GassPS 0^5 C>6 F lERROT Wounded AND OTHER POEMS J4v By Walter Adolphe Roberts NEW YORK 1919 PIERROT WOUNDED AND OTHER POEMS BY WALTER ADOLPHE ROBERTS crs> NEW YORK BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY 1919 Copyright, 1919, by Walter Adolphe Roberts -^-^ ^^ \D ,0.''^ ^«ANSFEirff£o FnOM '^fP • \ 1920 Jl'N 22 1320 This edition is limited to 550 copies^ of which this is Number The type has been distributed. Ce livre est Affedueusement dedie a Katharine Amelia Roberts, line amie de la France. f Poems in the present volume originally appeared in Ainslees Magazine, The Forum, The International, Life, The Masses, Munseys Magazine, The National Sunday Magazine, Outing, The Parisienne, The Popular Magazine, Smith's Magazine, Sunset, The Brooklyn Daily Eagle, The New York Call, The New York Times, The New York Tribune, The Sun and The Evening Sun, of New York. The author thanks the above magazines and newspapers for their courtesy in permitting republication. CONTENTS SONGS FOR FRANCE PASE Pierrot Wounded 3 The Barricades 5 The Conquerors 7 Tiger and Ape 8 To a Friend Fallen for France 9 Vive La France! 10 To France 11 For Poets Slain in War ^ . . . 12 Place de la Concorde 13 The Oath 14 The Latin Resurrection 16 The Cathedral 19 Dusk on the Lake 20 In the Park 21 Our Street 22 In Flagrante Delicto 23 Pierrot Mourns 24 The Woman Rebel 25 Vision 26 Lorenzo Portet 27 The Procurer 28 For Priests and Tyrants 29 Eagles . 30 Way of the Wind 31 FIVE VILLANELLES Villanelle of Montparnasse . 35 Villanelle of Washington Square 37 vii CONTENTS PAGE Vlllanelle of Capri 39 ViLLANELLE OF PoOR PlERROT 41 ViLLANELLE OF THE LiVING PaN 43 DLVLOGUE AT SUNSET Dialogue at Sunset 47 JUVENILIA The Mermaid 63 The Call of the Tropics 65 A Riding Song 66 The Rover Bards 67 Island of Dreams 69 A Valediction 72 Boyhood Etchings 73 I: Tropic Sunset . . . = 73 II: Tropic Storm 74 Premier Amour 75 I: O, Calm Gray Eyes! 75 II: The Dream 75 III: A Shrine Apart 76 IV: Because I Hunger 77 V: Once Again 77 VI: The Wish 78 NOTES Note I: Pierrot Wounded 81 Note II: The Oath 85 Note III : The Latin Resurrfction 87 SONGS FOR FRANCE For Salomon de la Selva PIERROT WOUNDED * Pierrot has wakened, stricken in the night — Wounded and stricken in the pale moonlight ! See, with the mud. The crimson flood That, drop by drop, is fed by his young blood! A thicket shields his bed upon the ground. He will not listen to the cruel sound Of shells on high. That shrieking fly And rend the somber velvet of the sky. Frail, in his soldier's cloak, as in the gay. Poetic masquerade of yesterday, A final boon Of his loved moon Poor Pierrot asks in plaintive roundelay: "If, peradventure, in your silvern sheen Slumbers Pierrette to-night, and you, unseen, *Note 1. 3 PIERROT WOUNDED Touch tender-wise Her tired eyes, So that a dream of Pierrot may arise — Ah, let her see me as the debonair, Bohemian troubadour of days that were. Drunk with the strong. New wine of song, Joj^ous withal, although love's fasts were long. "For she will know her poet has been true To the fair flag of red and white and blue. A son of France, Through all mischance. He has been proud to be a soldier too." Pierrot falls silent, as in sudden wrath A bitter wind brings snowflakes from the north. Which, lightly pressed. Cradle to rest The stricken one. . . . But see! upon his breast The crimson blood, still welling to the light. Has wrought a symbol, mystical and bright ! La croix de guerre The brave may wear Shines forth against his shroud of purest white! 4 THE BARRICADES Ballade for France in an Hour of Darkness I, the France of the Marseillaise, I would have none of the German thrall. Flaming, I fought at the Marne's red ways, Made of my breast a brazen wall, Bulwarked the Meuse lest Verdun fall. Proudly massing a million blades. Now I cry to you, rebels all: Tear up stones for the barricades ! I, the France of the brave, bright torch, I have been raped and have drunk of gall. Ruthless, the alien cannons scorch Forest and orchard, hovel, hall. Soldiers of kings and tyrants crawl. Serving their masters, down my glades. Freemen, answer with bomb and ball. Tear up stones for the barricades ! 5 THE BARRICADES I, the France of the rebel hope, I am sore stricken, after all. Grimly my shattered legions grope. Striving to pierce the battle's pall. You who would free a world in thrall, Rally about your palisades ! Rally before I falter, fall ! Tear up stones for the barricades ! Envoy Comrades, rise at the bugle call, Workers and dreamers, men and maids ! Crimson flags to the wind for Gaul ! Tear up stones for the barricades ! THE CONQUERORS They have gone by above our broken dead, With lifted spears and eagles to the sky. Azure and gold and crimson banners fly In salutation of each laurelled head. The thunder of their chariot wheels, the tread Of conscript hosts, have stunned us to comply. Their martial music has brayed down the cry Of women hearts that mourn for those who bled. Aye, through the cycles of ensanguined days. Over our piteous and defeated dead. In splendor and in pomp they have gone by. Yet once we sang the rebel Marseillaise, And once the Commune chilled their hearts with dread : We do but wait — the Great Revenge draws nigh ! TIGER AND APE Their blood is in your veins, their bestial clay Still fouls your flesh, O King ! You are not free Of the fierce tiger's lust for blood when he, Full fed, yet bared his fangs to rend and slay. You are not free of the black fear that lay Upon the ape forefather in the tree, Who whimpered, waked by thunder claps, to see Majestic tropic lightning at play. Last year we deemed that man had journeyed far Upon the upward pathway from the clod. When you struck down the weak and called it War, Cringed to the force unleashed and called it God. Must the red dawns of myriad aeons glow Ere the last breed of ape and tiger go? TO A FRIEND FALLEN FOR FRANCE Alan Seeger Comrade, I had done well with you to swear Allegiance to the colors of romance, In