O F THIS edition of Twenty and 
 After, by Nathaniel A. Benson, 
 two hundred and fifty copies have been 
 printed. This Chap-book is a produc- 
 tion of The Ryerson Press, Toronto, 
 Canada. 
 
 Twenty and After won the Jar dine 
 Memorial Prize for Elnglish for 1926. 
 
 Copies of this Chap-book may be se- 
 cured from The Ryerson Press, Toronto, 
 and from Macrae Smith Company, 
 Philadelphia, Pa. 
 
 Copjfright, Canada, 1927 
 hy ike Ryereon Press 
 

 Twent}? and After 
 
 By Nathaniel A, Benson 
 
 “ Who ever has loved knows all that 
 life contains of sorrow and of joy." 
 
 — Georges Sand 
 
 TWENTY AND AFTER 
 
 I WRITE of one beloved upon her day, 
 
 September day that dowered sightless earth 
 With stronger light than summer suns provide. 
 
 For one’s the world, and when his course is done 
 *Tis doomsday. Man’s the earth, and hence this life 
 The troubled orbit wherein strangely rolls 
 He that is less than sand, yet universe — 
 
 Thus being man. I am the All and say 
 Creation donned but nineteen years ago 
 A greater brilliance than sky-watchers’ eyes 
 Discern round Saturn in his molten ring 
 Of wondrous and terrific girdle-fire. . . . 
 
 You are the beauty that was made by God, 
 Unfashioned from a human impulse brief 
 Of parentage, or yet by misty chance. 
 
 Or any force one atom less or lower ♦ 
 
 Than high Divinity. ’Tis not conceit 
 Attributes unto God the forming fair 
 
 One 
 
Of what gave splendour deep and ecstasy. 
 
 More rich for brevity, unto my waiting heart, 
 For not until I parted every tress 
 Of your soft-falling hair with kisses slow 
 And gently sealed your eyelids fast in sleep 
 With reverent lips, did each awakened sense 
 Own God was glory and His rarest gift 
 Transcendent love, made manifest in you. 
 
 That God is love man saith, then swift denies 
 The holiness and sanctity set strong, 
 High-altared in the heart — but sacrilege 
 Is sooner punished than a paltering sin. 
 
 For woe more endless than the night of hell 
 Becomes the bread of life, the penance-food 
 Slow-eaten on the ashes of remorse 
 That pave the icy temple of the soul. 
 
 While swathed in futile sackcloth there attends 
 Voiceless Repentance at the grievous feast. — 
 Woe, woe, untold as waters of the sea 
 Be his who dares withhold his Godhead’s due! 
 Of such am I, and all the chastisement 
 I undergo with each lead-heavy hour 
 Is more than merited and thrice-deserved. 
 
 And as succeeding Tophet-depths I gain. 
 
 The scarlet last Gehenna ending all. 
 
 Unblest by any cooling ray of light. 
 
 Is to behold one worship newly there 
 
 With faith devout and joy that once were mine. 
 
 So be it, for ’tis comfort sore to know. 
 
 As some true flagellant that scars his flesh. 
 
 My sorrow is proportioned to my sin. 
 
 Since Justice holds life-telling balance forth 
 With unforgiving arm of marble strength. 
 
 And in her scales, wrought golden out of time, 
 My faults amassed exactly level rest 
 With retributions of like altitude. 
 
 The mysteries of earth I contemplate 
 With clearer gaze than when most joyous-eyed 
 I termed them each inconsequent and small. 
 
 For when one girds himself with envied robes 
 Of happiness, and mounts the throne of joy. 
 
 He drops as alms to the ill-fortunate 
 Sore, crouching swarm of pain-torn suppliants 
 Thin pity and weak sympathy both born 
 
Of ignorance, and reared in safety far 
 From suffering and anguish of his own; 
 
 TTien, taught of sorrow parented by joy. 
 
 One learns to know the searing miseries 
 Outwearing other breasts, to which he lends, 
 
 Not useless unguents and barren balms, 
 
 But understanding of a kindred heart. 
 
 Thus situate I shall in plenty give 
 To all whom chance may lead across my way 
 No swift advice, nor solace readily 
 Poured on a wound my bosom never knew. 
 
 But healing drawn from native ancient scars. 
 
