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A WEB OF THOUGHTS 
 
A WEB OF THOUGHTS 
 
 BY 
 
 MARJORIE ANDERSON 
 
 Boston 
 
 The Four Seas Company 
 
 192 1 
 
Copyright, ig2i, by 
 The Four Seas Company 
 
 DEC 19 1921 
 ^CU5o4599 
 
 The Four Seas Press 
 Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 
 *W^^ I 
 
To My Mother and Father 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 A Web of Thoughts 9 
 
 Three Friends lo 
 
 The Haunted House . . ii 
 
 "Yc^'re Like a Strain of Music" . . . . 12 
 
 Soapbubbles 13 
 
 The Three Trees 14 
 
 A Seventeenth Century Lyric 16 
 
 The Highroad 17 
 
 When Chopin Played 18 
 
 Four Scenes from Schumann's "Carnaval" . 19 
 
 Pierrot 19 
 
 Harlequin 19 
 
 The Coquette 20 
 
 Pantaloon and Columbine 20 
 
 A Dresden Shepherdess 21 
 
 The Three Woodcutters 22 
 
 Corot's "Dance of the Nymphs" 24 
 
 Names 25 
 
 Masks 26 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 Miracles 27 
 
 Truth and Beauty 28 
 
 In a Public Library 29 
 
 The Thinker and the Singer 30 
 
 The Lost Vision 31 
 
 Living Portraits 32 
 
 Travels 33 
 
 The Star-gazers 36 
 
 God's Answer 37 
 
 Treasures 38 
 
 Wishes 39 
 
 The Blue Hole .......... 40 
 
 The Sundial 41 
 
 Songs 43 
 
 Disappointments 44 
 
 Hollyhocks 45 
 
 To My Dog 46 
 
 Symbols 47 
 
 The Rainbov^ 48 
 
 Eyes 50 
 
 A Memory of the War 52 
 
 Dreams 53 
 
A WEB OF THOUGHTS 
 
A WEB OF THOUGHTS 
 
 I sit within the tower room 
 Of my gray-walled Shalott, 
 And weave amidst the magic gloom 
 My web of thoughts, upon a loom 
 Of memories half forgot. 
 
 At times the thoughts are passing keen 
 Like goodly errant knights, 
 And then anon they lose their sheen, 
 And hang, a tangled, misty screen, 
 Like a spider web o' nights. 
 
 Here comes in cap and bells of yore 
 A merry, freakish thought, 
 And now dull murmurings o'er and o'er, 
 Waves lapping on a lonely shore. 
 With wistful sadness fraught. 
 
 And thoughts there are like chimes that peal 
 From some cathedral spire. 
 So far aloof; while others feel 
 Like burning coals that half reveal 
 The secrets of the fire. 
 
 And so I sit within the room 
 In my gray-towered Shalott, 
 And weave amidst its magic gloom 
 A web of thoughts, upon a loom 
 Of memories half forgot. 
 
 [9] 
 
THREE FRIENDS 
 
 One friend I have who is to me 
 
 A shining highway broad, 
 Which stretches forward evenly, 
 
 Up to the throne of God. 
 
 Another friend is Hke the fire. 
 Whose warm and merry flame 
 
 Leaps ever upward, high and higher. 
 Changing and yet the same. 
 
 But you are Hke the wind which sweeps 
 
 The cloudy mists away. 
 You breathe upon my soul that sleeps, 
 
 And waken it to day. 
 
 [10] 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE 
 
 Our house is filled with friendly souls 
 Who haunt its many rooms, 
 
 And linger like the fragrance born 
 In delicate perfumes. 
 
 One spirit is a dreamer, old 
 
 With never-ending youth, 
 Who Hstens to the harmonies 
 
 We weave in search of truth. 
 
 Another is a red-cheeked dame 
 
 With kindly, genial face. 
 Who from her fireside corner_, shares 
 
 Our daily commonplace. 
 
 Sometimes the spirits change. I know 
 
 The lady, pink and gold. 
 With silken gown and formal smile 
 
 Who ruled one room of old. 
 
 Has vanished quite, and in her place, 
 
 A lad in student guise 
 Lives with the past, the glowing love 
 
 Of wisdom in his eyes. 
 
 These spirits live; but oh! the rooms 
 Whose closed doors once stood wide ! 
 
 Their souls have flown away, and I — 
 I fain would stand outside. 
 