the great days when our sweet mistress, France, Girded her loins and helmeted her hair. I had done well to march with you and share Heroic tests of shield and broken lance. Mayhap to strive in the sublime advance And fall with you at Belloy-en-Santerre. Thus had my vision been inviolate Of the divine Republic's flag unfurled Only in just defence, and dedicate Only to Liberty, against the world. Thus had I never mourned the wounds of France, Stricken too sorely in the devil's dance. VIVE LA FRANCE! Aye, Vive la France! Comrades, she shall not fall ! Though every furrow of her fields run red. And of her sons they heap ten million dead, Millions again shall answer to her call. We, the last legion, rebels, dreamers — all — On the brave barricades where she has bled, Be it our glorious privilege to shed Our heart's blood, lest she know the German thrall. She shall not fall ! There is no other light Save the white flame of her unconquered soul. She is the hope of freedom's renaissance. This be our battle cry, now when the night Broods blackest and the storms of hell about her roll : ''Tout court, tout court, mes enfants! Vive la France!" 10 TO FRANCE Marvelous lover, give me leave to sing Your body's beauty; in keen words lay bare Your breasts for burning kisses, and declare The glory of your eyes unfaltering. Odor and color of my dreams I bring; Forbid me not that I should call you fair. Behold, I am entangled in your hair, And at your mouth have found the whole sweet Spring ! Others shall share our striving for the goal; To me alone the memory of days Crowned at the last by your supreme caress ! Others shall sing with me your rebel soul; Mine be the privilege alone to praise The naked pride of your white loveliness ! 11 FOR POETS SLAIN IN WAR Happy the poets who fell in magnificent ways ! Gaily they went in the pride of their blossoming days, Each with his vision of Liberty, chanting its praise. Seeger and Ledwidge and Pearse and Brooke and Peguy— Names that are songs in the saying, that surely shall be Laurelled among the immortals, for all men to see. Lo, they were darlings of destiny ! Weakly we shed Even one tear that they lie at the barricades red, Splendidly dead for the Patria, splendidly dead! 12 PLACE DE LA CONCORDE The myriad lights That deck my Paris in scintillant, splendid pride, Like gems on the warm, white throat of a queenly bride : See how they line the length of the Elysee — - Yellow of amber, red of the ruby's ^ow. And clusters of diamonds, white as the core of day, Starring the square where the cross-town cur- rents flow ! Imperial town. And Place de la Concorde, jeweled heart of it all! I bow my head to a beauty that cannot pall ! 13 THE OATH* From the French of Henri de Regnier I swear to cherish in my heart this hate Till my last heart-throb wanes ; So may the sacred venom with my blood Mingle and charge my veins ! May there pass never from my darkened brow The furrows hate has worn ! May they plough deeper in my flesh, to mark The outrage I have borne! By towns in flames, by my fair fields laid waste, By hostages undone, By cries of murdered women and of babes, By each dead warrior son, I swear to conquer or to fall, that Right And Justice rule again, I, France, whose voice austere shall thrill the hearts Of all my valiant slain ! *Note 2. 14 THE OATH I take my oath of hatred and of wrath Before God, and before The holy waters of the Mame and Aisne, Still ruddy with French gore, And fix my eyes upon immortal Rheims, Burning from nave to porch, Lest I forget, lest I forget who lit The sacrilegious torch! 15 THE LATIN RESURRECTION * From the French of Gabriele d'Annunzio What horror and what death And what new beauties Are scattered everywhere throughout the night ! By what prodigious wind are stirred The tongues of flame in travail, The flames that deck the Latin firmament? O, odes of mine ! swift messengers Of fury and of fire ! What god, what hero, or perchance what man Will come to lead us to our certain goal? I am no longer in an alien land, I am no more a stranger pale of face. No more the exile without sword or palm. A miracle has transformed me utterly; A virtue potent as a mother's love Uplifts and wholly carries me away. * Note 3. 16 THE LATIN RESURRECTION I am an offering of love, I am a ringing cry toward the dawn, I am the bugle of the elected race, Sounding a cry of rescue and of aid. Behold, I tremble! With bursting heart I sing! And I am drunk with love and with affright. It comes, it comes, the Vision I invoked. It aureoles the night; I cannot hear, Because of the mad vertigo of blood, The beating of its wings. It cries : "Who then will go for us, "As bearer of c^ood tidings to the world .^ "Whom shall I send.?" I cry : "Behold me. Lord, send me ! "But with what sign, what pact?" Yet well I know the sign, I know the pact. Obedient to the call, I set me forth, And thus fulfil the vow I made my soul. No longer weight of earthly flesh and bones Holds back my eager soul From leaping streams and climbing mountain heights. Already at the farthest bounds 17 THE LATIN RESURRECTION Of the clear Pleiades, I read the ineffable name, and hear The neighing steeds of the Dioscuri. Standing above the sepulchres, Wherein the bones of all our dead now stir, Like sprouts that push in springtime to the light, I cry and I invoke two names divine. The noblest names on earth, Looking to see the heavens overhead Bum with their glory. Looking to see two rivers long run dry Swell and remingle Into a single torrent. I cry and I invoke: "O, Italy! O, France!" And lo, I hear below the sepulchres. And underneath the shuddering laurel leaves. The cry of victory and the rushing wings Of eagles that sweep proudly to the East ! 