 Then if dark tides should distant move your peace. 
 If all the flame of life should prove your soul, 
 
 I beg you come, and half the sinking weight 
 Shall best be borne upon a weakness turned 
 To strength in bearing burdens long before. 
 
 And you shall find upon my breast a sleep 
 That’s only gained in unlapsed silences 
 With sentinel and guardian who has stilled 
 The clamours that destroyed his quietude; 
 
 For who should better know the touch to quell 
 Your grief than one who gave you pain before. 
 Eased that awhile, and brought a second woe 
 That doomed forever future peace with him? 
 
 I was a creature love had never tamed, 
 
 I roved uncertain in my wilderness. 
 
 The willing captive of a gentle hand 
 Who, tasting timidly of joy from you. 
 
 Slowly partook and dimly realized 
 
 That he before had fared but scant and ill 
 
 On roots of solitude and sweetless fruits 
 
 Of youth. With slow-believing eagerness 
 
 I closer came and found I truly fed 
 
 On all that love and loveliness had stored 
 
 For one who never knew such precious food 
 
 Grew elsev/here than in fond and fleeting dreams. 
 
 In fair imaginings, in faery woods 
 
 That guard the first Ideal. With rapture wild 
 
 I drew more near unto the proffered gift 
 
 To taste ambrosia of a rich delight 
 
 That gods have never known, nor mortal men 
 
 Found blossoming in any fields of earth. 
 
 A joy too great, a light that blinds the eye. 
 
 As looking on the vision-burning sun, 
 
Made all my sense doubt long that this could be, 
 That magic portals opened at my touch, 
 
 That beauty whose beholding charms the sight. 
 
 That glory whose existence is its own 
 Denial of being should be showered on me. 
 
 I felt that rosebuds softly whispering 
 Of pure delights unborn caressed mine ear, 
 
 I heard a Song immortal, infinite. 
 
 Unmeant for mortal hearing, swelling low, 
 
 I saw a vision as of Paphian foam, 
 
 Of goddesses in triple wonder met 
 On fairer mountain far than Ida was. 
 
 When that rash youth surrendered to the flame 
 The peace within his heart, his country’s weal. 
 
 For less, far less than I at once attained. 
 
 The face that launched a thousand triremes’ strength 
 And drew the furied Achive power to Troy, 
 
 Shaking Olympus and its shining host. 
 
 Is framed with centuries of adoration deep, 
 
 But all these are more scant enshrinement than 
 My moment’s blinding rapture that has set 
 One form untarnished, o’er the clouding breath 
 Of even compare. Wonder, standing dumb. 
 Proclaimed her unapproached and thrice as fair 
 As Flelen or white-armed Nausicaa. 
 
 The gods of Greece were beauty, but our God 
 Is truth when firmly templed in the mind; 
 
 His truth being proven thus despite my doubt, 
 
 I knelt to thank Him for such pledge of power. 
 
 Even as Jairus, when the maid restored 
 Spake words no fonder than were those I heard. 
 
 ’Tis thus that miracles renew a faith 
 Time-weakened, half -existent, though it longs 
 With passion to believe again the Strength 
 Accomplishing what lies beyond our hands. 
 
 And who was I to doubt diviner gifts 
 Than those the prophets tell for evermore? 
 
 I stood unworthy, asking who was I 
 That I should find so soon my full desire. 
 
 Amazement passed, I questioned truth no more 
 And gained the blissful and serene content 
 That folds the furthest wishes unexpressed 
 When these meet gratifying past their flight. 
 
 Four 
 
0 thus we were, so dear, so fondly close 
 That even He who gave did much intrude 
 A sacred presence in a world of two 
 Where only love supremely held her sway 
 And hurried time so swiftly in his march 
 That day passed day and night succeeded night 
 Without their passage printing slightest tread. 
 
 We walked enchanted gardens in the dawn. 
 
 We watched the stars’ gold blossoming at eve. 
 
 We heard faint faery pipes play down the lawn. 
 Knew glories that the sense scarce dares believe. 
 
 0, this was ecstasy, and heaven fell 
 To low estate, since visions never formed 
 A realm more perfect than we ruled alone 
 With dreams come true to hush reality. 
 
 In bonds of verse my feeling must remain. 
 
