Class "PS ^ " Book JujLLi^ Cop)iightN? COFnilGKT DEPOBIK POEMS BY KATHARINE HOWARD Author of "Candle Flame," "Eve," "The Book of the Serpent," etc. BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY 1914 COPYMOHT, 1914 ShERMAK, FuXCH &> COMPAKT NOV -6 1914 ©CiA3S8263 TO MY FATHER AND MY MOTHER IN THEIR YOUTH CONTENTS MOON-FARING page THE SHALLOP OF THE MOON LAY LOW . 1 hist! ARE THEY ELFIN THINGS? . . 2 WHEN STARS IN SILVER SANDALS ... 3 THE MOON HAS TIPPED HER SILVER HORN . 4 WHEN PULSING THROUGH THE AIR I FEEL . 5 REFULGENT IN THE SAPPHIRE NIGHT . . 6 REACH NOT TO ME, THOU YOUNG MAY MOON 7 AS A LAPWING FLIES ...... 9 DEAR LOVE TO THEE 10 TO LITTLE THINGS . 11 IN FOREST PATHS . 12 RIVER OF ME 13 MONOTONY 14 NOM DE PLUME 15 ON WINDY DAWNS 17 WHEN RIFTED CLOUDS 18 THE SPRING-TIME SNOW 19 YE BLOSSOM BOUGHS 20 THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL 21 PAGE AS WHEN BEFORE THE FIRE I SIT . . 22 IN THE DARK NIGHT 23 DEEP THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF YOUR EYES 24 OUT OF THE HEART OF GOD TO ME . . . 25 YOU SAID ADIEU 26 TO HELEN 27 IN THE DEAR GARDEN OF MY DREAMS . . 28 INTO THE GREEN VASE OF MY YOUTH . . 29 EXQUISITE ONE 30 GRACEFUL FRONDS OF MAIDEN -HAIR . 31 A FRESH WIND BLEW FROM HEAVEN TO ME 32 1 WONDER WHEN 33 BEFORE I SLEEP 34 ELIXIR BRIMS THE VASE OF GOLD ... 35 YOUNG GIRL WANDERING AMONG THE HILL TOPS 37 I POURED WATER INTO A BOWL ... 38 IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS .... 40 THE FLOWER THAT COMETH UP . . .42 BARRIER 45 NORTH NORTH WEST 46 BAR UNIQUE 48 POET CLAY 49 THE LAUREL CROWNED 50 MOMENT OF PLEASURE 51 PAGE ISLE O' DREAMS 52 THE BELLS OF BEUZEC 54 CONCARNEAU 5iy grand'mere looks on 57 the jasmine flower 59 glamourye 61 FOR YOU 62 grand'mere 63 WILL O' THE WISP 65 THE WHEEL 66 WHENEVER ON A GRAVE I SIT . . . . 71 SONG OF THE FIFE AND DRUM .... 75 AFTER THE FASHION OF NEED .... 77 MOON-FARING The shallop of the moon lay low, A great star grasping at her horn, Her grossesse merged in halo And elfin flutes on the wind borne, — O heart o' me! Such fluting! Ropes of silver I saw swung From star to star and fairies swinging And swaying to the airs they sung And lilting to their singing — O heart o' me! Such singing! There was a pricking in the air, Whip — snap — of fairy repartee — And floating near — O clear! O rare! The elfin horns blared merrilie — O heart o' me! Such blaring! The shallop of the moon low lorn Among the clouds was borne. The great star graspt her horn, A falling globe down flared — And far the trumpets blared! O heart o' me! Such faring! [1] Hist! Are they elfin things Astride the moon-rays? Certes, how they do lilt And leer at me, — inconsequential fays- Silver threads they've spun Fine, fine as silk And shining as the sun. Ah! People of that ilk. Such eerie things they do; Moon-folk they are Or from some neighboring star Have taken flight — Hist! Ah! What's this, and this. Soft as a flower's kiss? I'm spun about! Is't They have me caught? Certes! Strange folk they are, Quick as a thought. Hist! They are elfin things. [2] When stars in silver sandals Tread the radiant way And throbbing night Mysterious nears the day, When to retreat the crescent moon Hies bashful to prepare Behind the clouds her disarray For benediction of the sun, 'Tis then beware! Then 'tis the influence of the night Holds most its sway, 'Tis then the night Gives up her throbbing self to day — When stars in silver sandals Tread the radiant wav. [3] The moon has tipped her silver horn Of stars into the night — A-down they drift in wayward flight Or range in glorious height, A jewelled parterre bright. The moon has tipped her silver horn Of stars into the night — Of wafted sparks of incense borne Aloft, when to the darkening light The moon has tipped her silver horn Of stars into the night. [4] When pulsing through the air I feel The perfumes of the night, A spirit grows within my heart, A wild and wicked elfin sprite Owns me till the first streak of light,- When pulsing through the air I feel The perfumes of the night. Away! Away! In joyous flight, Thoughtless and care-free quite, A heedless happy pagan sprite, — When pulsing through the air I feel The perfumes of the night. [5] Refulgent in the sapphire night, Puissant moon of Spring, Drawing the incense of the Earth In flower offering. Refulgent in the sapphire night. About the fairy hour you seem So near and yet so rapt, — So real, yet like a dream — Wondrous full moon — Refulgent in the sapphire night. And ever climbing, climbing higher Attended by your waiting star, O moon, to zenith height. Wending from far to far, Full moon of mystery, — Puissant moon of Spring, Refulgent in the sapphire night. [6] Reach not to me, thou young May moon, Thy long white arms O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer! Reach not thy wavering arms — Sure — 'twas thine April sister had Me foolish — making verse to her. O thou seducer! Thou dear seducer! Thou hast me fickle, mad — No! No! Look away — thou'rt looking In my window, moon-maid ! Take thy fingers off the jonquils — Thy silver fingers — Ah! Dieu! Those streaks of silver! Thou'rt putting beauty touches warily — Seducer — thou dear seducer — Ah! Thou'rt witching me Reach not — [7] AS A LAPWING FLIES TO ELISABETH I saw a woodsy look come in thine eyes, The hush of listening had crossed thy face — Thine eyebrows lifted in a line