18 THE CATHEDRAL From the French of Edmond Rostand They have but lent new glory to the fane. Art cannot perish when the vandals pass. Go ask of Rodin, ask of Phidias, If these proud stones shall speak to us in vain! The fortress falls when it is rent in twain. The broken temple lives ; and he who has Sight of the blue sky through the riddled mass Remembers then the roof with swift disdain. Let us give thanks — for lo, we needed still That which the Greeks have on their golden hill: Beaut^^'s insulted symbol, consecrate! — Thank the dull hands that trained the cannons on, Since there has flowered of their German hate A shame for them, for us a Parthenon ! 19 DUSK ON THE LAKE Dusk on the lake, as when I met you there In that immortal summer long ago : Have you forgotten that we found it fair? Dusk on the lake : Ah, Love, how young w^e were ! Hand within hand, your head held sidewise — so ; Dusk in your eyes and twilight in your hair. Dusk on the lake, and I alone to care. Seeing you come not through the afterglow. Must all things be forgot that once were fair ! IN THE PARK This is the summer's trysting place, and soon From out the East the newly-orbed moon Will lay light lips upon the mouth of June. Yet close — how close! — the roaring streets go down; And, flaming skyward, see the lights that crown The pinnacles fantastic of the town ! 21 OUR STREET To-night, adown our street, the soft Spring rain Lisps plaintively a very old refrain: The passing seasons, and the human throng Out of the dark and then the dark again. But though we love the street in this gray guise. With hair bound back and sadly streaming eyes. To-morrow we shall hail the pagan Sun, Eternal optimist of April skies. IN FLAGRANTE DELICTO Now that I fold you, hold you, close like this, Vanquish your mouth with one triumphant kiss. Press throat to throat, and breast where white breasts rise And rouse the flaming love-light in your eyes : What do we care for doubtful heaven or hell. For praise or blame? Ah, Sweet, wouJd we not sell Our souls thrice over for this hour to live. For this free hour of all that love can give? 23 PIERROT MOURNS Last night I made a roundelay For Columbine. My heart was as a drunken man's, Though not with wine. But cruelly she fled away. Ah, well-a-day ! At dawn I found her where she lay. No songs of mine Could waken from her silken sleep Sweet Columbine. And I am sad, w^ho was so gay. Ah, well-a-day ! @4 "THE WOMAN REBEL" Margaret Sanger At last a voice that knew not how to He, A call articulate above the throng Of those who whispered of a secret wrong, And longed for liberty and passed it by. The voice of one with rebel head held high. Whose strength was not the fury of the strong. But whose clear message was more keen than song, A bugle to the dawn,' a battle cry. There is a new rebellion on the earth Because of your voice militant, that broke The silence which the puritans had made; Because you hailed the sacredness of birth. The dignity of love emancipate, and spoke, A woman unto women, unafraid. VISION The folk who in the blatant market-square Barter for fame and gold, Ah, how should they behold The dawn upon the far horizon flare. The rebel hope unfold ! But you, clear-eyed amid the selfish throng, Above their praise or blame. To you the vision came And led you forth to battle with the strong, A splendor and a flame. LORENZO PORTET (Died in Paris, May, 1917) Dead, at his fighting best, And his work not done! He must have found Fate's jest A bitter one. He, who had vowed to bleed Beneath bright blades : He, who was born to lead The barricades : Suddenly snatched away From earth and sun. Yet I can hear him say : "The cause moves on !" 27 THE PROCURER Masking her purpose, as wise Madams do, Behind a smile that flattered and allured. She held the customer her wit procured And subtle, suave, she spread her wares to view. She had a daughter vouched a virgin true; He had a name, estate and wealth assured. And since he had the sporting life abjured. He wished to marry and his youth renew. Cash on delivery, she made the sale. Pledging the maiden to a loveless bed ; Nor did the gods protest, the heavens fall. But when she decked her in the wedding veil, I think Dolores must have bowed her head And Rahab wept upon the city wall. FOR PRIESTS AND TYRANTS We've had enough of the damned blasphemy Of your familial deity on high, Sending you forth to each new infamy, Blessing the nauseating trade you ply. We do not flinch before the blows you strike; But when you call them bolts by God prepared To smite us down, our stomachs turn and, like The French at Waterloo, we answer : "Merdef' EAGLES Where are the Roman eagles gone? Where are the Feudal birds of war? And where the double-headed brood That led the legions of the Czar? Strangled by freemen one and all, Their broken bodies lie behind, And banners crimsoned in their blood Flap to the wind! Yet still in this broad world of ours There's fetish-killing to be done: Tyrants and princes, heed the sign Before your little course be run ! To-day the roaring armies surge About the German eagle's nest ; But once his blood is on our swords, God help the rest! 30 WAY OF THE WIND I have wooed the far horizons ; I have wandered with the wind. Ah, oceans I have sailed upon ! Ah, roads that lie behind ! I know the way from Mexico Adown the Spanish Main. And Aves, and Flores, My feet have trod the twain. The Boulevard du Montparnasse Is no strange street to me; And lightly down Las Ramblas I've loitered to the sea. Like Tommy Atkins, I have said Good-bye to Leicester Square, And Broadway and Kings way Have both to me been fair. Oh, I have loved the gypsy quest ; I have cast dice with Fate 31 WAY OF THE WIND From Mandeville to Montreal, And westward to the Gate. And on the trail or roaring street, These did I always find : A blue sky, or gray sky. And a companion wind. FIVE VILLANELLES For Edna St. Vincent MUlay YILLANELLE OF MONTPAR- NASSE They are as wanton as the sap in May, That wakes the chestnuts in this olden street. Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. Theirs is the beauty of the avid clay. Ardors immortal in their pulses beat. They are as wanton as the sap in May. Their lips are carmine and their eyes are gay; The odor of their silken hair is sweet. rran9ois Villon loved women such as they. Through the blue dusk they amorously stray. Poets and dreamers wait their steps to greet. They are as wanton as the sap in May. They have forgot the griefs of yesterday. Youth in their hearts is passionate and fleet. Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 35 VILLANELLE OF MONTPABNASSE Dancing, they go the reckoning to pay. Of the dark Fates no mercy they entreat. They are as wanton as the sap in May. Fran9ois Villon loved women such as they. 36 VILLANELLE OF WASHINGTON SQUARE The starshine on the Arch is silver white; Elves, April elves, are dancing in the Square; The green-robed Spring has come to town to- night. Jasmines are in her arms and clouded quite With lilac is the nimbus of her hair; The starshine on the Arch is silver white. With sap at floodtide and pale leaves bedight. Ghosts of gray trees assume a vernal air; The green-robed Spring has come to town to- night. Young lovers' lips seek for the old delight, On the park bench that winter-long was bare — The starshine on the Arch is silver white — 3T VILLANELLE OF WASHINGTON SQUARE And they who hear her primal call aright Rejoice that, deathless, virginal and fair. The green-robed Spring has come to town to- night. Dreamers whose windows on the Square are bright, Know that your dreams may not with this com- pare; The starshine on the Arch is silver white, The green-robed Spring has come to town to- night. 38 VILLANELLE OF CAPRI I knew you once, in Capri, long ago. You were a Roman woman ; I, a Greek ; And now, again, the ways we used to know. The hands that linger and the eyes that glow, The liquid Southern words we love to speak: I knew you once, in Capri, long ago. " By the white temple, where the olives grow, I sought the victory that still I seek ; And now, again, the ways we used to know. Looking to-night across a land of snow. Shall we forget because the skies are bleak? I knew you once, in Capri, long ago; And found your lips, and kissed them — even — so ; And scaled love's heights unto the topmost peak; And now, again, the ways we used to know. 39 VILLANELLE OF CAPBI Let us be glad of what the gods bestow! Let us accept the vision, cheek to cheek ! I knew you once, in Capri, long ago; And now, again, the ways we used to know. 40 VILLANELLE OF POOR PIERROT Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon! And will not hear my poet's serenade. Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. She seals my eyes with madness like a boon, Then flees me down the silver-silent gkide. Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon ! I stumble after in my dancing shoon, A pallid Pierrot from the masquerade. Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. Vainly I follow while the jasmines swoon And all too fast the midnight lilies fade. Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon! Vainly I seek her by the dim lagoon. She does not care that I so far have strayed. Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 41 VILLANELLE OP POOR PIERROT I, who have spun a dehcate cocoon Of songs for her, am jilted by the jade. Ah, that she kisses and forgets so soon ! Bitter and sweet it is to love the moon. 43 VILLANELLE OF THE LIVING PAN Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake, Hard by the blue of some ^gean shore. Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake. Vine leaves have drifted o'er him, flake by flake, And with dry laurel he is covered o'^. Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake. The music that his own cicadas make Comes to him faintly, like forgotten lore. Ah, flute to him. Beloved, he will wake. Let not the enemies of Beauty take Unction of soul that he can rise no more. Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake, Dreaming of one that for the goat god's sake Shall pipe old tunes and worship as of yore. Ah, flute to him. Beloved, he will wake. 43 VILLANELLE OF THE LIVING PAN So once again the Attic coast shall shake With a cry greater than it heard before: "Pan is not dead, but sleeping in the brake!" Ah, flute to him, Beloved, he will wake. 44 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET For Harold Hersey DIALOGUE AT SUNSET From the French of Pierre Louys CHARACTERS Arcas, a goatherd Melitta, a shepherdess Place A road in Pamphylia Time .550, B. C. - (The stage represents the bare earth of a road, a section of rustic fence on one side only. The back-drop should be gray-green, suggesting the landscape of Asia Minor; an occasional cypress and wind-bloTVTi olive trees. The lighting should give the effect of a rich, golden glow, grad- ually fading out until toward the end of the dia- logue the stage is almost in darkness. The cur- tain rises on Arcas and Melitta, he leaning on the fence toward her, she erect on the other side, timid yet defiant. Arcas is dressed only in a sheepskin, Melitta in a plain white Greek tunic. 47 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Both carry crooked wands, roughly trimmed. There should be a brief silence before Areas speaks.) Arcas Young girl with black eyes. Melitta Do not touch me. Arcas That I do not do. You see that I stay far away, O sister of Aphrodite, young girl with hair curled like clusters of grapes ! I stop by the side of the road and I cannot go away — you see it — neither toward those who wait for me, nor those whom I have left. Melitta Go ! Go ! You talk in vain, O goatherd with- out goats, wanderer along uncertain roads ! If you can follow the highway no farther, cross the fields ; but do not enter my meadow, you whom I do not know ; or I shall call. Arcas Who, then, will you call in this wilderness .