 To choose for narrow line a careful word 
 When all my soul so changed by Feeling’s wand 
 With passion uncontrollable and wild 
 As Shelley’s spirit pleading to the wind, — 
 
 When this held force, if one brief instant freed. 
 Would loose a torrent fiercer than the flow 
 Of rapid rivers in their springtide strength. 
 
 And ardour thus unbound from reason’s chain 
 Could tell no more the radiance we knew 
 Than torches tossing thin gold hair in night 
 Replace the Gleam that clothes the world with day. 
 
 Can one not represent more clearly life 
 In pointing sadly, solemnly to man? 
 
 Cannot one sink and find in simplest things 
 A poignance more appealing than a tear. 
 
 Or not restore a flower’s May-month scent 
 With one pressed petal of its fulness fled? 
 
 One lock of hair, when mused on tenderly 
 Through silver veils of unreluctant tears. 
 
 Ransoms from year-clad death or death in life 
 The Whole, the flawless Being and the Flame 
 Of which we hold one single wistful spark; 
 
 And so evoked with pi{>es of memory. 
 
 The dryad-form long-buried in the shades 
 Comes light as ever, softly treading near 
 With soundless step in ancient well-known way 
 
Across the years, and down the dim-arched past 
 With individual remembered grace. 
 
 The simple things, the small sad jewels we knew 
 Are magic opals that renew awhile 
 The hallowed lands of life, the sacred groves. 
 
 The morris-circles where a vanished dance 
 Long, long ago was traced in fragrant woods 
 Now riven by the tempest-strokes of time. — 
 
 What is this life, beloved? Collection made 
 Of smooth white pearls of sorrow, and of red 
 Faint-glowing rubies that betoken joy; 
 
 We gather these and thread them solemnly 
 Upon the hidden cord of years* fixed length. 
 
 We drop them slowly, one by one, and hear 
 The clear small sound their little falling makes. 
 
 And when we’ve done, God sees completed there 
 The necklace that is life, and fits the clasp 
 Of death to join old age with infancy. 
 
 I fain would speak — I spoke (but missed the path 
 As I have done in life) — of simple things. 
 
 Brief memories, faint fingering of the heart 
 By sad fragilities that haunt the mind. 
 
 Dear, we have been so closely welded one. 
 
 Have unmistaking heard the mystic Voice 
 That prompts the acts upon this darkened stage. 
 Recall you how we saw strange joy new-born 
 In morning, how in eve found secrecy 
 So still that twilight breezes stealing forth 
 Moved not a leaf unseen by us and known 
 With fraught significance within our world? 
 
 We sensed a mercy in the falling snow. 
 
 Especial anger in the thunderstorm. 
 
 Knew rich magnificence and courage gained 
 From sunsets* gold, and felt each star was set 
 More strongly steadfast than the fading orb 
 That Keats invoked one silent night at sea. 
 
 We heard the long blue waves in summer roll 
 With even voice upon the lonely shore. 
 
 And in the quiet forests dwelt with peace 
 In that sufficiency which silence drew 
 As some soft azure cloak about our hearts. 
 
 We had not need of words, for stillness was 
 The song of love, and words had all been said, 
 
 Six 
 
Three perfect words the lips mould haltingly 
 And breathe with furtive whisper to an ear 
 Warm as the rose and petalled to receive 
 The pledge that b^ars a treasure all away 
 To render it again an hundredfold 
 More rich than value’s highest reckoning. 
 
 These words I spoke and called them ancient, worn 
 In utterance, but echoed soft by you 
 With tenderness no other speech may tell 
 Nor sophistries deny, nor future voice 
 May ever know again, they held a power 
 That thundered from dread Sinai with the law, 
 
 A triumph never won by conqueror, 
 
 A light outshining sun and moon and star, 
 
 A music dulcet lute shall never give, 
 
 A peace that poppied warmth may not unfold. 
 
 The glory maddening-sweet a mother gains 
 To feel her first-born nursing at her breast. 
 
 Twas these that I possessed, for glad my arms 
 Clasped, not the void I dreamed might yet be filled. 
 But promise kept that life had always made 
 And left neglected long. Twas also these 
 You found your own, for I heard murmurings 
 That I was first and should be last with you. 
 
 Dear, love that’s first is most unlike this earth. 
 
 It comes of innocence which never loved. 
 
 Deep from a fruitful and untended soil 
 That had no sign one distant magic May 
 Would draw a warmth-awakened perfect bud 
 From seed that angels sowed in childhood’s sleep. 
 
