night 53 
 
THE DOOR 
 
THE DOOR 
 
 I sing the praises of the common door, 
 Which slams so loudly when the servant-girl 
 Forgets to close it, and the autumn roar 
 Hastens to enter with its leaves awhirl. 
 
 I do not praise it that its knob is bright 
 That in its brass the chore-man sees his face 
 So long distorted as in woeful plight 
 When down to polish it he takes his place. 
 
 Nor do I praise it for its blue or green. 
 
 That's my affair whatever be its hue. 
 
 I praise it proudly that it stands between 
 
 What's in, w^hat's out, and cuts the world In two. 
 
 Two-faced, it sees the winter and my fire, 
 And blesses both; and in the darksome night 
 When stars flock down about the village spire, 
 It stands between great darkness and my light. 
 
 It sends back bleak December to the hill, 
 The January snow it bids to wait 
 Like an unwelcome guest upon the sill, 
 And when the sun comes, leaves it to its fate. 
 
 It knows a friend, and opens without groan, 
 But once an enemy stood and cursed its latch, 
 Rattled its knob and kicked it like a stone; 
 It would not budge. The scoundrel met his match. 
 
 9 
 
The Door 
 
 Holly grows o'er it at the Christmas tide, 
 At Easter-tide it sees the crocus near, 
 When June is green, it opens sudden wide 
 That every listening wall the birds may hear. 
 
 When I shall die, then let it sorry be 
 But never, never, let it know the plight 
 To guard an empty house — ^What misery! — 
 To hear no footstep and to see no light. 
 
 lO 
 
The Door 
 
 OLD PEOPLE IN THE SPRING 
 
 When Spring comes in, then turn old people gay, 
 They walk 'twixt showers, they put their wraps 
 
 away ; 
 They cross the street, they pause, they tread the 
 
 sun. 
 They see the boys play marbles, children run, 
 When Spring comes in. 
 
 They see the gulls fly where the ice has been. 
 They point with canes, they show where grass turns 
 
 green. 
 They cannot stay abed, their sleeping ends. 
 They stop in sunny streets, they talk to friends. 
 When Spring comes in. 
 
 Old people, it is theirs, the sunny Spring! 
 They walk to church, they hear the sparrows sing. 
 They lose of age full twenty years or more. 
 Old people chirp. Old people pass the door. 
 When Spring comes in. 
 
 u 
 
The Door 
 
 LUIGIA 
 
 O Trojan mob who like an army wait 
 At Priam's gate when Helen passes by. 
 She comes! She comes! You shove. You crowd 
 
 elate. 
 She veils her swan-like neck, she lifts her eye 
 Above your heads in pride majestical. 
 Shout while you can. Now fallen is her state. 
 Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 
 
 You populace that like a torrent run 
 
 From Alexandria's market-place to see 
 
 Your Cleopatra's galley in the sun 
 
 Burn on the glittering tide, while Anthony 
 
 Plays with his lady's rings in carnival. 
 
 Shout loud, then weep. Your lady's day is done. 
 
 Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 
 
 O people of Verona still you cry 
 There is no flower, no bride but Juliet. 
 Now shine the stars, now Romeo creeps nigh. 
 The casement stirs, he waiteth breathless yet. 
 Then forth she gleams. O dawn, O festival. 
 But cease your plaint. Now Juliet's hour is by. 
 Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 
 
 Luigia is the queen among the queens, 
 The lark of larks, the moment's nightingale, 
 The shout of joy, the daffodil that leans. 
 The daisy in the dark, the crocus frail. 
 The star of stars, the love-taught madrigal. 
 Sing, sing on, for all my singing means 
 Luigia is the flower of ladies all. 
 12 
 
The Door 
 
 OF STAR AND STONE AND TREE 
 
 Three were the portents on that road, 
 
 A shadowy stone, a star that glowed, 
 
 And a dark-houghed tree past which I strode. 
 
 Surely he sings all mystery 
 
 Who sings of star and stone and tree. 
 
 A star so high, O star so bright. 
 
 Image of clarity and light, 
 
 O guard, O keep me in the sight. 
 
 Surely he sings all mystery 
 
 Who sings of star and stone and tree. 
 
 O stone so dark, O stone so cold. 
 
 How was thy darkness ever rolled 
 
 From the mouth of a tomb in the days of old ? 
 
 Surely he sings all mystery 
 
 Who sings of star and stone and tree. 
 
 O tree so kind, O tree so nigh, 
 
 So prized by earth, so loved by sky, 
 
 Shadow our brows as we pass by. 
 
 Surely he sings all mystery 
 
 Who sings of star and stone and tree. 
 
 13 
 
The Door 
 
 THE MOON AT NOON-DAY 
 
 Above the round green summit of the tree 
 Between it and the noon-day's gaudy sun, 
 I see the moon as buried in a sea, 
 Like coin within a stream where waters run. 
 
 'Tis true that from a dock one sunny day 
 I saw a stone three fathoms 'neath the tide 
 Which passing ripples blurred. The white stone lay 
 As dim as does this moon in heaven wide. 
 
 And I remember too how in a well 
 
 I saw a light as furtive as this moon 
 
 Which was my own round face which truth to tell 
 
 Looked up at me one thirsty afternoon. 
 
 But never have I seen a thing so lorn, 
 
 So cast aside, not last year's calendar. 
 
 Not last year's robe when this year's robe is worn, 
 
 Not last year's law by this year's senator. 
 
 And glad I am this white road does not please 
 To lead to vanished moons. I am content 
 To stay more close to earth, to pass the trees, 
 To walk in sunlight's eye till day is spent. 
 