of grace — I had not thought that thou wert forest- wise — Sudden — thy beryl eyes grew blue as skies Where leaning hills their mirrored forms re- trace With drifting clouds in glassy sea's em- brace, — Thou changest quickly, as a lapwing flies. Is't he of Hamelin with his magic pipe Who whistles thee to wanderings far and near? Is it his mystic whispering haunts thine ear When we hear not? — Pan was his prototype. Far off he whistles thee — thy spirit keens — Following him into his maze of dreams. [9] DEAR LOVE TO THEE TO R. G. B. P. Thou sayest — "a sonnet to the morning air," But equally, dear love, 'twill sing its praise to thee. As all exquisite beauty means to me A phase of thy dear self, so all things fair. Depths, breadths, of life, and the fresh morn- ing air, — As thou art the all-giving, the most free Of all God's creatures, — even giving me In thy divine creative love a share. For thou art woman, all-surrounding one ; In the maternity of thy dear breast The turmoil of the factions shall find rest, — 'Tis thus with love divine thy work is done. Woman, thou art the moon, thou art the sun ; In thee, dear love, all things of life are one. [10] TO LITTLE THINGS They are the httle rains that slowly seep To roots of flowers, which comfort and re- new, — Even as the flower is fed by morning dew, And quiet night puts the young blooms asleep, Rocked by the little wind — most dear of all. Dear little things, with little tender ways That are not known, that have no lauds of praise, — But when we turn to go — they softly call. O dear caressing littleness that clings, — The little crying wind, the little rain. That calls us when we may not come again, — Tender and sweet as are all gentle things — The clinging hands, the sound of running feet To bid farewell, — so dear, so sobbing sweet. [11] IN FOREST PATHS In forest paths I met thee wandering, The wild flowers following in thy wake, — Thou wert so lovely that they did mistake Thee for their sister, and thus unerring, Following thee to their own preferring, — Wisely knowing thee as one of themselves, — In woodland paths and among forest elves Thy walks with their beauty embroidering. But of thy perfume they knew not indeed, — 'Each breathing its own they knew not of thine, Fair forest flowers of past Summer-time. They are gone from the wood, gone from the mead, Gone with the Summer, as fragrant and fleet. Thou, in my heart thou art still blooming sweet. [12] RIVER OF ME "You waste yourself in various ways; Keep in your strong deep channel," said my friend, "And thus conserve your forces to an end; Search not for honours in the with'ring bays,— The surfeit is the sure reward of praise!" Thus did she tell me how my ways to mend. And how my little streamlets not to send : But I had things to learn in winding ways. It happened that a brook I had sent out Returned a little farther down my stream To tell me things that it had been about, — Thus proving true what I had thought a dream. So now I reach them out to search for truth. And thus perpetual I keep my youth. [13] MONOTONY That night we stranded at the Isle of Dread There was not any sound that we could hear, Though Jacquelyn listened, and she had an ear Attuned to slightest sound. But ah! In- stead We fell a-trembling and our hearts grew dead. I touched her in the dark, I had such fear, — And something splashed my hand — it was her tear. "What fate has driven us to this shore?" I said. "I saw it in a dream," low answered she; ''No growing things nor young are in this land." She touched me as she spoke, with shaking hand — "Where only there is dead monotony, — No young things here, where nothing grows," she said, — "A woeful land where the young flowers are dead." [14] NOM DE PLUME So am I hidden under thy soft wing, Safe in retreat from the too potent glare. My soul, like flower in precinct of the night, Grows peacefully, secure from poison sting. Quiet, serene as other gentle thing, — Or, when my spirit moves to words of might. Under thy wing secure I rest from sight, 'Scaped breathless as a fay to fairy ring. I pray thee, fetch me not into the glare. Expose myself not to the light of day; My work is given to the world, the say Is theirs, — myself is myself's own affair. And so beneath my nom de plume I creep. Thus far away from dead'ning things to keep. [15] TO JULIETTE On windy dawns Afar my unbound spirit roves A-search for roving spirit kin, — A-streak through sands where foaming droves Of serried waves come trooping in On windy dawns. Ah! There is breathing fresh and free Among the waves that sway and beat The cradhng bosom of the sea And cry my roving spirit feet On windy dawns. [17] TO K. J. B. When rifted clouds Like herded flocks enfleece the sky And chilly winds of Spring adrift Heed not the amorous sigh Of flowers that would their heads uplift,- When rifted clouds Like herded flocks enfleece the sky, — Heralds they are, but with the blast Of Winter piping into Spring; And yet by rote of memory past The Spring-time choir doth sing, — When rifted clouds Like herded flocks enfleece the sky. [18] The spring-time snow Falls gently, touching the earth Caressingly with loving fingers; Giving itself to the new birth Of flowers, it softly lingers Perhaps a day and then 'tis gone — The spring-time snow — But its fair soul remains, — Into the fragrance of the rose It breathes and grows. We forget — after the sun has shone A little, after the spring-time rains — The spring-time snow. [19] TO CHARLOTTE Ye blossom boughs Of apple trees, down trail And shed your fragrance everywhere. See the light clouds a-sail, Wreathed in the golden air, — A dream of Spring. Is aught so lovely anywhere? The mating birds on wing, The crocus peeping unaware, And every growing thing All fragrant in a riot rare, — A dream of spring. And loveliest, most fragrant, fair. Ye blossom boughs. [20] The world is beautiful — All day I've thought about The beauty of the world, — 'Twas woven in and out The texture of the day. Like petaled flowers upcurled, About each thought it shone — The beauty of the world — A gracious light it seemed. Day has its pennant furled And still the light shines on — 'Tis true, I have not dreamed — The world is beautiful. [21] As when before the fire I sit And dream, and glorious visions flit — Although ethereal, dream-wise — Between the firelight and mine eyes — Ah 1 Some divine nobility a-surge Within my soul doth urge Me hero-ward, — and then the flame Dies down and in my soul the same, — The glorious visions flit As when before the fire I sit And dream. [22] In the dark night When I lie wide awake My thoughts grow mystic-wise — Great thoughts I have that make A brightness cross my eyes In the dark night, — As if a light shone clear And fine from out my brain Or someone held a lantern near Someone who holds me dear In the dark night. [23] TO B. T. Deep through the windows of your eyes Into your soul I looked, and there Saw windows through and through, Eyes through eyes and all the vista fair, On, on into the infinite blue. The wonderful inimitable true Sincerity of the incarnate you, — Deep through the windows of your eyes. [24] TO M. T. B. Out of the Heart of God to me You came, to clasp a hand unknown, Dear generous one; why, you have grown Into my heart through His, — a trinity we have become. You knew me not, and yet your hand Clasps mine and we are one; The currents meet along the silver strand, So generous one, to me you came Out of the Heart of God. [25] TO HAMEL You said adieu — I wonder if you thought About the meaning of that word, Or how on me it wrought Prophetic sadness as I heard — I wonder if you knew, Or whether it was only I To whom the word told true, — Always I wonder why You said adieu. [26] To Helen- There 's magic in thy name — When I would write, the web of fancy Encircles thee with necromancy — Thy name embowers thee in wreathes Of beauty — like thine amber hair. Poets to thee have made many poems From that far time when beauty Drowned the memory of despair; To one, Poe wrote to her of the "enchanted garden"; To thee, who wearest in thy name The wreathes of many poets, Could I say more than this — To Helen? [27] In the dear garden of my dreams Are rhododendrons and pale hlies tall, And roses ripening 'gainst the sunkissed wall. Their little gleams of brightness shine Entangled mid their burnished leaves, And languishing the clasping vine Each perfumed breath receives. The peacock stands a lordly sight, With his metallic plumage bright Reflected in the quivering light; — So bright his rainbow colour gleams That all the glory of him seems To centralize the sunny beams In the dear garden of my dreams. [28] D. TO B. Into the green vase of my youth One summer day you thrust a rose, And with the rose some seeds of truth. Now from my vase the rose tree grows In burnished green with spheres of gold,- And thorns are hidden here and there For that free lance who cries "Behold!" The careless one who robs the fair, Who needs much pricking to beware. And now so tall my strong tree grows Alike in fragrance and in truth, Because — because you thrust a rose Into the green vase of my youth. [29] Exquisite one ! Golden against the blue, thou yellow rose. Rose-heart, with winged leaves thy beauty grows When Spring into the arms of Summer flows. Now 'tis November drear, — Dark dawns and nights of fear, — Winter is near. Branch bare, — nor leaf nor bud, — All of their golden crest into the mire pressed, — Ah! 'Tis rose-mire! In the black soaking ooze Didst all thy beauty lose, Or will thy spirit fuse Into rose-mire, maybe through my desire. Something of fire divine? Give, and thou canst, the sign. Sudden before mine eyes I saw the rose arise In her sweet beauty fair, perfuming all the air, Fused in the sacred fire created by desire In memory's crucible, out of rose-mire — Exquisite one! [30] O graceful fronds of maiden-hair, Most delicate of ferns, You make the world more fair; You greet me from the window sill Each morning when the sun's ray burns The mist of sleep away, until You've grown a picture to my eyes, Like forest-thoughts against blue skies; Like forest-thoughts — my dream returns — Far from the rumbling city street. For cool green things my spirit yearns, — Because of you, — to my tired feet The dusty pavement of the street Is a green path with wild-flowers sweet; You make the world more fair. Most delicate of ferns, O graceful fronds of maiden-hair. [31] A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me Straight through the gates of memory; It was a httle after dawn, and ecstasy Was in the air. The garden where I walked with dew was sweet, And violets clustered near my feet, Faint fragrance — rare A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me Straight through