 And this was ours, the stainless joy that wells 
 From vestal chanting in white temples’ peace 
 Where silence as a censer balms the air. 
 
 So long we knelt in tranquil sanctity. 
 
 Saw sunrise gild the marble altar-stone. 
 
 And sunset warm the pillars’ white to rose; 
 
 Then in the night Idalian Venus came 
 
 In quivering beauty with her limbs unveiled; 
 
 Voluptuously her half -revealed form 
 
 Swayed madly from the passioned shadows’ place 
 
 And swift soft hands touched fire to our brows. . . . 
 
 ’Tis well to speak of goddesses and gods 
 And so from weak mortality remove 
 
 Seven 
 
Its weakness, yet my wisdom strongly doubts 
 An unshut Eye is watching every deed, 
 
 Each wild sweet act our impulsed hands perform. 
 For even the deeds which in the doing seem 
 Most consecrate to heaven ever are 
 But instant passions sweeping reason down 
 To nothingness, while wisdom fettered fast 
 In golden cords of joyance helpless lies. 
 
 Raising one strengthless whisper all-annulled 
 Beneath the thunder of Cybele’s car. 
 
 Would that we had, not eager lips beguiled 
 By Dead Sea fruit, by Sodom-apples’ hue 
 That snare the sight, and to the fired touch 
 More consummation are than the clasp of prayer. 
 Would that we had, not eyes that only see 
 Light whose imagining makes faint the sense. 
 
 But vision that sees an even in the dawn. 
 
 That knows the white and gently-floating cloud 
 As fell harbinger of earth-smiting storm. 
 
 Would that our ears, unlulled by haunting lute 
 And pleasant-timbrel sounds, might truly hear 
 Olympian thunder rolling overhead. 
 
 Yet constant hope throbs slowly in our hearts 
 That we may win an immortality. 
 
 To think deliberate as do the gods 
 
 And act such noble thought in form of man. 
 
 Man’s never god when god-like deeds await 
 Slow to be done in way most circumspect. 
 
 He then is man with abject meanness tossed 
 Upon the storm-lashed sea of circumstance. 
 
 Man only wears the shape of god when come 
 Sad brother-mortals begging comfort bare. 
 
 Asking advice, and when advice is given 
 ’Tis disobeyed in balance with its worth. 
 
 Go, tell the wretch to plunge himself headlong 
 To glowing pits of hell, to writhing pain. 
 
 And slow he goes to find the path to heaven; 
 
 Tell him more calmly with judicious mien 
 That blastment boils beneath his present tread. 
 That black abysses wait his instant step. 
 
 That reasoned care must dominate his way, 
 
 ^ And swift he hurls himself into the gulf. 
 
 ‘Sad fool,” says one, to see the broken form, 
 
 “His fate lies much removed from road of mine.” 
 
And ere the minute sixty seconds knows 
 Lie counselor and victim side by side. 
 
 0 would that I, the saddest of mankind, 
 
 Made pausing thus when reason owned a price, 
 
 Or thought one fleeting trace of all I write. 
 
 But as Hippomenes when love had won 
 Him fairer guerdon than the goddess’ self, 
 
 I knew not how to guard love’s precious prize. . . 
 Lament, lament for all that might have been 
 Makes up the burden of our mortal song. 
 
 And, substitute for hymns of victory. 
 
 We drone low dirge for joys we might have known. 
 We smile, unknowing of the transience 
 That pleasure wears, a swift-dissolving robe. 
 
 “0, what is life?” the poet cried and fled — 
 
 And making bold I offer answer thus: 
 
 A maiden in the meadow walked at dawn. 
 
 Song on her lips and blithely-hearted she 
 Espied twin roses nodding to the light. 
 
 The first she plucked and in her bosom pressed. 
 
 The other left to drink the morning air. 
 
 The beauty at her breast found there so sweet 
 A couch for slumber, that it slept to death. 
 
 And in a rain of faded petals fell 
 About her feet. Long stared the saddened maid 
 And marvelled that so rich a fragrance breathed 
 Once from the little things upon the earth. 
 
 Said she: “Its sister-bud was twice as fair. 
 
 And yet I chose to pluck the lesser bloom.” 
 