 U 
 
The Door 
 
 THE LITTLE STREAMS 
 
 The nights grow still that little streams be heard: 
 The trickle by the road where naught hath stirred, 
 The brook across the field, the secret rill 
 Deep in the hemlock darkness of the hill. 
 
 The fountain in the square where houses sleep, 
 The pools in star-lit meadows as they seep. 
 The tip-tip-tip of tearlets from a stone 
 On garden terrace where the moon is lone. 
 
 If nights were bright as day, if birds should sing. 
 And shouts be in the field and harvesting, 
 And dust-clouds on the road, if in the town 
 Never the to-and-fro should weary down, 
 
 If all night long the sophists still were wise, 
 If bargaining drove moonlight from the skies. 
 Then were we deaf: poor souls, we could not heaf 
 The little streams that make the earth so dear. 
 
 15 
 
The Door 
 
 HUNGER 
 
 Set me a golden omelette in the sun, 
 Here where my fork is flashing in the air, 
 Here where my leaden weariness is done. 
 Here by a throne would make a king despair. 
 
 'Tis sweet to be a monarch and to spend 
 Ten thousand rubies in a glass of wine, 
 Sweeter to be a beggar and to bend 
 His lips to taste that wine as I bend mine. 
 
 I raise my fork and from the omelette's gold 
 I carve a morsel for my watering tongue. 
 Old noble hunger, by this fork I hold. 
 Why are no praises to thy honor sung? 
 
 i6 
 
The Door 
 
 A VOYAGE 
 
 They were a fleet of ships, these nephews three, 
 Whom spinster aunt toward the circus led, 
 For on each sailor-hat the world could see 
 Name of a gallant ship in glory spread. 
 
 The U. S. S. Decatur and the Maine 
 Sailed with the Philadelphia down the street. 
 And now the great smooth circus-tent w^as plain; 
 The crowd surged in ; breathless they kept their feet. 
 
 They heard the steam calliope, they saw 
 ^Pictures that raised their hair. In battle-line 
 They passed the ticket-gate, and now with awe 
 They heard the terrible hyena whine. 
 
 I doubt if voyage to the under-world 
 Made by Aeneas in the days of old 
 Ever revealed what that great tent unfurled 
 Of dreams incredible, of tales untold. 
 
 As Noah's great-grandchildren one rainy day 
 Clutched to each other's hands as they were led 
 In past the beasts who filled the ark so grey, 
 They passed the elephants and froze with dread. 
 
 Then came all things impossible and strange: 
 Men walked the sky, and ladies flew in air. 
 Men dangled by their teeth, or for a change 
 Turned somersaults from a horse, and took no care. 
 
 17 
 
The Door 
 
 Do you blame these children that at first they gazed 
 Incredulous? They did not quite believe 
 Till a clown fell on his head, they were amazed 
 To hear him weep so loud : it made them grieve. 
 
 They saw a dog who on his hind-legs walked, 
 Nodding his head, a basket on his arm. 
 A Chinaman up to the tent-roof stalked 
 Upon a wire, slid down, it did no harm. 
 
 The charioteer who wore around his head 
 
 A long green ribbon floating out behind 
 
 Won all their hearts; at first his horses led, 
 
 And they were black, the ones they called their kind. 
 
 But then he lost, it seemed he must have thought 
 There was another lap, he didn't try. 
 Was this the end ? Then with a sadness fraught 
 They streamed out with the crowd, and found the 
 
 sky. 
 
 And when they stood before their father's door 
 The spinster aunt straightened their hats, each one, 
 Which seemed so trivial. And they moved once 
 
 more 
 Three battleships to port, their voyage done. 
 
 i8 
 
The Door 
 
 THE ANNUNCIATION 
 
 Of the most joy that ever was on earth 
 How could I sing? The subject is too high. 
 I can not leap to heaven. I have no worth 
 To imitate the angels of the sky. 
 And yet if gratitude gives songs their birth 
 Then must I sing, or else my heart would die. 
 How can I sing or how be still ? Alas, 
 Are singers all within so dire a pass? 
 
 And so I sing of how the angel came 
 
 To Mary at her home in Nazareth 
 
 Cleaving the twilight's hush and breathed her name 
 
 Speaking it softly as the night-wind's breath, 
 
 Yet making her body wake as with a flame. 
 
 'Twas after sunset, so the story saith, 
 
 Just when the earth grew still and she could hear 
 
 The sheep-bells from the hills come rippling near. 
 
 And she had lit a candle and she read 
 Of what Isaiah wrote, the miracle: 
 "A Virgin shall conceive." — She bowed her head. — 
 "And bear a son." And in a trance she fell. 
 *'How blessed is that woman." Then she said: 
 "How I would yearn beside that maid to dwell 
 To do her bidding and to kiss her feet. 
 Only to serve her were a lot most sweet." 
 
 19! 
 
The Door 
 
 Just as she spoke, though no sound came, she knew 
 A spirit had entered. And she turned and saw 
 An angel with a palm who toward her drew. 
 Some say she blushed, some say she shrank with awe, 
 Some say she fainted, but it is not true. 
 This perfect maid, this virgin without flaw, 
 Opened her heart, and waited tranquil there 
 Like lily which in the dark grows doubly fair. 
 
 ''How could it be," she asked, ''that one as I, 
 Who knows no man, could bear a child?" And then 
 The angel shone so bright. She lowered her eye. 
 And then she heard its voice so clear again, 
 Telling her how a God would from the sky 
 Descend into her womb and live with men. — 
 And all the joy that tingled in her blood 
 But filled her as a vase that empty stood. 
 