^ 48 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Melitta The gods. They will hear me. Arcas Ah, little girl ! The gods are farther away from you than I am now, and even were they at your side, they would not forbid me to tell you that you are beautiful. For they glory in your face and they know well that it is their masterpiece. Melitta Be silent, goatherd! My mother has forbid- den me to listen to any man. I am here to watch my fleecy sheep while they crop the grass until sunset. I must not hear the words of young men who pass on the road with the evening breeze and the winged dust storms. AUCAS Why.? Melitta I do not know. My mother knows for me. It is not yet thirteen years since I was born on her couch of dry leaves, and I would be very rash if I did not do all that she orders for me. 49 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Arcas Child, you have not understood your mother, who is so good and so wise and so beautiful and so honorable. She spoke to you of those savage men who sometimes invade the countryside, a shield on the left arm and a sword in the right hand. They would deal evilly with you, for you are weak and they are strong. In the cities they have taken during the dreadful wars, they have killed many young maidens almost as beautiful as you and they would not spare you if they found you in their path. But I, what could I do to you? I have only my sheepskin on my shoulder and my crook in my hand. Look at me. Am I, then, so terrible.'' Melitta No, goatherd. Your words are soft and I could listen to them a long time. But the softest words are lies, they tell me, when the mouth of a young man whispers them to one of us. Arcas Will you answer me if I ask a question? Melitta Yes. 50 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Arcas Of what do you think, under the dark olive tree, when I pass? Melitta I do not wish to tell 3^ou. Arcas Yet I know it. Melitta Tell it to me. Arcas You must let me come close to you, or I shall remain silent. I can only tell this in jyour ear, softly, since it is your secret and not mine. You will let me come close? (Approaches.) Take your hand? (Takes it.) Melitta What do I think about? Arcas Of your marriage girdle. Melitta Oh, who betrayed it to you? Have I spoken out loud? Are you a god, goatherd, that from so far away you can read the eyes of young girls? 51 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Do not look at me thus. Do not seek to read what I am thinking even now. Arcas You are dreaming of your marriage girdle and of the unknown who shall unknot it, murmuring some of those soft words that you fear. Will they also be lies? Melitta I have never heard them. Arcas But you hear mine and you see my eyes. . . . Melitta I wish never to see them again. Arcas You see them in your dream. Melitta Oh, goatherd ! . . . Arcas When I take your hand, why do you quiver.? When my arm closes about your breast, why do you lean toward me? Why does your feeble head seek my shoulder? . . . 52 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Melitta Oh, goatherd! Arcas How could you yield thus to my arms, if I were not already almost your husband? Melitta Ah, no, 3^ou are not that ! Let me go ! Let me go ! I am afraid ! Go away ! I do not know you. Let me go ! Your hands hurt me. Let me go! I do not want you. Arcas Why do you speak to me, little girl, with the mouth of your mother? Melitta No, it is not she, it is I who speak. I am pru- dent. Leave me, goatherd. I would be ashamed to be as Nais, or as Philyra or Chloe, who did not wait for their wedding day to learn the secrets of Aphrodite. No, no ! I shall not yield to you. Were you to tear my tunic, even then would I not yield to you, goatherd. Sooner would I strangle myself with my hands. 53 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Arcas Again, why? And what have I done to you? I have touched your tunic ; I have not torn it. I have kissed your girdle ; I have not unknotted it. Ah, well, so be it ! I abandon you. I set you free. I leave you. . . . Go away ! . . . Why do you not go away? Melitta Let me weep. Arcas Do you think that I love you so little that I would steal you from yourself? You are listen- ing to my words now. Would I use such words if I asked you only for a moment of pleasure such as any of the shepherdesses could give to me? Have my ejes not told you? . . . But you no longer look at my eyes. You hide yours, and you weep. . . . Melitta Yes. Arcas Nevertheless, had you willed it, I would have known great joy in passing all a lifetime of love and tender words at your feet. I would have placed both my arms about your body, my head 54 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET on your breast, my mouth under yours, and you would have unknotted your hair so that it might fall about us and hide our kisses. Listen, if you had willed it, I would have built for you a hut, green with flowering branches and fresh grass, still alive with singing cicadas and golden beetles, precious as jewels. Every night you would have held me prisoner there, and on the white couch of my cloak our two hearts would have beaten eternally one against the other. Melitta Ah, let me weep a little longer ! . . . Arcas Far from me? Melitta In your arms ... in your eyes. Arcas My love. . . . The evening lengthens ; and the light departs, like a winged being, toward the sky. Already the earth is dark. At a distance, we can see nothing but the milky way of the rivulet that sparkles like a stream of stars about our little world. Yet there is too much light. . . . 