 On tired foot she backward turned to find 
 The meadow once again, the timeless flower; 
 Through morningtide, through sultry golden noon 
 And afternoon she searched till twilight came. 
 
 But never found the place. Then in the night 
 Beneath the myrtle and its mourning boughs 
 She laid her down upon the chilly grass 
 Where fell the petals, but the wind had borne 
 Even these afar, save only one that lay 
 Sad in the moonlight’s pale and weeping beam. 
 
 The midnight came and with it wilding storm — 
 Then all were not, the maid, the gathered joy 
 And that which never knew sweet gathering. 
 
 For after childhood, youth, brief love, and age. 
 
Sleep man, his pleasure and his joys unknown. 
 
 And when doom’s whirlwind strikes the smiling plain, 
 The falling sheaves are blown within the grange 
 Of the eternal Winnower. ’Tis then 
 The thickest sheaf with all its stalks unbound 
 Yields but the poorest and most withered grain. 
 
 And that which drooped upon the field of life 
 Stands upright and erect, presenting God 
 With ripened fulness guessed alone by Him. 
 
 I think that He believes, as few surmise, 
 
 There are not Good or Evil, roads opposed 
 For taking, but that quarried mortal stone 
 Bears scar and beauty, patterns intricate 
 Limned ere the hewing in the hidden earth. 
 
 The good are strong, the evil are but weak. 
 
 The first are Fortune’s nurslings, and the last 
 Are foster-children of grim Destiny, 
 
 Born with sore travail in the caravan 
 Of chance, and cast upon the thorny way 
 To strive for thin subsistence, for the crust 
 Of bitter sorrowing, gaunt-visaged wraiths 
 Warning the safer souls in hours of doubt 
 That virtue is the door of happiness. 
 
 Have done, have done with pale philosophy! 
 
 For when the morning’s trump with joyous call 
 Awakens youth to action, to the race 
 That must be finished with the setting sun. 
 
 Who waits to hear the mentor’s mumbled word? 
 There are no gulfs, no walls however high 
 Which may not be o’erleapt by youthful feet. 
 
 And serpents in the dust with tactile tongue 
 Must miss the lightning pace of passioned limbs — 
 
 So reasons youth. Then let the chafing cord 
 Fall swift to speed him on his leaguered course. 
 
 Peril is high adventure, and the breath 
 Of danger on the cheek’s a quickening flame 
 That lights the way in every Orcian vale. 
 
 Then up the stony slope, the tortured path. 
 
 For on the heights shall shine the splendid sun! 
 
 ’Tv/as thus we ran with limbs magnificent 
 So evenly in matched and rapid grace 
 That all the winds were panting at our side 
 In vain endeavour to surpass our gait. 
 
We drank the golden air as if there (lashed 
 A sparkling instant goblet to our lips, 
 
 While from all earth and sky we seemed to draw 
 A courage still-renewed and ever strong. 
 
 We raced to joy immortal — *tis the crown 
 That effort wears when once the goal is gained. 
 
 A gleaming apple on the sand was rolled 
 And swift we stopped to make the wonder ours, 
 Then swifter ran to catch the moment lost. 
 Unhampered by the weight of treasure won. 
 
 The goddess tossed a second in the path. 
 
 We garnered that and speedily ran on. 
 
 I passed my joy to you, and, laughing low. 
 
 Beheld your smile on clasping double trove. 
 
 The course turned steep, but resolute we ran, 
 
 I strode upon the wind, and felt it blow 
 Revivifying coolness through my veins. 
 
 I shouted loud in most triumphant strength. 
 
 Then suddenly — you cried — and swift the cry 
 You stifled. I turned quick to know its cause — 
 “A pebble in the p>ath — a paltry thing — 
 
 No matter — on!” you panted low and kept 
 Your strength for sterner trial that lay ahead. 
 
 I raced, yet wondered at your sudden call 
 And then — more sharp you cried aloud again. 
 
 What could it be? I never guessed the pain 
 Of weakness not my own, and then I thought 
 A phantom poniard entered in my breast — 
 
 I thought — and then I knew. 
 
 We ceased to run, 
 
 I saw upon your cheek the pallid hue 
 Of weariness, a brave and dying light 
 Slow-conquered, yet unyielding in your eyes. 
 
 Your paling lips were dry and parted wide 
 To drink the chill and unsustaining air. 
 
 While at your side a trembling hand was pressed 
 As though to bind within the torture there. 
 