 [II] 
 
"YOU'RE LIKE A STRAIN OF MUSIC" 
 
 You're like a strain of music in my heart, 
 Sometimes a plaintive measure, hushed and slow, 
 Then filled with fiery notes that throb and glow; 
 But oftenest you're just a gypsy air, 
 That, wandering aimless, haunts me everywhere. 
 
 [12] 
 
SOAPBUBBLES 
 
 Castles in the air! 
 
 Watch them as they grow ! 
 Rainbow-hued they stand 
 
 Proof 'gainst any foe. 
 
 Castles in the air! 
 
 Whither have they flown? 
 Only I am left 
 
 Blowing bubbles all alone. 
 
 ti3] 
 
THE THREE TREES 
 
 Three trees stood on a lonely heath, 
 
 Outlined against the sky; 
 The wind swept through them ceaselessly 
 
 With plaintive, whispered sigh. 
 
 With dragging steps, a traveler sought 
 
 Beneath their shade to rest; 
 His dusty garments, sorely stained. 
 
 Plainly his plight confessed. 
 
 And as, exhausted, fast he slept, 
 
 Lulled by the fleeting breeze. 
 He heard three voices faint and far. 
 
 The voices of the trees. 
 
 ''Upon my boughs," the first one said, 
 
 "Full many a year ago, 
 A man was hanged." A shudder shook 
 
 The sleeper down below. 
 
 The second sighed, "Within my trunk 
 
 Is hid a lady fair. 
 Who at his death changed to a nymph, 
 
 His resting place to share." 
 
 The third voice laughed, "No mournful tale 
 
 Of death or love have I, 
 But 'neath my roots the gold he brought 
 
 Deep buried still does lie." 
 
 [14] 
 
The sleeper wakened with a start, 
 And peered to left and right ; 
 
 Upon the lifeless, empty heath 
 No creature was in sight. 
 
 The trees like silent watchmen stood, 
 One tall and gaunt and dread, 
 
 Another drooping, frail, the third 
 With sturdy boughs low-spread. 
 
 Upon the last he stared in thought. 
 Then dug with feverish haste. 
 
 Until he found the treasure-box 
 The dead man there had placed. 
 
 Then quickly and with buoyant step 
 
 He started on his way. 
 "He has left love behind him," soft 
 
 The second tree did say. 
 
 '*He has escaped my ruthless doom 
 For this time," warned the first. 
 
 **He did not hear," the third tree scoffed, 
 **How the treasure has been cursed." 
 
 [iSl 
 
A SEVENTEENTH CENTURY LYRIC 
 
 I heard a bird a-caroling, 
 
 Perched high upon a tree; 
 
 His notes Hke merry chimes did ring, 
 
 And scatter melody. 
 
 Yet though he filled the air with trills, 
 
 My pulses did not start; 
 
 But when fair Cynthia sings, it thrills 
 
 My very heart. 
 
 HI might hear the angels' song 
 
 Within the heavenly gate, 
 
 I know my soul would find it long 
 
 And wearisome to wait. 
 
 Until I heard sweet Cynthia's voice 
 
 In that celestial choir. 
 
 Ah! then my spirit would rejoice 
 
 With quickening fire. 
 
 [i6] 
 
THE HIGHROAD 
 (A Lyric) 
 
 Winding up and winding down 
 On a misty April morning, 
 Like a queen in silver gown, 
 Dewdrops bright her hair adorning; 
 Winding down and winding up, 
 Summer madness comes soon after, 
 Like a gypsy now, her cup 
 Filled with laughter. 
 
 [17] 
 
WHEN CHOPIN PLAYED 
 
 When Chopin played amidst the gloom 
 Of some dim, candle-lighted room, 
 Then men were moved beneath the spell 
 Of golden notes that rose and fell, 
 To dream of southern isles in bloom, 
 And gardens full of soft perfume, 
 Or moonbeams on some knight's carved tomb, 
 Or raindrops in a sheltered dell, 
 When Chopin played. 
 
 But soon the dreams have met their doom, 
 The pattern changes on the loom, 
 For every cavalier and belle 
 Now hears the magic waltzes swell. 
 Ah! who could flirt with fan or plume 
 When Chopin played? 
 
 [i8] 
 
FOUR SCENES FROM SCHUMANN'S 
 "CARNAVAL" 
 
 Pierrot 
 
 On quaint and deftly pointed toes. 
 
 With noiseless step he comes and goes, 
 
 As if with velvet he were shod, 
 
 Or on some dew-drenched lawn had trod. 
 