 And then the angel faded and around 
 
 All things stood but as always. She could see 
 
 The roofs of Nazareth and she heard no sound, 
 
 Save what each night drifts in familiarly. 
 
 And through the room she looked and there she 
 
 found 
 The lily and her book; and silently 
 The candle glowed upon them. Wondrous clear 
 The days of all her childhood hovered near. 
 
 2b 
 
The Door 
 
 Her mother had walked this floor, her father too; 
 She still could hear their words. But both were 
 
 dead. 
 The stars grew brighter as they used to do. 
 She smelt the sweetness from the garden spread. 
 The vine-leaves rustled as the night-wind blew. 
 Then once again Isaiah's words she read. 
 They seemed so different now. She waited there 
 Of all the universe the flower most fair. 
 
 She could believe it all, but why, O why 
 Had she the most unworthy of her line 
 Have so been chosen? How could Joseph's eye 
 As in he entered with his brow benign 
 Not find her worthless of a call so high? 
 She heard his footsteps now. There w^as no sign 
 Of what had lately passed. She sat alone. 
 Queen of the stars, heir to the heaven's throne. 
 
 21 
 
The Door 
 
 THE SEVEN-FIFTEEN 
 
 I know a murky train has never seen 
 One ray of sunshine bright at Riverside, 
 It breathes a dozen puffs at seven-fifteen 
 Rolls from the station with a burst of pride. 
 
 By eight o'clock it rumbles o'er the ties 
 Of the bridge at Riverside. Alas the sun 
 No longer sees its headlight from the skies. 
 Years it has run this race, but never won. 
 
 It is a train too late. It can not know 
 How fields are golden in the day-light's gaze, 
 For Riverside, where gentle waters flow 
 Is where the fields begin and happy ways. 
 
 None but the souls belated ever ride 
 
 This train of gloom. From Boston day by day 
 
 Shadows with bended head into it glide. 
 
 Home they must go by night, the best they may. 
 
 What mocking unconcern the station shows! 
 How self-complacent is the stuffy car. 
 At seven-fifteen as if on time it goes. 
 Dragging its tail-light like an evening star. 
 
 One seat contains two men whose watches lied, 
 A dozen times their anger winds the stem, 
 To teach the works more care. And side by side 
 They curse the hands that so belated them. 
 
 22 
 
The Door 
 
 Another tells himself a hundred times 
 
 How he forgot a parcel, back he ran. 
 
 'Twas all in vain. The iron step he climbs 
 
 Of the seven-fifteen, which speeds the best it can. 
 
 Yet even on the longest summer day 
 
 There ever is that dark at Riverside, 
 
 The day has found its end. The fields are gray. 
 
 Trees have no golden leaves. A life has died. 
 
 By that time like a gaoler through the train 
 Has moved the grave conductor with an eye 
 Merciless on the tickets, he has ta'en 
 Count of his prisoners and passes by. 
 
 They sliall be free each from his purgatory 
 At some embowered station dim with light. 
 There may some youth, escaped, unroll his story 
 To damozel who comes to meet him white. 
 
 One danger lasts; let no man fall asleep 
 Dreaming him home, sped onward through the 
 
 gloom, 
 A brakeman with a lantern by will creep 
 Like a demon waking spirits in their tomb. 
 
 23 
 
The Door 
 
 WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 
 
 One man bewails he lived not in that day 
 
 Before base guns were heard, when swords were 
 
 bright; 
 I saw him in the street-car on his way 
 Back from the bank. The city flashed with light. 
 
 Another rages that he was not born 
 
 When men with clubs made war on wolves and 
 
 bears, 
 I saw him by his hearth-stone sit forlorn, 
 Hearing his plaintive infant cry upstairs. 
 
 Another can't forgive the time's mistake 
 That so delayed him that he was not there 
 His baton from Napoleon to take 
 And break at Waterloo the British square. 
 
 King-haters had been kings had they lived then, 
 There w^ould have been ten million Lancelots, 
 Not one of us had lived like common men. 
 We all live out of time, our valor rots. 
 
 I too suspect had I lived long ago 
 I would have been — ah, well I will not say, — 
 Not as it is when all the neighbors know 
 The truth for all the bombast I display. 
 
 And yet this pufF of smoke, at which I gaze. 
 If I'd lived then, would never have been lined 
 With all time's memory, so blue with haze. 
 Knights, troubadours, and saints. I had been blind. 
 
 24 
 
The Door 
 
 A VISIT TO THE POPE 
 
 The ruler of the fatherland of peace, 
 I mean the Pope, received one happy day 
 In audience, his daughter named Louise: — 
 She'd come to five years old, I've heard men say. 
 
 Yet she was married, and this tale could tell 
 Her husband's trials, but it were too long. 
 He does his duty when he spanks her well. 
 But she alone shall dance into this song. 
 
 She rolled her hoop which was her latest toy, 
 Up to the Vatican : Pope Benedict 
 Looked out and all his features turned to joy. 
 The Swiss guards raised their spears; their heels 
 they clicked. 
 
 The Pope cried : "Lead her in." And in she came. 
 She brought her hoop and stick. She was so small 
 The stairs seemed endless. Then she gave her 
 
 name. 
 "Tell him it's just Luigia, that is all." 
 
 "Luigia!" said the Pope, and down she knelt. 
 He blessed her hoop, her stick, and blessed her hair, 
 And asked about her toys and how she felt. 
 She wished to tell him all, she did not dare. 
 