the gates of memory ; It was a little after dawn — pulsing — vibrat- ing With the life of new creating Quivered the air. A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me, And on into Eternity It circled to that quiet sea From whence and where A fresh wind blew from Heaven to me. [32] I wonder when Will come that hour of mine, The hour I may not share, When from the warm sunshine Of gentle Earth into the rare Ethereal of the divine My soul shall wander, — where I may not know. — Sublime — Perchance, for me too fair. I wonder when — And yet I would not know: I love too well the things of Earth; I am not ready for the glow To thrill me to new birth. — And yet, child-like, although Too well I love my Earth, I wonder when. [33] Before I sleep There comes the breath of prayer, — The worldly things pass by Before I sleep; The wings of peace are taking care, And like a happy sigh A-flutter in the air, Before I sleep My thoughts to beauty fly, Suspiring into prayer Before I sleep. [34] TO M. S, T. Elixir brims the vase of gold, The purple hills draw near, The mysteries of old, of old, Are coming clear. Elixir brims the cup of gold. The sparkle quivers at the brim And falls in shining showers, — I see beyond the purple rim The radiant towers. Elixir brims the vase of gold; In ecstasy my spirit cries To those far fanes, Behold ! Behold ! And upward flies. Far — far — I see with vision's eyes The sun-gates open flare, — On soaring pinions I arise Strong, eagle-wise. The mysteries of old, of old. Are coming clear, The purple hills grow near. Elixir brims the vase of gold. [35] TO FENTRESS Young girl wandering among the hill tops, Wherefore do you chant divinely? Why do you move yourself in rhythm? Is it because you are a part of something, A part of something to which you must come finally? Your eyes have a look of further seeing, But your words flow lightly. It is when you chant— then only— that you sound divine. Young girl rhythmically wandering among the hill tops, Why is it thus you chant divinely? [37] I POURED WATER INTO A BOWL Infinitesimal things charming, whence do you come? A short time since I looked and you were not. Thoughtfully I poured water into a bowl; I set therein some dry husks, And now you are reaching up and down, — Long white tendrils delicately feeling down- ward, Pointed green shoots deliciously reaching up- ward. You go both down and up, nothing but the entire Universe will do for you. I am wondering if it is with sublime uncon- sciousness you do your reaching. Green things delicate, why is your pushing limited? You who a short time since were primary, You who have an immediate memory, I think that I see in one of you a swelling: [38] Does that mean that a flower will grow, A flower that may have a sweet odour? And all this because, thoughtfully, I poured water over dry husks into a bowl. [39] IT IS ABOUT THOSE SECRETS My soul, come, if only for a few moments, Come out of the nebula which surrounds you ; be bare, — You with whom I am intimate yet unac- quainted. You with whom all of my life I have lived. — But you? Where did you dwell before? And where will you dwell after? Yes, my soul, there is the difficult part, — it is about those secrets. You are sometimes careless while I sleep, And so I go with you among your reminis- cences. It is about those secrets, — they trouble me. There is no explaining them: when I am awake you are dumb on the subject. I request you, my soul, either be frank with me, Freely telling me all, or put a padlock on the door Of that place where you keep your secrets. [40] I beg of you, my soul, do not leave the key about where I may find it. I would not go alone among those secrets of yours, I need you to interpret them. I hke not half knowledge, it disturbs me. [41] THE FLOWER THAT COMETH UP To him, the self righteous one, to him who with subhme pity looks down from a great height, To him I speak. Come down into the val- leys and get experience. Do not annihilate us utterly, O Man with no experience. Come down a little, that you may hear more plainly. Come down a little, that you may see more clearly, — You who see nothing beautiful in dirt. Come down and look a little, you have not done your share of digging, you have not thought about the flower that cometh up. You who walk among the virtues. Ah! You know not true. You believe in charity, but of the things for which you have it you know nothing. You have not been incarnate with them, not thoroughly, not yet. [42] It is that you must be reground upon the stones which grind the small. In a few aeons you will climb again out of the dirt, And with some reminiscences — maybe. [48] BARRIER THE "BAD LANDS" The long, low, level hills against the sky, — they call a halt: The barrier of the world. Thus far, no far- ther, shall ye go. The rest is all unfinished. Beyond, there is a place where winds are made, And sometimes one escapes and whirls its way in ruthless wrack Down through the haunts of Man. Ap- proach the barrier not. The earth is torn in wreaths and mounds, and hot, — The fires are near. No footstep must approach the barrier wall Lest looking over one discover all. [45] NORTH NORTH WEST TO ELEANOR No footsteps there are where the sun shines alone, Where no death of a man has been known : A land without life, without death, Where the wail of the wind wandereth. Where mystery hides in the caverns, Deep