 His white face like a staring clock 
 
 Is witless, but the red lips mock 
 
 In silence, till with a laughing jeer, 
 
 He's fled to the moonlight, ghostly and clear. 
 
 II 
 
 Harlequin 
 
 Is Harlequin 
 
 A sprite? The maddest of them all 
 Is Harlequin. 
 
 His tireless feet in circles spin. 
 Casting weird shadows on the wall. 
 Whirlwind in motley at the ball 
 Is Harlequin. 
 
 [19] 
 
Ill 
 
 The Coquette 
 
 With a flirt of her fan 
 And a gay pirouette 
 Her attack she began, 
 With a flirt of her fan. 
 Away she then ran, 
 Every inch a coquette, 
 With a flirt of her fan 
 And a gay pirouette. 
 
 IV 
 
 Pantaloon and Columbine 
 
 Pantaloon and Columbine 
 Softly on their tiptoes meeting, 
 Dainty measures intertwine 
 With a hasty whispered greeting. 
 In pursuit away they're fleeting. 
 Like two bits of gay festoon, 
 She disdaining, he entreating, 
 Columbine and Pantaloon. 
 
 [20] 
 
A DRESDEN SHEPHERDESS 
 
 A little Dresden shepherdess, 
 With gleaming, powdered hair. 
 And dazzling smile, I must confess 
 She seemed a thing so rare. 
 Incarnate youth and happiness, 
 I bought her with a song. — 
 A song may be a brief caress, 
 But smiles last long — too long. 
 
 [21] 
 
THE THREE WOODCUTTERS 
 (A translation of a French folk-song) 
 
 There were three woodcutters on the green, 
 
 (Hark, hark to the nightingale!) 
 There were three woodcutters on the green, 
 Who talked to a maid, the village queen. 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 The youngest said, (he held a rose) 
 
 (Hark, hark to the nightingale!) 
 The youngest said, who held the rose, 
 "I love, but I dare not my love disclose." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 The oldest cried, with an axe in his hand, 
 
 ( Hark, hark to the nightingale ! ) 
 The oldest cried, with an axe in his hand, 
 "Wherever I love, there I shall command." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 The third sang, bearing a flower blue, 
 
 ( Hark, hark to the nightingale ! ) 
 The third sang, bearing his flower blue, 
 "I love, for your love in return I sue." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 "My friend you are not, you who carry the r 
 
 ( Hark, hark to the nightingale ! ) 
 "My friend you are not, you who carry the r 
 If you dare not, I dare not love disclose." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 [22] 
 
"My master you are not, with the axe in your hand/ 
 
 (Hark, hark to the nightingale!) 
 "My master you are not, with the axe in your hand, 
 For true love can never come at command." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 "My love you shall be, with your flower blue," 
 
 (Hark, hark to the nightingale!) 
 "My love you shall be, with your flower blue, 
 For all is given to those who sue." 
 
 Oh, the nightingale is singing! 
 
 [23] 
 
COROT'S "DANCE OF THE NYMPHS" 
 
 Under the trees all misty and grey in the haze of the 
 morning, 
 
 Lords of the forest with ivy-twined trunks, and silvery 
 birches. 
 
 In and out gayly flutter the dancers, all secrecy scorn- 
 ing, 
 
 Light-hearted nymphs of the woodland, by mortal 
 unseen if he searches 
 
 Boldly, but sometimes revealed to the poet who 
 watches enraptured; 
 
 Hand in hand they encircle a satyr from slumber half- 
 risen. 
 
 Roused from his dreams of elysian freedom to find 
 himself captured 
 
 Fast in a net of shimmering beauty, a scintillant prison. 
 
 [24] 
 
NAMES 
 
 Like the hilt of a sword richly jewelled, whose sheen 
 Makes the blade seem the straighter, the sword-hand 
 
 more keen; 
 Like a binding of vellum, old, priceless, renowned, 
 Twixt whose covers the soul of a saint may be found ; 
 Like the sign of an inn with its message of cheer. 
 Or the door to a passage of darkness and fear. 
 Like the blare of a trumpet, an ivory frame — 
 Is the magical power concealed in a name. 
 
 [25] 
 
MASKS 
 
 Within a treasure-house whose marble halls 
 
 Are heaped with riches gleaned from years gone by, 
 
 Amid its glowing, beauty-laden walls, 
 
 A group of Grecian masks arrests the eye. 
 
 Behind that staring face, did men once hear 
 
 The weeping of Antigone, the rage 
 
 Of Oedipus? Did they applaud the leer 
 
 Of these weird gargoyles of a classic age? 
 