55 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Melitta Yes, there Is too much. . . . Take me away. Arcas Come. . . . The wood where we shall slip be- tween caressing branches is so deep that even in the daytime the gods are afraid of it. One never sees in the paths the cleft hoofs of satyrs follow- ing the light feet of nymphs. One never sees be- tween the leaves the green eyes of hamadryads holding the timid eyes of men. But we shall not be afraid, because we are together, only we two, you and I. . . . Melitta We shall not be afraid. I weep in spite of my- self, but I love you and I follow you. A god is in my heart. Speak to me. Speak to me again. A god is in your voice. (They commence to walk very slowly across the stage.) Arcas Twine your hair around my neck, place your arms around my waist and your cheek against my cheek. Be careful, there are stones. Look downward, there are roots. The moss slips under 56 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET our bare feet and the earth is fresh. But your breast is warm under my hand. Melitta Do not seek for it. It is little, it is young, it is not beautiful. Last autumn my breasts were no larger than on the day of my birth. My friends mocked at me. Only this springtime did I see my breasts grow with the buds on the trees. . . . Do not caress me thus. ... I can walk no longer. AUCAS Come, nevertheless. . . . We have reached the shadows. I no longer see your face. We are neither you nor I. Cease giving me your lips ; I wish to see your eyes. Come as far as the old tree, yonder, beyond the moonlight. Its great shadow almost touches us . . . follow there. . . . Melitta It is as vast as a palace. Arcas The palace of our love, which opens for us in the heart of the blessed night. . . . 57 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET Melitta I hear a noise . . . the sound of palm leaves. Arcas The rustling palms of the nuptial cortege. Melitta These stars. . . . Arcas Thej are torches. Melitta And these voices. . . . Arcas They are gods. Melitta O goatherd, I have come here virgin as Arte- mis, who lights us from far off between the black branches and who, perhaps, hears my vow! I do not know if I have done well to follow you, as I have followed ; but a breath was in me, a spirit which your voice brought to birth . . . and you have given me the joy of an immortal in giving me your hand. Arcas Young girl, with black eyes, neither your father nor my father has arranged our union before 58 DIALOGUE AT SUNSET the altar of their hearths by exchanging your wealth and mine. We are poor, therefore we are free. If any one marries us this night — raise your eyes — it is the Olympians, protectors of shep- herds. Melitta My husband, what is your name? Arcas Areas, and yours? Melitta Melitta. (CURTAIN.) 59 JUVENILIA For Joseplime Fannie Roberts, My Mother THE MERMAID Did I dream that I loved you once in days for- gotten ? O Mermaid, child of the spume and salt sea- foam! O fair, cold sprite that the restless waves un- covered. Last night as my bark came in oTn the long stretch home! For you smiled on me with an ancient, soft per- suasion — A lure of lips, a challenge of azure eyes — Till it seemed that once my head must have found its haven. Its perfect peace, where your white breasts fall and rise. Did you call me then? Do you call me now, Be- loved ? Behold, no mate for the sea-folks' breed am I; 63 THE MERMAID For my heart would turn to a shore by palm trees shaded, To a distant island under a southern sky. And my lips would weary grow of your cold caresses, And your golden hair be changed to a galling chain To keep me bound in your deep sea-caves of coral, Far, far from the hills and the sun and the summer rain. Ah, futile strife! For well do I know. Beloved, I shall come to you at the sound of your siren song; You will clasp me close ; I will shut mine eyes to sorrow, Ere the world too bitter grow and the day too long. 84 THE CALL OF THE TROPICS Out of the brazen city's clam'rous mouth A message came to-day ; methought I heard A sudden song-burst from a hidden bird, Far in some tropic island of the south. What charm is there that on my spirit lies? I know not now, but only that the day And all the mocking glitter of Broadway Have faded even as a dream that dies. While, sweet and swift, from out the years of yore Some memory floats — a breath of palms, per- haps, A parrot's cry, and then the distant lapse Of dreaming sea-waves on a dreaming shore. It is the tropics' call, and joy nor grief Has power to hold me now, as forth I go Far from the Northland with its storm and snow, To stray, heart-careless, on a coral reef. 65 A RIDING SONG Into the ultimate East, Into the arms of the day, I have flung myself with a wild halloo. Drenched with the cold, clean morning dew, And drunk with the scent of May ! Out from the hills and down the trail And over the rolling plain — Of the great earth-mother a pulse, a part, Head thrown backward and beating heart. And hand on the loose-flung rein. For it's on and on, and a long coo-ee! Rousing the ancient calm. I have found a way, I have found a track, I will ride till the sunset brings me back To the cabin beneath the palm. THE ROVER BARDS Filled with the love of living, Far from the city's reach, Hearing only the ocean Sob to a lonely beach; Seeing only the sea-birds Drift with the landward breeze," And the sunlight shimmer softly Over a thousand cays ; Treading the fertile valleys Where the slave had worn the chain. Sailing out from Aves Unto the Spanish Main; Down through the wond'rous islands In deathless springtime clad — Cuba, Hispaniola, Jamaica and Trinidad — Thus did we seek the old things, Thus did we seek and hear 67 THE ROVER BARDS Of wild deeds unrepented, In the haunt of the buccaneer; Fashioning forth our music Where the palm leaves toss and sway, On the sands by old Port Royal, Or beside Samana Bay. We who sat hy the camp fire. Watching the embers glow. We are the hards who sang together Songs of the long ago. You have not known their music y Thrilled to their wild refrain. Yet, if you list, for a season We shall sing the old songs again. ISLAND OF DREAMS Passionate light of the South, Flushing and fading to-day: Here at the harbor-mouth, Will it vanish in darkness for aye? " Nay! though I wander apart And bitter the long night seems, I shall hide it deep down in my heart, O my island of dreams ! I have known and I shall not forget, Bright, beauteous island of mine. The bamboos that rustling met Where Nature had made her a shrine, The strain that the solitaire sang. As I sat by the silvery streams And throbbed to the echoes that rang Through my island of dreams. ISLAND OF DREAMS How shall I thank thee