 25 
 
The Door 
 
 Then out she ran, — the guardsmen all amazed — 
 It seemed a halo floated o'er her head, 
 For with her hands above her brows she raised 
 Her toy, the hoop, and joyously she fled. 
 
 And now the wonder ! First the stick it fell, 
 Then down she reached both hands — that I will 
 
 sw^ear — 
 And yet the Swiss guards to a man will tell 
 The hoop stayed like a halo in the air. 
 
 Her nurse, the angel guardian, just then 
 Sent her along, there is no more to say. 
 For all I know the pious Vatican 
 Thinks that it saw a saint until this day. 
 
 I told this story to a canon grave: 
 
 ''She is no saint," he said. "But who can tell? 
 
 This hoop may teach the lady to behave. 
 
 So let her keep her toy, and guard it well." 
 
 26 
 
The Door 
 
 THE HEARTH 
 
 When fades the west sky dark 
 Then dawns the hearth-stone bright, 
 Above the log its spark 
 Makes gold the ceiling's height. 
 It dawns. And yet no hill 
 Hears wide the farm-cock crow. 
 Soft to the window-sill 
 Its farthest splendors glow. 
 
 It flames. It leaps on high. 
 And yet on earth it stays 
 To light the fire-dogs' eye 
 To make the faggot blaze. 
 
 One day to ask I dared — 
 'Twas when Ifke summer day 
 Upon the walls it flared 
 And warmed me with its ray. 
 Why never like the sun 
 Up through the cloudy flue 
 It did not mount and run 
 And make the heavens blue. 
 Its angry lash grew red, 
 A spark lept to my chair. 
 "I own the house," it said, 
 ''The walls, the roof, the stair." 
 
 "I own your children all, 
 I owned your father too." 
 I felt my eyelids fall. 
 Close to the hearth I drew. 
 27 
 
The Door 
 
 DREAM WELL! DREAM WELL! 
 
 Whether it was the sunlight on the grass, 
 Or on his brow, the brow the shadow of a tree, 
 Or in his brain the gentle thoughts that pass, 
 I saw him fall asleep most helplessly. 
 
 'Twas not beside a hay-mow in the field 
 Nor on a terrace in its golden dream. 
 But in a city park where loud there pealed 
 The strident taxis in their endless stream. 
 
 I think he must have passed some years ago 
 That birth of kindliness called three-score ten, 
 Which made him child-like though his hair was 
 
 snow. 
 He had a beard like venerable men. 
 
 Now it was June, and all the flowers were young. 
 His lips were red, and in his hand he held 
 The daily news which in loud letters sung 
 Of Polish victories so strangely spelled. 
 
 I chose the bench beside him ; first I spied 
 From his worn hand the useless paper fall, 
 As on an autumn day there often glide 
 Leaves from a silent tree, when no winds call. 
 
 I watched his hand. I saw its red sealed ring 
 The letter A^ on its enamel writ. 
 What was his name? That I sat wondering. 
 Nestor or plain Napoleon might fit. 
 
 28 
 
The Door 
 
 His white beard fell upon his pin and tie, 
 And hid his vest, like beards that warriors wore 
 Of Charlemagne, which to the poets' eye 
 Hid half their hauberks in the days of yore. 
 
 And now he slept. I wonder what he dreamed. 
 I'll wager well he left old age behind. 
 Perhaps he swam a Hellespont, \ifhich gleamed. 
 Tasted the good salt waves, and labored blind. 
 
 Tell me, good reader, if perchance you know. 
 Had he ten brothers? Did he go to war? 
 And was he shipwrecked once though long ago? 
 And tells he stories that he told before? 
 
 And now he wakes. — O Rip Van Winkle old 
 Who rubbed his eyes when twenty years were passed 
 And found no dog, nor any wife to scold, 
 You stood not more perplexed, not more aghast. 
 
 Where was he? Not in region that he knew. 
 Nor had he died. This was not paradise. 
 A hundred taxis at that rnoment blew 
 Their ugly horns. No angels filled the skies. 
 
 He knew the scent of June. The air was clear. 
 He picked his paper up. And I could see 
 How painful were his knees. He saw me near. 
 Yet feigned that he was blind, half-shamefacedly; 
 
 Then eyed me once again. Was I a spy ? 
 Had I seen in his dreams? Then off he crept. 
 For it was plain to his old kindly eye 
 That I had read a book the while he slept. 
 29 
 
The Door 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SAINT ELIZABETH 
 
 White was the cloud which in an autumn sky 
 
 Towered above a castle and a wood 
 
 While I below, within a meadow stood 
 
 Beside a chapel, which it chanced mine eye 
 
 Found by a river nigh. 
 
 Then on I moved as sadly as the stream 
 
 Which rippled neath the sky that in it lay: 
 
 And lone I was and lost as in a dream; 
 
 When sudden came a chanting far away 
 
 Which made my footsteps stay. 
 
 At first it seemed the sound of April rain. 
 
 Or else the sound heard o'er a grassy plain 
 
 Of children in their distant happiness, 
 
 Or else the laughter of the waving grain. 
 
 So half in joyfulness 
 
 And half in wistfulness, 
 
 I paused beside the stream that flowed along. 
 
 O might the sound find echo in my song. 
 
 So sweet the sound, how could mine eyes but turn 
 Towards that forest whence the singing came? 
 And there I saw its leafage leap aflame 
 With happy spring-tide and with verdure burn 
 Which made my footsteps yearn 
 To thread its sunny arches, for alas, 
 When autumn frowns, we love the summer well. 
 But then I asked. **How can it come to pass 
 That leaves of joyous May have right to dwell 
 Here in this autumn dell? 
 