 To us who love to see the changing moods 
 
 Reflected in a face, it seems unreal; 
 
 But still behind stage-laughter often broods 
 
 A troubled spirit, grief that will not heal. 
 
 Perchance the Greeks were after all more kind; 
 
 We have no friendly masks to hide behind. 
 
 [26] 
 
MIRACLES 
 
 I listen to God's voice among the trees, 
 Mid whose arched boughs the sunbeams intertwine, 
 The birds pour forth their worship half divine, 
 Then take to flight upon the summer breeze. 
 Above my head, like drone of countless bees, 
 A birdman soars ; in yon cathedral shrine 
 With myriad colors soft the sun's rays shine, 
 The organ peals forth golden harmonies. 
 
 The wonders of God's world not made with hands 
 Man cannot reach, but he was given the power 
 Of moulding beauty, and his handwork stands, 
 God's seal upon it. In the creator's hour 
 He follows humbly where his Master trod; 
 Man's miracles are also works of God. 
 
 [27] 
 
TRUTH AND BEAUTY 
 
 Last night I watched the heaven's starry flight, 
 
 Saw Jupiter with golden face serene, 
 
 The rings of Saturn girdling him with light, 
 
 The dazzling brilliance of proud Beauty's queen. 
 
 And as I gazed my wonder grew apace. 
 
 That such vast power was given to mortal man, 
 
 To bring down truth from out the boundless space. 
 
 And bridge the heavens with her mighty span. 
 
 And yet I find more beauty in a sky 
 
 Whose gloomy depths, unfathomed, are aflame 
 
 With gleaming jewels of light, that shine on high 
 
 Like flashing diamonds in an ebon frame. 
 
 Grave truth has breathed her secrets in our ears, 
 
 But must we lose the music of the spheres? 
 
 [28] 
 
IN A PUBLIC LIBRARY 
 
 Within its welcoming portals, open wide 
 To all, they come and go, a motley throng, 
 Some seeking wisdom, others with the strong 
 And beckoning hand of fancy as their guide. 
 'Tis fancy leads them where the bluebirds hide 
 And fill the heavens with happy-throated song, 
 Or where the pounding hoof-beats fly along 
 Some winding western trail which cowboys ride. 
 She gives to each the keys of old romance, 
 Which open doors their longing souls have missed. 
 Shut in by darkened walls of circumstance; 
 Beneath her sway they loose the baffling twist 
 Of hidden crime, or seize life's winning chance, 
 Fond lovers whom her magic lips have kissed. 
 
 [29] 
 
THE THINKER AND THE SINGER 
 
 A master of man's thought, he wields a pen 
 
 So Titan-like in power, one hears the peal 
 
 Of Thor's bold thunder, or the clash of steel 
 
 When sword meets sword amongst earth's supermen. 
 
 A singer of man's songs, in him again 
 
 Apollo treads the earth ; we humbly kneel 
 
 Before the beauty that his words reveal, 
 
 A melody from worlds beyond our ken. , 
 
 The thinkers and the singers of this world, 
 Both richly gifted with a power divine. 
 Too often have their banners wide unfurled 
 In hostile camps, paid homage to one shrine 
 Alone. Would that more often we might see 
 Thor's strength linked with Apollo's melody! 
 
 [30] 
 
THE LOST VISION 
 
 A fisherman! And you were living when 
 
 Herod ruled in Galilee? Ah! then 
 
 You surely must have seen Christ walk 
 
 Among the fields, and heard Him talk 
 
 Beside the lake. Perhaps 'twas you He healed. 
 
 Or were you one of those who kneeled 
 
 To kiss His garment as He passed along, 
 
 So calm amidst the adoring throng? 
 
 Tell us who live so far in time and place, 
 
 How felt you when you saw Him face to face? 
 
 You're silent and your head is bowed. 
 
 Too sacred is it to be said aloud? 
 
 Forgive the violation of a shrine 
 
 On which is laid a memory divine. 
 
 But no, you start at last to speak ! 
 
 You say you're not the man whom we would seek! 
 
 And why ? Because when Christ was preaching there 
 
 In your small town, you had no time to spare 
 
 From mending nets that day, no time to run 
 
 After some strolling preacher, none 
 
 To waste with idle crowds. And so 
 
 You missed the Son of Man. How could you know. 
 
 As on the ground you gazed, that in the sky 
 
 The glory of the stars was passing by? 
 