enow For the young, sweet years that are dead? For the roses that lay on my brow And stained it their amorous red? Mystical roses of dawn, Breathing of wond'rous themes, Culled from an emerald lawn In my island of dreams. Passionate light of the South, Flushing and fading to-day : Here at the harbor-mouth. Will it vanish in darkness for aye? Nay ! though a beauty may lure That hath mirrored the light of thy beams, The old love shall ever endure, O my island of dreams ! II When oriole and blue bird were still And the glory of summer was o'er, When the snow was asleep on the hill And sullen the waves on the shore, 70 ISLAND OF DREAMS I paused, sick at heart of a day That knew not of summer's bright beams, And Memory bore me away To my island of dreams. Once more in the forest's dim calm, I heard the wild solitaire's lay Rise pure as a tremulous psalm. Intoned at the portals of day. And I saw the gold oranges burn, Bent low to the song of the streamy. And plucked the hibiscus and fern In my island of dreams. Rosy, the light of the South Flushed ere it faded again. And I at the harbor-mouth Vowed in a passion of pain: "Dear land, though my wanderer's way Should flame with a splendor that gleams, I shall love thee for ever and aye, my island of dreams !" 71 A VALEDICTION Before the seas again divide And another page be turned, Let these three things be written down, Reborn from the days gone by: The peak that rose through the morning mist The firefly flames that burned; And the Southern Cross in the hills of home, Hung low in a velvet sky. 72 BOYHOOD ETCHINGS 1 : Tropic Sunset Oh, full and soft, upon the orange trees, Flamed forth bright beams of glory from the West! And through the boughs there sighed a gypsy breeze. Bearing a thousand perfumes on its breast. For it had kissed the coffee's starry spray, Had stolen sweetness from the lily's bell. And I had seen the stephanotis sway Before its breath, as it swept up the dell. The feathery bamboos pencilled on the sky, The cedar's branches garbed in August green, The palms that stirred storm-tattered fronds on high — All breathed the languor of the hour serene. 73 BOYHOOD ETCHINGS II: Tropic Storm The scent of jasmines in the sultry air, A deathly stillness hanging over all, Great sombre clouds, which float across the sky And hide the sun, as with a funeral pall. The birds' sweet voices silenced in the trees. As if they had not got the heart to sing. As on some twig, close-sheltered by the leaves. Each sits with ruffled plumes and drooping wing. But now a sullen murmur breaks the calm. The gathering East wind stirs the vapors warm, The roll of thunder smites upon the ear. The lightning flashes red — and bursts the storm. 74 PREMIER AMOUR I : O Calm Gray Eyes ! O calm gray eyes that have awaked my heart And held me in a love-enchanted spell ! O tender lips that ever seem to part In that dear smile that I have known so well! Why will ye pass not from my soul away, For one brief instant ; but all lovelier seem, E'en when the fierce light of the tropic day Would dim the glory of my golden dream? Ah, swift the answer comes ! a soft refrain, That thrills my spirit through; for well I know Dear Love hath bound me with his rosebud chain. Sweet lips, sweet eyes, I would not have you go ! II: The Dream Cradled amid the languid summer flowers. When there were shadows on the distant hills, And when the murmur of the island rills Made music through the golden-winged hours: 75 PREMIER AMOUR Behold, I dreamed a lover's dream of thee, As low I listened to the wood dove's call, And in the whisper of the waterfall Heard echoes of the far-ofF, slumb'rous sea. And if I deemed the memory of thy voice As passing far the hollow hope of fame; And if my heart's recital of thy name Sufficed to make me worship and rejoice, Ah, hold not that my dream was slight withal! The honeyed sweetness of the poet's rhyme! The fancy of a soul that might not climb To higher things ! For love, love crowneth all. Ill: A Shrine Apart The gray mist that hath fallen on my heart Hath made it heavy with its boundless woe; Yet have I kept a little space apart, A shrine to thee, a shrine to which I go And gaze in thy calm eyes, though but in dreams, And feel thee near me and thy hand in mine. In greeting or farewell, until it seems I almost hear a love-word that is thine. 76 PREMIER AMOUR IV: Because I Hunger Because I hunger for thy lips divine, With passion that I scarcely understand ; Because I feel the tremor of thy hand, Soft, shy, as when it lay long since in mine ; Because the rapture of my love's new wine Yet thrills me through in this far, alien land. And Memory whispers of a happier strand, Where deep I looked into those eyes of thine; Because these things are so, the spirit's dream, That bloomed amid the rosy-colored days, Is stronger than the city's mocking gleam, And careless of the mad world's blame or praise. So art thou still my angel as of old, My Love queen-regnant, and my Good untold ! V: Once Again Once again, when the long, strange days were over And the sunlight shone for us on an alien shore. You and I touched hands, as of old we greeted. Touched hands and trod in our kingdom of dreams once more. 77 PREMIER AMOUR You from the far, sweet South, where the palm leaves quiver, I from the heart of the city's unending strife; Souls that had drifted apart, then drawn together, Out of the darkness, over the seas of life. VI: The Wish I will not wish thee what the world would deem Life's choicest gifts ; for laurel leaves will fade, And worthless grow the glitter and the gleam Of days that mock Youth's tender light and shade. But that thy soul may keep its dreams divine. The clearer vision that beyond the stars Looked forth, and made the poet's secret thine: So may'st thou burst earth's sordid prison bars, And, musing, pass from splendid height to height. Nor heed the things for which men strive and pray; But from the mystic music of the night Draw wisdom that Time shall not take away. 78 