down where the sun never looks — Alone with the sun and the wind — Alone with the moon and the stars — In the land where no footsteps are ; Where star communeth with star, Where mountains and clouds are abreast In the land north north of the West — Is a dream in a dream that's forgot Of something that was and is not. In the land where no footsteps are, In the drift of the world afar The wraiths rendezvous and mourn; On the north wind their keening is borne, — For this dream in a dream that's forgot [46] For this something that was and is not. O land without life, without death, Where the wail of the wind wandereth — Afar on the wind borne— faint to mine ear Like a breath— Is't the Spirit of Future I hear? [47] BAR UNIQUE TO JONJON God made you in his image to stoop above a book? Stand up erect and look! Learn from God's book — His free hand drawings, forest, sea and sky. Study the stars at night 'Mid velvet darkness and bespangled light. In the deep wood go search, and in the lave Of rhythmic wave find symphonies. In the far future, thought of Man Shall solve for the supernal race A system free from barrier, — As is the system of the Universe Whose bar unique is space. [48] POET CLAY TO C. P. A. Yes, many poets to the making of the perfect one; He must be made of poet clay when all is done. Break this one also; he hath fine aroma, But weakness.-I loved him. And this one: Ah I I worked on him at length. Yes, break them all. Their cries? Well! What? How otherwise It is not given to know the wheres and whys. Drop tears, but go on with the breaking ; They must be broken small for making. Tears moisten well the mixing, And some day you will know When rises a Poet out of this broken clay, And I, the Potter, to greater Godhood grow. Yes, many poets broken to the one, — No swift uprising from the common clod. It must be poet clay or best undone — Unfit that I should breathe upon. Did you not know that poet aroma is the breath of God? [49] THE LAUREL CROWNED The bust was beautiful indeed ; A crown of laurel bound the head. What name? I asked, as if one need A name, — thoughtful, I said, — When laurel crowned. She went to the enchanted wood For Daphne laurels, — so they said, — She left her home and all that stood For home to bind the laurels on her head,- So she was crowned. And who was she? This other one Not laurel crowned, — and still behold The noble brow, — what had she done? Oh! Motherhood, — naught to be told,— Not to be crowned. I wondered, as I passed along Among the busts bound and unbound Of realms of art, of realms of song, What means it to be laurel crowned, — Just laurel crowned. [50] MOMENT OF PLEASURE Do the lights of the street make a black shadow? Is it a thick darkness, Woman, so none may see in? Does never the bird in your heart brood to the flight? Long ago was it pierced into numbness? Woman ! Woman ! Let us come in to the comforting. Can never your head find a bosom place? Dull with the aching of ages. Can never your head find a soothing place Save in the Potter's Field earth? Woman ! Woman ! Long hence .... Long hence .... In the rose light of dawn, Out of the earth of the Potter's Field Groweth a tree. Sweet! Sweet! A little bird trills in the tree. [51] ISLE O' DREAMS TO E. E. G. Every poet has an island Somewhere in the sea. Sometimes in dreams my island rises, Green as green can be. There is silver mist around, And a faint entrancing sound Of lapping waves upon the sand. There's a castle on my island ; It is terraced to the sea; And a chamber in a tower is for me ; It is hung about in faded tapestry, And the window high looks out upon the sea. I sit there in my chamber and the sun shines dreamily Upon heroic figures in the faded tapestry. In the mirror on the wall myself I can not see, — I see the room reflected, but not a stroke of me. [52] A sadness comes upon me because I cannot trace Myself within the mirror. There are tears upon my face When I wake, and yet so well I know That sometime to my island I shall go. Every poet has an island Somewhere in the sea. Sometimes in dreams my island rises Green as green can be. [53] THE BELLS OF BEUZEC I hear the bells of Beuzec ringing In early dawns, and cuckoos singing, — Lying awake, and thinking — thinking — And all the sounds of dawn a-drinking In, besides the cuckoo's song. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. Lying awake, and yet a-dreaming, — The chimes of Paradise a-seeming On these sweet dawns so very near, — The bells a-chiming far and clear In Beuzec with the cuckoo's song. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. Through trills of others birds a-singing. Yes, even while the chimes are ringing I hear the pulse beat all along in Heart throbs in the cuckoo's song In Beuzec, in the cuckoo's song. Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. [54] When in the dawn I hear bells ringing, To Beuzec Ville my thoughts go winging. The chimes of dawn are ever bringing To me the sound of cuckoo's singing, Far away Beuzec's cuckoo song, Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. [55] CONCARNEAU No matter to what land I go My dreams are all of Concarneau. Spirit of the Druid Past, Have you a spell around me cast? It makes no difference where I go, At night I live in Concarneau. In lovely Venice all the day 1 sail upon the water-way, Enraptured with la vie sur I'eau, — By night I'm back in Concarneau. I meet a friend — I say hello! Meet me tonight at so and so — And then I think and say — Ah no! Tonight I'll be in Concarneau. I'm weary that I can't forget, — Sometimes I think I am, — and yet Perhaps I love to have it so. Always to dream of Concarneau. [56] GRAND'MERE LOOKS ON Dieu! What a nimble shaft of girl, A graceful slender stem of girl: Tip-tilted head, — the breezes curl The loosened golden hair. The young legs strong for dance, — And, as I live, a golden glance Shines through the silken hose; Pure gold you are from head to toes. Ah, whirl away, and one, two, three, — A rush, a silken swirl, A slide, a laugh, a whirl, — With all youth's beauty to entrance. Delicious length of girl, — My heartbeats ache my side, — The very ecstasy of youth laid bare — Because I know — Ah, well-a-day! Strong slender girl, make good, make gay, And through the joyous summers whirl, Delicious rippling breeze of girl. The swaying shoulders, shining head Uptilted, — with the riant face And the strong backward slide Controlled with strenuous grace. [57] Alack I How my worn pulses thrill To youth a-brim with ecstasy, And laughters all my senses fill. The pagan nymphs and fauns trapse by, A-limping in your steps, O girl! Whirl on, nor pause nor look If peeping Pan be there forsooth! A maddened Plan he is in truth. Weak kneed and bandy legged. Whirl on ! Whirl on ! Long may you whirl, Ecstatic shaft of girl, A one, two, three, the poising toe, The slide, the pause, the whirl, — Your gray eyes glistening sweet. Long may you dance on fleeting feet, Delicious length of girl. [58] THE JASMINE FLOWER The fragrance sweet of a jasmine flower Enticed me once in a mystic hour, — I needed no help but a climbing vine To enter that garden of pale moonshine, — Oh, the climbing vine and the pale moonshine. The odorous breath of a jasmine flower Can carry me back to that night and hour, — For in the garden a vision fair Of a lovely lady was lying there, — Oh, the vision fair that was lying there. Oh, was she asleep or was she dead? She was lying there with the flowers for a bed, — Her long hair swept her from head to feet, — No garment beside but the fragrance sweet Of the jasmine flower and the witching hour. It was years ago and now I know That the vision which set my heart aglow Was no mortal sight in the pale moonlight — [59] But the spirit that haunteth the jasmine flower. And the magic power of the witching hour. [60] GLAMOURYE The haunting music of that fair summer Like rhythmic wings in flight Enchanted the ways their footsteps wandered And bewitched their dreams at night. The phantoms of beauty but half remembered Wavered across their sight — The shadows of shades and their reflections, The visions of things unreal — Until they seemed like wraiths a-groping In the drift-land of ideal. Her face was a flame in a dim light And her soul burned to his eyes — Each throbbing heart-beat harked And stilled the ebbing night. [61] FOR YOU GEORGE LYON, JR. I said that I would make a poem for you sometime, For you to read if perfect rhythm tuned the perfect rhyme. But oh ! The music of your voice Gave so much beauty to each separate word That when you read I did not know That 'twas my poem I heard. It was your soul which spoke beneath each line, Your voice that made the rhythm haunt the rhyme, — It was indeed your poem, not mine. [62] GRAND'MERE Grand'mere! Grand'mere! Is't you would sleep, Grand'mere? No, Eunice, 'tis that I would wake — Thousands of morns at dawning-time The little wind has wakened me That wakes the sleeping dawn, — The tender little sigh of joy, the herald of the sun. The soft caressing voice that makes the World so dear, — Like all the little sobbing things that make the Earth so dear. What is it calling low and clear? Go, Eunice, go and see. Grand'mere! Grand'mere! Why are you sad, Grand'mere? What makes me sad, you ask? Because the little wind I may not hear. Thousands of morns at dawning-time [63] I've listened for the little wind That wakes the sleeping World — -the gentle little wind — The little, sobbing, sighing wind that makes the Earth so dear. Go, Eunice, go and see what is it calls so low, so clear. What is it calls? It seems to call for me. Grand'mere! Grand mere! I am afraid. The candle flares so strange, — I am afraid, Grand'mere ! What is it, Eunice? Go and see what is it calls so clear. Go, Eunice, go and see, — go open wide the door and have no fear; It is the little wind of dawn that makes the World so dear, — So soft, so clear, so well I hear — . The little wind has wakened me. Grand'mere ! Grand'mere ! [64] WILL O' THE WISP Will o' the wisp, thou wicked urchin, thou imp, Thou hast me lame — a sorry limp — Thou hast me fagged a-flinging At thee and thou grinning. Why wilt thou hop on graves? Have at thee, thou corpse-light! What! Where? Hast thou gone from sight ? Hah! Hah! I see thee hip'ty hopping be- hind the tomb! Come forth, thou drip of candle-rheum. Thou lantern winding-sheet! What sort of dancing is't thou'rt at? Hey? Trying to make me come a-near? A bowing, mowing, this way, that — Thou'rt will o' wisping — that's what thou'rt at. Trying to make me come a-near — If I do catch thee it shall cost thee dear. Bif! Have at thee, manikin! Sdeath! 'Tis a hollow grave I'm in! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Ah! Will o' wisp! [65] THE WHEEL Alas! The Ladye would know her fate, So she knocked three times on the Dooms- Day Gate. The night was black, it was late and late When the Ladye entered the Dooms-Day Gate. Fate, in a veil that covered her face, Was weaving her wonderful web of lace; Time, the Potter, was whirring his wheel. Turning his vase of woe and weal. Said the Ladye fair, "I would know my fate; For this have I entered the Dooms-Day Gate." *'Do not hasten Time, it is wise to wait," Under her veil, said the voice of Fate ; " 'Tis the vase of your life he is turning there ; To hurry Time, 'tis a fool would dare." [66] But the Ladye said, "I would know, for< sooth ! Let it cost as it will, or wrack or ruth." No sooner the words had the Ladye said Than hope within her went dead and dead; She heard the crash of the Dooms-Day bell And all went black as the mouth of Hell ! She heard a rumbling afar and near And a strange weird voice a-sound in her ear — "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee," Moaned the wheel that creaked eternally, Whirring and whirring around and 'round, A thin weird voice of sombre sound Winding forever and yet unwound, "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee." Whirring on to Eternity, A-moan inside of the Dooms-Day Gate, The creaking turn of the wheel of Fate, Turning early and turning late, "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee"— [67] "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee," Whirring on to Eternity, Louder and louder and dimmer and dim, The creak in the center spread to the rim Like the sound of a goblet rubbed on the brim, "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee"— "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee, You who would know your fate, hear me. Put in your hand in the fateful vase The while your pattern of life I trace Into the web of my wonderful lace, Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee." As her hand went into the fateful vase. Oh, the look that came in that Ladye's face ! Crash! Went the sound of the Dooms-Day bell. The lightnings flashed! O Hell! O Hell! *'0 Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — You who would fool with destinie, 1 have you fast in the fateful vase ; [68] I'll do . . . and I'll do . . . your beautiful face — I'll weave it into the web of my lace, Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — . ''You will struggle in vain, my fair Ladye. 1 have your hand in my fatal grasp; Till I weave my web it shall not unclasp, Not even unto your dying gasp, O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeee — , "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeee — And you shall see what you shall see. You may struggle early and struggle late, You can not escape from the hand of Fate, — The hand of Fate is insatiate. O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee — "The web is woven — your hand is free, — Your hand is free and it holds a glass — 'Tis the glass of Time." "Alas ! Alas ! Oh, what has happened ? And where am I ? The Ladye cried with a terrible cry. [69] >> "O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeee — Look in the glass, my fair Ladye, And you can see what I've been about, Weaving you in and weaving you out. Forever to know and never to doubt, O Riddle Me Ree O eee O eeeeeee — ''O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeeeee, — You who would hurry your destinie Look in the glass and see and see, O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeee . . ." The voice came fine and the voice came small Till it fainted away to nothing at all — "O Riddle Me Ree O eeee O eeeeee " [70] WHENEVER ON A GRAVE I SIT Whenever on a grave I sit Some fool thing rises out of it; If I but twang a fiddle string, Forsooth! I can rouse anything. In other days I've heard them tell Of one who twanged his wife from Hell. Between me and my fiddle string, — I have no need for such a thing; But for a cheerful ghost to shout And dance the steps I fling about — Yes, for a cheerful ghost to sing And dance I'd do 'most anything. I'd scrape my fiddle to the deuce If I could but a ghost enthuse With merriment; 'twould be worth while To twang a skull grin to a smile, — Or make the cross-bones pat the beat When pigeon wings are cut complete. T put my fiddle to my chin As I would scrape the devil in. The while my blithering heart did swell To twang a jolly ghost from Hell. [71] I struck the rambling chord twing twang, — And on my blooming word, No sooner he the sound had heard Than standing the tall tomb beside A foolish fellow I espied. The tears fell from his socket eyes Upon his bosom, cross-bone-wise. And mingled with his boney sighs, The while his crater eyes he fixt Upon the clock that shone betwixt The trees, high in the ivy-tower. 'Twas well upon the midnight hour When on the clock he fixt his eye And shrilled in wailing tenor high, "An opera singer once was I; Always to painted moons I cry, pretty moon! O pretty moon! For vou I die!"