 I3i] 
 
LIVING PORTRAITS 
 
 A room of portraits old and rare, 
 With silent lips and painted stare, 
 Oppresses you? Then let me show 
 You living portraits just as fair. 
 
 That woman with the thoughtful eyes, 
 Serene, wide-open, and all-wise. 
 Her oval face tinged with faint glow. 
 Is some madonna from the skies. 
 
 And yonder man with sidelong glance, 
 Where imps of laughter lurk and dance, 
 Is but the "Laughing Cavalier," 
 That dashing knight of old romance. 
 
 And here's a nymph for Fragonard, 
 As dainty as spring flowers are; 
 And there's a classic face, severe, 
 A flawless mask, without a scar. 
 
 Many others I could add, 
 
 Yet looking at them makes me sad. 
 
 Live works of art! but did you see 
 
 What stained and tarnished frames they had? 
 
 [32] 
 
TRAVELS 
 
 I was weary of known places, 
 Sights so old they seemed akin 
 To the fragile, dainty laces 
 Which they used to weave and spin, 
 Lying now, their worth forgotten, faded, wrinkled, and 
 grown thin. 
 
 Newer patterns I'd be wearing. 
 Strange, exotic in design ; 
 Brighter lights I'd gaze at, flaring 
 Where sweet-scented flowers entwine. 
 Rather than be ever watching burned-out candles at a 
 shrine. 
 
 But the flaring lights burned faintly 
 When I tried to catch their gleam. 
 And my garment, fashioned quaintly. 
 With a charm in every seam. 
 Would not let me fold it round me, but grew shadowy 
 as a dream. 
 
 So I saw I must put color 
 In the faded dress I wore, 
 Found the candles were no duller 
 Than they had been oft before, 
 Tried to fill my eyes with Stardust gathered out of fairy 
 lore. 
 
 [33] 
 
Since the places were unchanging, 
 I must vary then the hour, 
 Find new beauty in estranging 
 Time and place, within my power. 
 As by magic one might pluck in dead of winter some 
 June flower. 
 
 So I wandered in my garden 
 When the snow lay on the ground. 
 Saw the icy surface harden 
 To a dazzling crust that crowned 
 All the sleeping plants still waiting like myself for 
 spring's first sound. 
 
 And one night before the morning 
 Dawned, I climbed the attic stair. 
 Heard the dark's half-whispered warning 
 Not to brave its ghostly lair, 
 Felt strange shapes close in around me, with damp 
 breaths of dismal air. 
 
 Then the week-day sunlight stealing 
 Through stained glass on empty pews, 
 Finds me solitary, kneeling; 
 While the Sunday rest I choose 
 To spend wandering through some workshop ere the 
 weekly roar renews. 
 
 [34] 
 
Thus I put the needed color 
 In the faded dress I wore; 
 Saw the candles were no duller 
 Than they had been oft before, 
 Filled my eyes with magic Stardust found behind a 
 half-closed door. 
 
 [35] 
 
THE STAR-GAZERS 
 
 From the city street we watched the sky, 
 Between tall buildings a strip, dark-blue. 
 With the stars behind it shining through 
 Like watchfires on high. 
 
 "The stars make me feel so small," I cried, 
 "Like a traveller lost in a country strange; 
 Beneath their eyes that never change, 
 I have lost all pride." 
 
 But he said, "They are signals that never set^ 
 They always guide if we could but see. 
 For me they spell my immortality, 
 Gold framed in jet." 
 
 [36] 
 
GOD'S ANSWER 
 
 I cried aloud in my despair, 
 "Why must she go from me? 
 God knows they cannot need her there 
 As I do, ceaselessly." 
 
 God answered, ''Like the morning lark, 
 Her soul brought radiant dawn. 
 We did not know it could be dark 
 In heaven, till she was gone. 
 
 I called her home. New beauty lies 
 Now in this sacred place. 
 Your love reflected in her eyes 
 Has glorified her face." 
 
 [37] 
 
TREASURES 
 
 I have a chest of cedar filled with ghosts, 
 
 The ghosts of plays once seen, of music heard. 
 
 Of all the wisdom that a classroom boasts. 
 
 Of all the wealth stored in a lost friend's word. 
 
 I see them sometimes through a mist half -blurred, 
 
 But if, by chance, you looked at them with me, 
 
 Nothing but dusty papers would you see. 
 
 [38] 
 
WISHES 
 
 "There are three desires in my heart," I said. 
 
 "Only three?" 
 "The first is to follow the sunset red, 
 As it brightens each land from its crimson bed. 
 