NOTES NOTE I "Pierrot Wounded" is an adaptation of a longer French poem, "Pierrot Blesse," by P. Alberty, which appeared in Le Bownet Rouge, Paris, on March 13, 1915. The English version was printed by the New York Times on February 21, 1917, and a few days later The Brothers of the Book, Chicago, obtained permission to include it in their anthology of poems on the Pierrot theme, "Mon Ami Pierrot." The latter was issued in the sum- mer of 1917. About the same time, The Brothers of the Book put out "Pierrot Wounded" in bro- chure form, the proceeds being devoted to the American Fund for French Wounded. Comments on the poem appeared in many newspapers, nota- bly the New York Evening Post, the Brooklyn DaHy Eagle, the Chicago Herald and the Chicago Post. "Pierrot Wounded" has been set to music by Rossetter G. Cole. It was first rendered in pub- 81 NOTES lie at Columbia University, in July, 1917. The poem has also been made the subject of a paint- ing by T. Victor Hall, of New York. The original French version by P. Alberty is as follows : PIERROT BLESSE Air: Pierrot chante et meurt (Pauvre Pierrot par sa belle econduit, etc.) Pauvre Pierrot, blesse, seul dans la nuit, S'est ranlme sous la lune qui lult: Depuis des heures Que son sang pleure II s'en est fallu de peu qu'il ne meurt! II git par terre, a I'abri d'un buisson ; Tout bruit s'est tu, meme Fhorrible son De la mitraille Qui siffle et braille Dans le satin de Pazur qu'elle eraille ! Fluet, dans la capote aux larges plis Comme en la souquenille de jadis, A I'astre bleme Que tant 11 alme, Pierrot sourit falblement, et puis dit: 82 NOTES "Tu vois, Phoebe, c'est ton ami Pierrot Qui, malgre tout, ce soir, te dit son mot : Dans ma detresse, Pale Deesse, Je suis heureux de sentir ta caresse ! Je croyais bien que tu ne savais plus Me reconnaitre parmi les poilus ; Mais, quelle fete, A ton poete Tu rends ce soir visite, en tete a tete! "Pardonne si je te re9ois ainsi: Depuis longtemps deja je suis ici, Poitrine ouverte, Exsangue, inerte, Bien mal en point, mais . . . vivant, Dieu merci! "Qui sait? Peut-etre bien qu'en ce moment Pierrette dort sous tes rayons d'argent Et que, blafarde, Tu te hasardes A venir illuminer sa mansarde! Ah ! si c'est vrai, fais qu'en des songes bleus 83 NOTES Elle me voie ainsi qu'aux temps heureux, Reveur boheme Joyeux quand meme, Grace a I'amour, malgre de longs caremes ! "Pourtant, vois-tu, je suis fier, malgre tout, D'avoir su devenir un bon pioupiou: Sans hablerie, Pour la Patrie J'ai fait, je crois, mon devoir jusqu'au bout!" Pierrot se tait, epuise par I'effort; Soudain voici venir le vent du Nord : La neige fine Couvre d'hermine Le moribond ! . . . Mais, la, sur sa poitrine, Le sang vermeil, qui coule lentement, Fait une tache, a symbole troublant, En rouge se grave La croix des braves Sur le suaire de Pierrot tout blanc ! 84 NOTE II "The Oath" is a translation of "Le Serment," bj Henri de Regnier, of the Academie Fran9aise. The original appeared in Le Gaidois, Paris, in 1914, immediately after the first bombardment of the Cathedral of Rheims by the Germans. The translation was published in Life, September 16, 1915, with an illustration by T. Victor Hall. M. de Regnier's poem is as follows: LE SERMENT Je jure de garder dans mon coeur cette haine Jusqu'a son dernier battement; Que son venin sacre se mele dans ma veine A chaque goutte de mon sang! Que I'on voie a jamais sur mon sombre visage Sa rude ride sans pardon Se creuser dans ma chair, pour y dire I'outrage Dont elle marque le sillon ! 85 NOTES Par mes champs devastes, par mes villes en flam- mes, Par mes otages fusilles, Par le cri des enfants massacres et des femmes, Par mes fils tombes par milliers, Je jure de venger le Droit et la Justice, De vaincre ou de mourir pour eux, Moi, la France, et je veux que ma voix retentisse, Au coeur de mes morts valeureux ! Et ce double serment de colere et de haine. En face du ciel, je le fais, Devant les saintes eaux de la Marne et de I'Aisne Rouges encore du sang fran9ais, Tandis qu'eblouissante et sacrilege torche Je regarde, avec un frisson, Reims, ta sublime nef du chevet jusqu'au porche. Qui brule et croule a I'horizon. 86 NOTE III The strophes here translated are from an ode written by Gabriele d'Annunzio in 1914, imme- diately after the outbreak of the war. It was published both in Italian and French, the French version appearing in the Figaro, of Paris. The "Ode for the Latin Resurrection" was the fore- word of d'Annunzio's marvelous and successful campaign to bring Italy into the war on the side of France. Various renderings into English of the entire poem have been published. The pres- ent fragment was first printed in the BrooMyn Daily Eagle. It was noted by Captain Ugo d'Annunzio, son of the poet, in an interview in the Eveni/ng Post, New York, March 18, 1918. 87 -H The Critics Say: PIERROT WOUNDED AND OTHER POEMS" is a book of verse distinguished by poetic feeling and a practised hand. — The Sun, New York. He is a clear illustration of what an artist can do with the fixed principles of rhythm. He clari- fies them with fundamental ideas and emotions. His sympathies in art are Gallic and that may have much to do with the charm of his verse. . . . The stock is patrician. It is pure, it is brilliant. — William Stanley Braithwaite, in the Boston Transcript. Like Dowson, he has cared to do a few things extremely well. Among these are the "Villanelle of the Living Pan," which approximates fault- lessness, and closely approaching this is the ''Villanelle of Montparnasse." . . . There is a touch of Arcadian primitiveness, and a shadow of subtle, half-sad sophistication, as of a mourn- ful Pan evoking music in a twilight mood of the emotions. — Review of Reviews. He writes with ease and grace, and he has evidently made the best use of some very ex- cellent French literary examples. . . . His trans- lations, or rather interpretations, are as true as they are technically admirable. — Maurice Francis Egan, in The Bookman. ,^»