 30 
 
The Door 
 
 Never a song could make a wood so green 
 
 As here before my startled eye is seen." 
 
 Then from beneath the brow of trees lept bright 
 
 A ray as from a crystal flashed so keen 
 
 That with its piercing light 
 
 It robbed me of my sight. 
 
 And ever now the chanting grew more strong 
 
 As if its mirth would enter in my song. 
 
 Then died the flash, and straightway I could see 
 
 It was a golden cross that sent the beam, 
 
 A cross which from the forest marched agleam 
 
 Moving across the meadow steadily 
 
 Bringing the spring to me. 
 
 "Is this the winter turned to spring?" I cried. 
 
 No wonder like a helpless child amazed 
 
 I watched the throng from out the forest glide 
 
 Thinking I dreamed, or by a thought was dazed. 
 
 And then more keen I gazed. 
 
 The cross was borne by God's own troubadour 
 
 By brother of that Francis who of yore 
 
 Gave earth for heaven away. 
 
 And after him his bare-foot brothers bore 
 
 A coffin all made gay 
 
 By flowers that filled the day. 
 
 And yet a sadness followed with the throng. 
 
 So Death, it seems, comes often in a song. 
 
 As moved the throng so crept the spring-tide near 
 Spreading the meadow gorgeous as in June 
 With daisies and with sunny clover strewn 
 
 31 
 
The Door 
 
 And o'er the shining field at last came clear 
 
 The song unto my ear: 
 
 "We bear a princess to her grave." They sang. 
 
 *'The daughter of a mighty king." They cried. 
 
 "From out the blood of Charlemagne she sprang. 
 
 Her fathers held the cross against the tide 
 
 Of Tartars in their pride 
 
 Surging against the plains of Hungary 
 
 But though her birth was noble, verily, 
 
 Far nobler w^as her death, for she w^as then 
 
 Blood kindred to heaven's gentlest royalty, 
 
 To Clare and Philomen 
 
 And God's true noblemen." 
 
 So rose the chant. O may it echo long. 
 
 Far longer than the echoes of my song. 
 
 "The castle far whose walls first heard the cry 
 
 At birth of this our loved Elizabeth," 
 
 So sang the chorus with new-taken breath, 
 
 "Is grander than the castle which the eye 
 
 Sees in the cloud-capped sky. 
 
 And vast and gray with legend is the keep 
 
 Of castle Wartburg where in nuptial bright 
 
 Duke Louis clasped her in her wedded sleep, 
 
 While angels drew beside them from the height 
 
 And guarded their delight. 
 
 But far more like the birthplace of a God 
 
 Standeth the hovel where she widowed trod. 
 
 And where upon the straw at last she died 
 
 Robed like Saint Francis and like him unshod. 
 
 32 
 
The Door 
 
 There had she come to hide 
 
 Where under Marburg glide 
 
 The waters of that stream she walked along." 
 
 The river Lahn which ripples in my song. 
 
 Had I but tongues of angels I would sing 
 
 Each word I heard within that meadow bright 
 
 Of Saint Elizabeth, the sky's delight. 
 
 Then every word that from my lips would ring 
 
 Would hold you listening. 
 
 Fairest of all is tale of how she rode 
 
 Beside her husband to the far crusade 
 
 Daring not leave him lest her heart that glowed 
 
 Would break at parting. Till at last she said 
 
 As her farewell she made, 
 
 "Would I Saint Michael were to go with thee!" 
 
 And he rode on alone, and death he found. 
 
 And she a widow cast in misery 
 
 Heard in her heart Saint Francis's minstrelsy 
 
 And followed blithe the sound 
 
 Bare-footed on the ground. 
 
 So sweet her life, so short, and yet so long. 
 
 O might you find its gladness in my song. 
 
 Elizabeth, Elizabeth, no more 
 
 Shall wretched people with their tears in eye 
 
 Haste desperate o'er the fields to find you nigh, 
 
 And knock with sobs of anguish at your door 
 
 Your sweet prayers to implore. 
 
 Perhaps a sheep has wandered or a child, 
 
 Perhaps an infant lieth near to death 
 
 33 
 
The Door 
 
 Which till to-day in happy laughter smiled. 
 
 But surely God will hear Elizabeth 
 
 And give the child new breath. 
 
 Those happy days are vanished as I see 
 
 The crowd now vanish pressing radiantly 
 
 Into the chapel, singing one and all 
 
 Even the leper who came stealthily 
 
 Into the church to crawl 
 
 And crouch against the wall. 
 
 May lepers all in heaven leap clean and strong 
 
 As would the praise that echoes in my song. 
 
 And while I gazed, the spring-tide left the field 
 
 And all the world grew desolate and old 
 
 As if to make a path for winter cold. 
 
 Then o'er my head a flock of bright birds wheeled 
 
 Which to the chapel reeled 
 
 And ranged them there like to a glistening choir 
 
 With one upon the cross which raised his wing,- 
 
 Upon the cross, I say, which gleamed like fire. — 
 
 And such sweet melody I heard them sing 
 
 As held me trembling. 
 
 O winter dark, these choristers from high 
 
 Belonged not to the cavern of thy sky, 
 
 Nor were the simple accents of their praise 
 
 Uttered for me who stood the chapel nigh. 
 