 And each sea. 
 
 And then I would be like a singing lark 
 
 In the sky. 
 To rouse men out of the slumbrous dark; 
 Like a flaming arrow to leave a mark 
 
 On high." 
 
 "And what other wish would you add to these two 
 
 In your pride?" 
 "Ah! never from me will you gain the third clue. 
 Lest you see me so humble, that swiftly from you 
 
 I must hide." 
 
 [39] 
 
THE BLUE HOLE 
 
 A magic pool, 
 
 Within a ring of trees it lay. 
 
 Its mossy sides sloped downward to the cool 
 
 Unbottomed center, bluish-green. 
 
 Like some huge crater sunk between 
 
 Two shadowy walls, where sunbeams never stray. 
 
 But as I lean 
 
 Far o'er the edge like any fool. 
 
 An elfin face returns my stare; 
 
 I find my pool to be a fairy lair. 
 
 [40] 
 
THE SUNDIAL 
 
 In this deserted garden plot I stand, 
 Half over-grown with clinging vines that screen 
 Me from my lord the sun, whose face no more 
 With bright and burning gaze looks into mine. 
 In my poor ignorance once I thought myself 
 A very chanticleer, without whose aid 
 No sunshine e'er could find its way to earth. 
 Then I was young, and in my strong youth's pride, 
 Boasted, "I number none but sunny hours." 
 Ah well, I keep my word! for since the hours 
 Beneath these shading trees have lost the sun, 
 I cease to count them, and they slip away 
 Like pale, gray ghosts into eternity. 
 
 'Twas only from the birds that seek this shade, 
 I learned the sun still shines, though not on me; 
 He has forgot the many days I served him well. 
 Those "sunny hours!" The garden then was trim. 
 With straight-cut borders, and the flowers bloomed 
 For very love of her who tended them. 
 Even now at twilight when the soft winds blow, 
 I hear her flitting by me, feel her hands 
 Caressingly pass o'er my upturned face, 
 To trace the words she used to love so well. 
 
 [41] 
 
She too knew none but cloudless hours 
 
 In that far happy time, and then like mine, 
 
 Her life too lost the sun. So now she haunts 
 
 This place of former joys. A silent pair 
 
 We wait together, she and I, until 
 
 The shadows fade before the sun's bright touch, 
 
 And we can count the "sunny hours" again. 
 
 [42] 
 
SONGS 
 
 I sang out in the woods today 
 
 All the songs in my heart, 
 But only the birds could hear, and they 
 
 Waited for me to depart. 
 
 In the city tonight where I long to please 
 All who care for the music I bring, 
 
 I find — the pity of it! — for these 
 I have no songs to sing. 
 
 [43] 
 
DISAPPOINTMENTS 
 
 I will make a web of my disappointments, 
 
 Weaving their faded strands 
 
 Into a dull, monotonous pattern. 
 
 When I spread it on the grass at my feet 
 
 It will look lifeless, 
 
 But when I lift it before my eyes, 
 
 Shining through it 
 
 I will see the light of hope, 
 
 As a moonbeam struggling 
 
 Through filmy cobwebs. 
 
 [44] 
 
HOLLYHOCKS 
 
 My window overlooks a wilderness of hollyhocks, 
 
 Their gayly colored bells, 
 
 Wine red, shell-pink, or rose, 
 
 Swaying with each passing breeze. 
 
 Almost I hear the chimes they ring, 
 
 But they are only meant for fairy ears and bees. 
 
 I long to take canvas and brush 
 
 And thus make them last forever, 
 
 But my only canvas is this paper. 
 
 And the only paint I can use is words. 
 
 And I have lost my palette. 
 
 Who can mix words. 
 
 So that the color of my hollyhocks 
 
 Will live upon this page. 
 
 And never fade? 
 
 [45] 
 
TO MY DOG 
 
 Let's pretend 
 
 That Vm a portrait painter, 
 
 Very famous, with my studio 
 
 Lined with lovely faces. 
 
 Painted ghosts that watch me as I work. 
 
 But I am sitting idle, dreaming, 
 
 Waiting for another face to draw, 
 
 And then you come in sombre black, 
 
 Together with the cat in flaming yellow. 
 
 With the artist's love of contrasts, 
 
 I exclaim, "Here is my subject. 
 
 I will paint you both together. 
 
 The golden sun and its darkened shadow." 
 