— 1 struck the rambling chord twing twang, — "O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang, "Always for you I die! I die!" His voice went slithering to a sigh; I struck the rambling chord twing twang. The while the pretty moon he sang. [72] 'Twas then a bitter wind swept by And whirled the clouds about the sky And rattled him about the knees And whistled in the grave-yard trees. It struck him with a chattering chill ; I heard his spinal column trill. "Ha, ha" and "Ha, ha, ha!" he cried, And struck his digits side by side; He played the castanets and sang. And I, the rambling chord twing twang. He shook the bones a rattle whang, A jiggy tune of dancing tang — "O pretty moon! O pretty moon!" he sang; I struck the rambling chord twing twang. He played the bones and I the fiddle scraped, And true it is that there escaped From all the graves and clattered out A mess of bones, and flung about And danced a merry fling, the while In idiotic, antic style My fool did sing. I struck the gibbering string. For he was bedlam glad, forsooth! To have an audience in truth. [73] And so they danced in capering cuts, — For favors using merry-thoughts, — And bones went zipping in and out And flipped and flappered all about To whistling of the brumal wind, — A brumal niveous most unkind. And whistling rheumatizing wind. The while he played the bones and sang The rambling chord I struck twing twang. A merry time we had till break of day, — And then into their graves they crept away— A diddering clattering mess of bones, I heard them say in monotones, A snuggling down in their graves deep, "Come, fiddler man, come down and sleep." 'Tis true, whenever on a grave I sit Some fool thing rises out of it; I never twang my fiddle strings But that I see these foolish things. [74] THE SONG OF THE FIFE AND DRUM Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te turn turn, We are the fife, we are the drum, We are the march to battle, — The whistHng shrill of the fife And the drum's gay rattle. Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te tum tum, The shrilling of fire and the drum's gay rattle. For'ard, march! How the pulses thrill! Keep step, keep step to the drummer's skill. To the sound of the drum's gay rattle. More red! More red! Cries the flag of battle March on! March on! For I scent afar The dye stuff I'm desiring, — The blood of the men of hiring. Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrm te tum tum. The shrill of the fife and the drum's gay rattle ! Ah, hear! Ah, hear! The mighty drums! Drums? 'Tis the roar of battle! [75] Ah, hear! All, hear! 'Tis the fife's loud trill! Fife? 'Tis the bullet's rattle! Cowards! Cowards! They fall around! Cowards? Their blood soaks into the ground. Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm te turn turn, 'Tis the Colours' call to the dyeing, 'Tis the flag needs the blood of killing. The glorious deeds for her thrilling, — The red for her fading colour — the glory ! The man-child craveth his war-time story. Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrm te tum tum The shrill of the fife and the drum's gay rattle ! Step out ! Step out ! Ye men, to the battle ! Graves? What matter as to their graves? The grass that grows from the blood of braves Shows a richer green, grows a brighter green, — Rrrrrrm Rrrrrrrm Rrrrrrrrm te tum tum, The far fife shrills to the muffled drum ! [76] AFTER THE FASHION OF NEED Now rhyme me a riddle as fit as a fiddle, — And a fiddle is fit indeed, — And let it be gay and let it be sad. And let it be good and let it be bad. After the fashion of need. Tell me a story of war-time glory ; Let it ring with martial deed; And let it be brief and let it be long. And let it be weak and let it be strong, In the way that life hath need. Tell me a story of life, red with the blood of strife, — The color of blood indeed; To do and to dare and be brave with prayer. To live and to love and to take much care. Even as life hath need. Now rhyme me a riddle as fit as a fiddle, — And a fiddle is fit indeed, — [77] And let it be gay and let it be sad, And let it be good and let it be bad, After the fashion of need. You have told it all, you have told it well,- Up to Heaven and down to Hell; There's no need for me to tell. The day is done and the sands are run ; 'Tis time for the vesper bell. [78] BY THE SAME AUTHOR THE BOOK OF THE SERPENT Original, piquant, delicately c^Tiical. . . . The story of Creation, the theory of evolution, and the main points of worldly wisdom are satirized with a gentle deftness that neither rouses to wrath nor yet exciteth to laughter, but touches us and makes us smile and think. . . . There is no denying that at times this little book wears the astonishing aspect of an indi- vidual creation of a world-myth. ... A unique mor- sel of sly humor for the elect. — Xew York Times. EVE An epic of the beginning and the end, — too serious in its solemn, slow music to give us humor, too in- tent upon its revelation to place its message in other than what will appear to the la\Tnan occult terms. It is the voice dimly heard of the higher urge that stirs woman, the thing that we miscall feminism, the groping toward certain nobler rax:es now dimly imag- ined. — Review of Reviews. CANDLE FLAME Delicate as a moonstone set in silver. . . . Katha- rine Howard has, above all things, originality, and to this she adds a poetic mysticism and a tricksy sense of humor — elements which at first seem incom- patible. That she enjoys her own philosophies and whimsies is ever evident. The reader perceives a rich and singular personality through the mist of this delicate occultism, this iridescent humor, this evasive loveliness of broken verse. — Elia W. Peattie in Chicago Tribune. 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