 Far up to heaven's gaze 
 
 Circled their roundelays 
 
 Bringing a soul to where all souls belong 
 
 To heaven which needs no echoes of my song. 
 
 34 
 
The Door 
 
 THE JOY OF COLUMBUS 
 
 Columbus sailed from Palos as you know. 
 He crossed the harbor's starting-mark of foam, 
 Then steered as many crescent-moons as glow 
 'Twixt June and August in the heaven's dome. 
 
 But still no land. He passed a hundred skies, 
 Headed towards a hundred evening stars, 
 Fled from a hundred dawnings and their eyes, 
 Threaded a hundred noons that arched his spars. 
 
 But still no land. He crossed so many seas 
 
 That one small heaven's cloud stood large as 
 
 Spain — 
 One island cloud with snowy Pyrenees. — 
 But never he passed the mid-point of the main. 
 
 But still no land. He heard as mapy sighs 
 
 Lapping against his caravel's frail null 
 
 As from the dead and living could not rise. 
 
 The shouts that rang from Spain had found a lull. 
 
 But still no land. Familiar things had passed. 
 The sea had turned to weed. The compass veered. 
 And thrice at night a fire burned on the mast. 
 The wind blew like a gasp. Yet on he steered. 
 
 But still no land. This smoothness that he found 
 Must be that final mill-pool where the sea 
 Gathers its flotsam from the world around 
 And pours its burden to inanity. 
 
 35 
 
The Door 
 
 But still no land. At last the dawn grew bright 
 In all four heavens, and the ocean bore 
 A hill of palm-trees, and the shore's delight 
 Heard him call out its name, ^'San Salvador." 
 
 Then, was it tongues unknown that made him gay? 
 Parrots, and naked men, the strange, undreamed? 
 — For that he knelt devoutly down to pray. 
 Mountains of rubies to his fancy gleamed. 
 
 But greater was his joy to find still nigh 
 
 The fragrance blown from Spain. He cried with 
 
 glee: 
 " 'Tis Andalusia, April in the sky! 
 Seville, the Guadalquivir under me." 
 
 36 
 
The Door 
 
 SHAME ON THEM 
 
 What jolly name it bore, the little bark, 
 That sailed the solemn Pilgrims over sea, 
 Think of these men who saw the world so dark 
 Riding a Mayflower to felicity. 
 
 'Tis true the seas had half erased the name 
 From its great letters on the pompous stern. 
 And, then, I think that goody-goody fame 
 Of that brave ship has yet a lot to learn. 
 
 I know two children on a sunny day 
 Played with a barrel-hoop in plainest view, 
 Although one stoic with a face of clay 
 Felt acid in his heart and greener grew. 
 
 There was a puppy too the sailors cursed 
 Who took in well-coiled ropes his chief delight. 
 And when he'd twisted them his utter worst 
 Ran tail between his legs and yelped with fright. 
 
 Think of old Bradford, as the winds well know, 
 W^hen his peaked hat went skimming from his head. 
 And landed on a wave, his friends laughed so 
 They had to turn their backs, their faces red. 
 
 Shame on the two who saw an evening cloud 
 And wagered was it fog-bank or a land ! 
 They still stayed friends, although the loser vowed 
 He had been right, he still would pledge his hand. 
 
 37 
 
The Door 
 
 Then on that final day when land was near, 
 And women wept and crowded to the rail, 
 And men moved slowly at their home to peer 
 And the captain shouted, and they trimmed the sail, 
 
 The steersman danced a morris with his heel. 
 
 And grim Miles Standish laughed, " Tis not so 
 
 bad." 
 And raised a little child a glance to steal 
 Of how a land looked all in forest clad. 
 
 38 
 
The Door 
 
 WHAT SHALL YOUR WISHING BE? 
 
 The sky Is fire, the trees are black, the hills are blue, 
 Fishermen light their flaring pipes, the day is 
 
 through. 
 Close to the rippling shore the half-moon treads 
 
 the sea. 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 
 
 By the boats the fishermen lounge, the dark masts 
 etch the sky, 
 
 The moon's white horn is far, the lighthouse 
 watches nigh, 
 
 'Tis Cannes, the twilight blue, the night come sud- 
 denly. 
 
 *Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 
 
 Wish you were with that sail that on the sea's lorn 
 
 rim 
 Grey at the sun's last flare stood mist-like, secret, 
 
 dim. 
 Lost is its shadow now. Where flees it silently? 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 
 
 Wish you yon beggar were, down-bent, that taps a 
 cane. 
 
 Threading the dark sweet air; he halts, he moves 
 again. 
 
 What doorways hear his stick, passing them plain- 
 tively ? 
 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 
 
 39 
 
The Door 
 
 A moon-lit gate were yours, if you a Croesus were, 
 Fountains, a long smooth path, mimosa leaves astir, 
 And eucalyptus trees, and halls of courtesy. 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be? 
 
 Two thousand years ago, past dark Sainte Mar- 
 guerite 
 
 Sailed Lazarus through the night, — the scent of 
 France came sweet. 
 
 His torn sail caught the dawn. Would you live 
 then and see? 
 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 
 
 Nay, live not then, nor now, but centuries on and 
 
 know 
 How France shall darken then, how then its lights 
 
 shall glow. 
 Will Roland guard it then, Sainte Jeanne, and Saint 
 
 Denis? 
 'Tis the hour to wish. What shall your wishing be ? 
 
 •¥> 
 
The Door 
 
 VERDUN 
 
 I 
 
 Men that march up to Verdun! 
 