 The sun I find an easy model. 
 For she seats herself serenely, 
 With faintly supercilious air, 
 A rather bored and blase beauty. 
 But you, her shadow. 
 How can I paint you. 
 When you jump in my lap. 
 And lick my face and hands 
 To show how much you love me? 
 
 Let's not pretend I am a painter any more. 
 We'll go outside and have a game of ball, 
 And leave the self-sufficient cat behind. 
 
 [46] 
 
SYMBOLS 
 
 A spray of crimson tulips 
 In a carved jade bowl, 
 
 Lay on a shelf, reflected 
 Within a girandole. 
 
 The warm glow of the flowers. 
 The coolness of the jade. 
 
 Upon the crystal surface 
 Two pools of color made. 
 
 I drank their cup of beauty, 
 Yet barely touched its brim, 
 
 Unhelped I missed the depths 
 Hid in that goblet dim. 
 
 For where I saw a mirror. 
 
 There shone forth family pride ; 
 
 And that cool bowl of green. 
 For which a man had died, 
 
 Spelt fame in burning letters — 
 A priceless vase, to hold 
 
 Symbols of greater worth. 
 Of friendship tried and old. 
 
 [47] 
 
THE RAINBOW 
 
 At the end of the rainbow descending 
 Deep into the crystalHne ocean, 
 Slowly rocked by the sea's lazy motion, 
 
 A fairy sits spinning all day. 
 
 The bow's radiant colors she seizes 
 
 And weaves into strands, which the breezes 
 
 Waft over the world, gayly blending 
 
 Their hues with the earth's duller gray. 
 
 The red 'neath her deft fingers springing 
 Leaps to life from the coal on the ashes. 
 In the ruby with passion it flashes. 
 
 Comes to rest in the rose's deep heart. 
 And the violet thread, darkened, enriches 
 The royal-hued iris, bewitches 
 
 The throat of the hummingbird winging 
 
 His flight like a shimmering dart. 
 
 O'er the soft blades of grass, the green streaming 
 
 From the hand of the prodigal fairy. 
 
 Weaves a carpet of color, to carry 
 The weight of the world's weary feet. 
 
 The sea-foam that splashes and shivers. 
 
 The wind-blown ivy that quivers. 
 The emerald's sheen — all are teeming. 
 With the color of springtime, replete. 
 
 [48] 
 
The blue that the winds widely scatter 
 Bathes the waves of the sea as it surges 
 Towards the high-arching heavens, then merges 
 
 Itself in the depths of the skies. 
 
 While the threads that are woven of yellow 
 Gild the rising sun's rays warm and mellow, 
 
 Or hide in the rocks, till men shatter 
 
 The vein where their rough beauty lies. 
 
 At the end of the day very slowly 
 All the colors are blended together 
 Into white, like a snowy swan's feather; 
 
 All melt in a silvery mist 
 
 Like the dew when it lovingly showers 
 The slumberous forms of the flowers. 
 
 And the fairy herself, pure and holy. 
 
 By myriad moonbeams is kissed. 
 
 [49] 
 
EYES 
 
 "If we could borrow other's eyes," 
 I mused in moral tone, "what lies 
 Beneath the broidered surface fair 
 Might give us pause, or else some rare, 
 Deep-water pearl to sunlight brought 
 Might show us wealth beyond our thought.' 
 As one for whom God did unroll 
 The secret mysteries of the soul, 
 I talked. My friend kept silent pace 
 Beside me, with immobile face. 
 
 "That man we passed," I chattered on. 
 Saving my speech till he had gone, 
 "To see him smile you would not know 
 His heart was full of dead men's woe. 
 That holds him tortured, without rest." 
 "He does but show the world his best; 
 You should not rob him," said my friend. 
 
 Abashed I hastened to amend 
 My speech and vision. "There's a girl 
 Across the way, who in the whirl 
 Of pleasure strives to be most bold, 
 Flaunting her youth before the old. 
 Yet I have found it but a dress 
 To cover her tense loneliness. 
 Why must men be so cruelly blind?" 
 
 [50] 
 
"You cast your questions down the wind, 
 And idle questions idly roam," 
 My friend replied, "but in your home 
 With my poor eyes I see a saint. 
 One that a master-hand should paint. 
 Vision like yours so keen and clear, 
 Is blinded when the light shines near." 
 
 [51] 
 
A MEMORY OF THE WAR 
 
 I watched the children playing yesterday, 
 
 And heard their eager voices, vibrant, gay. 
 
 My thoughts turned toward the little ones of France, 
 
 Who must be taught to smile, to play, to dance. 
 
 And when the happy children's games were done, 
 I saw them fasten hands and homeward run. 
 The picture of a ruined street flashed clear, 
 Marked with a cross, "My father's house stood here." 
 
 Men needs must bear the war's cruel, grinding cost, 
 Still they at least once had the thing they lost. 
 But children, old from fear ! — what sight more sad ! — 
 For they have lost the things they never had. 
 
 [52] 
 
DREAMS 
 Characters: Barbara, Agatha, Gertrude. 
 
 Agatha 
 Ah! Barbara, my child, why do you weep? 
 Your eyes that look so strained from many tears 
 Have not been used to mirror all your moods 
 So plainly. 
 
 Barbara 
 You have given the reason there. 
 In all my life I've known but passing moods. 
 And it was rather fun to fool the world; 
 You've never been quite sure, although I laughed. 
 How gay or sad my heart was. Now I've found 
 That I can play no more. This is no mood, 
 To pass away as others have. I've lost — 
 
 Agatha 
 What have you lost? 
 
 Barbara 
 A dream. 
 
 Agatha 
 
 'Tis better so. 
 
 Barbara 
 Better? You know not what you say. My dream 
 Was all my life. It seems I should be dead 
 Now it has gone, but I am only cold. 
 It's strange I cannot laugh. 
 
 [S3] 
 
Gertrude 
 
 What was your dream? 
 
 Barbara 
 The vision of a perfect knight. 
 
 Gertrude 
 
 Poor child! 
 
 Barbara 
 Of one who had no fear in all the world 
 Save only that of ever losing me. 
 It was no idle dream. I could have sworn 
 If you had asked me only yesterday, 
 That I had truly found him. He seemed all 
 My heart had longed for — till he ran away. 
 Oh ! not from me ! I think he lacked that force. 
 He fled from fighting in a losing cause, 
 Because, he said, he wished to save his strength 
 For better things, and this lost fight was none 
 Of his own choosing. Who elects to lose? 
 But I had rather watch my ship go down, 
 Knowing her safety lies within my care. 
 Than sail away to some bright tropic isle 
 Where "better things" await me, leaving her 
 Alone to beat her life out Against the waves. 
 Some wind might bring her safe to port. Who knows ? 
 Lost causes are not always lost, but dreams 
 Once broken never find their wings again. 
 
 [54] 
 
Gertrude 
 They seem like fragile butterflies, my child, 
 But I have found that dreams have eagles' wings, 
 That bear you soaring to the heights of heaven. 
 If you have dreams you live on mountain peaks. 
 I lived there once, and then I clambered down 
 By slow degrees till now the level plain 
 Has swallowed up my life. If you have lost 
 One peak, fly on to other heights. Your wings 
 Are only bruised, not broken. Fly again. 
 The air on eagles' wings is better far 
 Than slothful valley ease. 
 
 Barbara 
 
 The air is cold. 
 
 Gertrude 
 Not colder than a burned out fire. 
 
 Agatha 
 
 My child, 
 She counsels most unwisely. All too well 
 I know how cold the heights are and how lonely. 
 When I was young I dreamed (who does not dream.'*) 
 As you have done, and I preferred to soar 
 High overhead, to wander at my will 
 Free from all petty cares. I made my choice 
 And I have lived my Hfe above the clouds. 
 
 [55] 
 
The air is clear and sight is doubly keen, 
 But I know now the valley fire is better. 
 Not broken wings alone can make one fall; 
 Wings can grow tired for lack of place to rest. 
 Besides, your dream was of a perfect knight, 
 You say, who played you false. He may perhaps 
 Through trusting in your faith, think that of you. 
 You also may be but a faded dream. 
 You spoke so bravely just a moment since 
 Of standing for lost causes. Why not be 
 The champion of lost dreams? 
 
 Barbara 
 
 My dream is dead. 
 
 Agatha 
 If it were dead it would not hurt you so. 
 
 Barbara 
 
 You think it is alive? Don't torture me 
 
 With hopes that are not true. — His dream of me, 
 
 I had not thought of that — is it quite dead? 
 
 If I should try to give it wings again 
 
 It might teach mine to fly. What do you think? 
 
 Two dreams together would not fear the cold. 
 
 Besides I would not fly so high again. 
 
 ril go to tell him now. 
 
 [56] 
 
Gertrude 
 [To Agatha.] 
 
 What have you done? 
 You're proud of having tamed an eagle's wings? 
 
 Agatha 
 I'm glad of having warmed them at the fire. 
 
 [57] 
 
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