 How the tread that flowed like a rhythm is drowned 
 
 by a sea 
 That storms at a fortress of Europe loved by the 
 
 sun. 
 And the sun fares low to the cheek and it tenderly 
 Touches with courage the white dust guarding them 
 
 on. 
 
 On moves their cloud in its dream, and the sun with 
 
 its gold 
 Sinks blind in the darkness of hills. A chill ! They 
 
 have turned 
 To the ancient mercy of sky; in the calm of its fold 
 A wing of bright silver flashed. — To the sun it still 
 
 burned. 
 
 Men that are birds! It is gone! And the dusk of 
 the way 
 
 Melts under a gate to a gloom, where the glint of 
 the eye 
 
 Turns black at the ruins which lower, and tongue- 
 less that pray. 
 
 And the Meuse steals under their path like a vein 
 of the sky. 
 
 41 
 
The Door 
 
 O the black steep cliff of the Meuse with the sky at 
 
 its brow! 
 They mount from the foothills that shake, to the 
 
 ridges, grow dim 
 In the smoke that shakes on the forehead of thunder, 
 
 Now! 
 And a lightning shows what is dark in the tillage 
 
 grim ! 
 Men that march up to Verdun! 
 
 II 
 
 Men that march down from Verdun! 
 
 Look ! a sign like a lamp at a tomb has glared in the 
 
 East! 
 First pale as a mist in a brook, then lifted and clear, 
 And the wall of the sky turns glass, and a star-light 
 
 has ceased ; 
 So down through the stealth of ravines they trickle 
 
 and veer. 
 
 How still is the Meuse! A bridge; dark, loud to 
 
 the tread! 
 Then a city of tombs, and at last the long highway 
 
 has stilled 
 The roar that disputed the world. And the silence 
 
 is spread 
 Like a tribute fair to the dawn. And the silence is 
 
 filled 
 
 42 
 
The Door 
 
 By the mornfng song of a bird. But they march as 
 yet owned 
 
 By the chaos once that was all, still rumbling behind. 
 
 The dust, it is sweet with the dew. The calm day 
 is throned 
 
 On the fair blue might of the hills. They are plod- 
 ding still blind. 
 
 Till at last as by doom of a full-chorded rush of the 
 leaves 
 
 Of long-guarding poplars up leaps the sun to partake 
 
 Of the bright fair order of France, its fields, and its 
 eaves, 
 
 And proves them of France once again by their 
 shadows which wake. 
 
 Men that march down from Verdun ! 
 
 43 
 
The Door 
 
 GREENLAND 
 
 Here from this rippled sand a ship might steer 
 Out to the sea's broad ridge and hail no land, 
 And yet this night at sunset I have scanned 
 A Greenland made of cloud white-glittering near. 
 I see its snows, I see its mountains clear. 
 
 A continent aflame! Its headlands stand 
 Calling the sea to thunder on its strand. 
 I smell its icy breath. Amazed I peer. 
 I am the child again who years ago 
 Read how the shaggy Norsemen sailed the sea, 
 How they discovered Greenland, how their oars 
 Caught on their sheathes of ice the sunset glow. 
 How loud they cried with joy, how lustily 
 They turned their dragon prow. They neared the 
 shores. 
 
 44 
 
The Door 
 
 MIDNIGHT 
 
 Who knows the hour when dark meets dark? 
 The new day blind, the old day stark, 
 The moonlight like a hoar-frost spread. 
 Midnight, when graveyards count their dead? 
 
 Hark to the bell, once more! once more! 
 Tis twelve and on creation's shore 
 The bright stars see like vessel dim 
 The new day through the darkness skim. 
 
 O, who now wakes, O who can see 
 
 In this dark room of mystery, 
 
 Who sees the old day kiss the new 
 
 Except the owl which cries: "Too-whoo!" 
 
 "I," says the reveller. "Yo, to ho! 
 I see each star. Let dawn be slow. 
 This is my noon. And hark my song 
 Wakes house-tops as I pass along." 
 
 "I," says the soldier. "By command 
 I walk my post, and with my hand 
 I touch my pistol; have no fear: 
 The corporal of the guard is near." 
 
 "I," says the robber. "As I climb 
 To the balcony, I mark the time. 
 When madame wakes with hair in eye 
 I shall be done, and heave a sigh." 
 
 45 
 
The Door 
 
 "I," said the girl who could not sleep. 
 "I," cried a voice which made men weep. 
 "Yet I shall die before the morn." 
 '*!," wailed the infant, newly-born. 
 
 Midnight how faithfully thou still 
 Bringest to earth each night the chill 
 And darkness of that primal hour 
 E'er ever a sun had burst in flower. 
 
 No men lived then, the hills stood tryst 
 For sign of a daw^n's first amethyst. 
 No wonder a man becomes once more 
 At midnight a ghost at creation's door. 
 
 46 
 
The Door 
 
 VISITORS 
 
 "I hear again a knock upon the door. 
 
 The maid is out. Reader, before I go 
 
 To draw the latch, guess whom I open for — 
 
 You shake your head. My friends you do not know. 
 
 "Reader, sit down and ask who it might be. 
 The daughter of a King? I doubt it well. 
 Hark to the list of those who visit me. 
 The tale is short. One instant all can tell. 
 
 "Sometimes 'tis Falstaff.— Ah, you think me mad- 
 Nay, he comes often. I can hear him blow 
 Climbing the door-step as in armour clad. 
 He can not speak. His face is all aglow. 
 
 "Thirsty? He waits no word. He asks the key. 
 Then down the cellar-stairs we grope our way. 
 He scrapes the cobwebs oH rf such there be 
 With his round shape. I feel the staircase sway. 
 
 "He wants Canary, but he says 'twill do. 
 Good Burgundy will do! I fumble dim. 
 But he has found the bottle. Up we go, 
 And fill the winking glasses to the brim. 
 
 "He has not come of late. Poor cellar-stair! 
 But other friends I have, to your surprise 
 There comes my patron saint, who takes such care, 
 Saint Bernard from his chair in paradise. 
 
 47 
 
The Door 
 
 "You think I blush to greet him. Monk austere! 
 My friend, he loves too well to ever see 
 Aught but my helplessness. His eye is clear. 
 He has a throne beside our Lady's knee. 
 
 "I welcome all who to my door have stepped. 
 Even Malvolio, I called him in. 
 I gave him cakes which prove my wife adept. 
 He scowled upon their froscing as a sin. 
 
 "And yet it was not I, it was a friend 
 
 Who threw him down the chimney w^here he stays. 
 
 I must confess, it pleases me his end. 
 
 I love to hear him howl on windy days. 
 
 "Then there are others, sometimes learned men. 
 I would go on, but hark the knock once more. 
 An hour has passed, and still he knocks again. 
 The guest must be a saint. I ope the door." 
 
 48 
 
The Door 
 
 THE STREAM 
 
 Come live beside the stream 
 For there earth meets the sky, 
 There stillness floweth by, 
 There sing the fields agleam. 
 
 There bask the trees and dream; 
 There dart the birds and fly. 
 Come live beside the stream 
 For there earth meets the sky. 
 
 There shallows wink and beam, 
 
 There sunny gardens lie 
 
 There green hills bend them nigh. 
 
 So paradise, I deem. 
 
 Were naught without a stream. 
 
 49 
 
The Door 
 
 SUNLIGHT 
 
 The simple light that makes a window kind 
 
 And curtains golden and the sill aflame 
 
 And four walls cheerful, — need I sing its name? — 
 
 I mean the sunlight which the wakers find 
 
 Soon after cock-crow at the window-blind, 
 
 And which they curse at from their beds — for 
 
 shame — 
 Saying it robbed their dreaming when it came, 
 This light has put a sonnet in my mind. 
 And hark the sonnet how it sings with glee 
 Saying the sunlight is a lover's eye, 
 Saying it is a flower of golden light. 
 Saying it is a dancer rapture-bright 
 Saying it is a bridegroom passing by, 
 Or else a bride who can the bridegroom see. 
 
 50 
 
The Door 
 
 THE WINTER THAT CAME IN THE 
 NINETIES 
 
 The barn-door is frozen, it opens no more 
 An ocean of snow makes a wave at the door 
 Said Michael, "Such winter was never before: 
 Not the winter that came in the nineties." 
 
 Not the winter that blew down the wind-mill and 
 
 spread 
 The snow on the river as if it were dead. 
 And every roof leaked in the village, 'tis said, 
 In the winter that came in the nineties. 
 
 Methusaleh died at the cross-roads last night; 
 
 His last words were these, and his beard was all 
 
 white, 
 "Look out for the floods when the spring comes in 
 
 sight, 
 'Tis the winter that came in the nineties." 
 
 Old Widow McMullen fell down yesterday 
 On the steps of the church, and they bore her away, 
 Two burly express-men, who heard her lips say, 
 "Ach, the winter that came in the nineties." 
 
 The old village Adam who sleeps in his grave 
 Turned over his bones, and a murmer he gave: 
 "A winter like this teaches men to behave ; 
 Like that winter that came in the nineties." 
 
 51 
 
The Door 
 
 O the ugly brick city remembers but nought, 
 
 Or at best but a battle it never saw fought, 
 
 Or a mayor that grew rich, or a thief that was 
 
 caught, 
 Not the winter that came in the nineties. 
 
 Why then there was snow in the pines until May, 
 The fields were a bog, till the time came for hay, 
 The early potatoes turned mouldy to clay. 
 O the winter that came in the nineties. 
 
 S2 
 
The Door 
 
 OFTEN AT NIGHT 
 
 Often at night when hid from sight 
 I can not sleep, 
 
 When up I stare, but everywhere 
 The dark is deep. 
 
 When I have cried with eyes too wide, 
 "Come sleep to me." 
 When on my bed I turn my head 
 In misery, 
 
 Then at the last, my pain is passed, 
 My breath sinks slow. 
 My brow feels clear the sky draw near, 
 And sweet tears flow. 
 
 'Tis when my eye in heaven high 
 Sees long, how long. 
 Guards Mary bright in darkest night 
 Above our wrong. 
 
 She sees my bed, she sees my head, 
 She sees my heart, 
 She sees the foe I can not know, 
 His fearful dart. 
 
 What if we all in sleep should fall! 
 She does not tire. 
 
 She does not bow her gentle brow, — 
 'Tis God's desire. 
 
 53 
 
The Door 
 
 She guardeth more than we Implore 
 She is more near. 
 She is the star no cloud can bar, 
 No dread, no fear. 
 
 If she one hour should leave her tower 
 Then were we all 
 Sent to our fate with sins too great 
 The skies would fall. 
 
 Ah, those who lie with sleepless eye 
 They do partake 
 
 One moment sweet before her feet 
 To lie awake. 
 
 54 
 
I! II I iii niil! III!! 
 
 ill 
 
 ' |i liHt; 
 
 'II 
 
 ilL« 
 
 if! ' ■ ■ 
 
 I'MMm 
 
 ^iliiilif