 Your fingers curved as though you would tear forth 
 The leaping flame that strength could not subdue. 
 The race forgotten as though never run, 
 
 I fondly sought your pain and pleading strove 
 To feel, to know, create a pang allied. 
 
 We had shared joy, and agony's red cup 
 
Should not be yours alone. With eager hands 
 I grasped for it, and found the lees were drained. 
 
 I hurled the bitter thing in furied grief 
 To fragments on the icy jagged stones 
 That lay beneath and pierced our aching limbs. 
 
 I raised my eyes — but no! Should I believe? 
 
 I did not know the wilderness around; 
 
 A grey grim bourne where we had never been. 
 Where cruel cold pinnacles of chilling white 
 Rose tortured in the ever-thickening mist. 
 
 While trembled in the parch-dry livid grass 
 Pale blooms with ashen cups, and asphodels. 
 
 And to their bladed brims each one was filled, 
 
 Not rich with honey, but with crimson blood. 
 Portentously there struck upon mine ear 
 The faint low booming of a distant sea 
 Surging in tempest of unsated wrath. 
 
 Black trees enmassed in horror hugely stood, 
 
 Their trunks an ebon gleam, brown leaves like hands 
 Gigantic, terrible, and swaying slow 
 In some ghost-\vind malign, but all unfelt. 
 
 Save by gaunt boughs that shuddered in the fog. 
 
 A weird vile Presence seemed to curse the place 
 With all the stinking splendour of his spell. 
 
 Great grisly forms stole forth from depths unseen. 
 Barbed heels, half-visible upon the stones 
 Passed sharply scraping, yet unswervingly. 
 
 And pale battalioned figures slowly groped 
 With sightless shining eyes and leprous limbs. 
 Glinting and moaning, hundreds hideous. 
 
 I shrieked, and loud you echoed all my cry — 
 
 Then screaming fury burst above our heads. 
 
 And flaming levin-lashes clove the mist 
 To burn the reddest scars on trembling earth; 
 
 The dull low chanting of the damned arose 
 From pits Cimmerian — I clutched your hand. 
 
 We ran, we ran in frenzy out of hell 
 Unmindful of the seizing thwarted claws 
 Thrust forth on every side with nameless sting. 
 
 As through the peopled vast we fled away. 
 
 I seemed to race afar for centuries 
 Before I fell exhausted to the earth. 
 
 And when the morning broke I was alone, 
 
 Twehe 
 
i 
 
 
 Alone and lying on the level sand 
 Where cold white waters in monotony 
 Plashed low and dully. That you were not there 
 My senses told, and yet I wondered still. 
 
 I never thought to wake again to life. 
 
 And you? lost, all-unsentient, and dead? 
 
 You that had been so fairer yet than fair 
 That all the morning marvelled at your eyes. 
 
 Who solely owned a touch so gently given 
 That winds untaught came low in secrecy 
 To learn caresses the young leaves would love; 
 
 But earth was here — and sky — and shore — and sea. 
 And you were gone who gave earth all her spring. 
 Then why not I? — for flowers scent the mould 
 When sunlight days are done. Life is but death 
 When fire to live is gone, and gone were you. 
 
 I seemed a thing most reasonless in life. 
 
 Of meaning barren and of purpose lost. 
 
 Still-born to lightless life as are the blind; 
 
 My eyes though seeing naught, had naught to see 
 And limbs, thoughts, senses, once so dazzling-swift 
 Were stiffened boughs in silent winter-night 
 Without the snowy cloak of death to hide. 
 
 I lay still motionless upon the earth, 
 
 Motion demanding reason knew of none; 
 
 I only was, without one cause to be 
 In mystic Nod. I thought of conquerors 
 In triumph crashing down the centuries 
 To ruin: proud Ptolemys and Persian kings. 
 
 The joyous strength of Greece, young Macedon 
 Beneath old Ammon’s son, west-rising Rome 
 Whose bannered eagles made majestic flight 
 From Tamesis to Oxus, came the Man 
 Who spake of Paradise at God’s right hand. . . . 
 
 Slow I remembered. ... I had fallen too. 
 
 Yet not in purity as snow to earth. 
 
 But hurled like Lucifer from highest heaven. 
 
 By warm Euphrates and the Tigris’ stream 
 I once had gone accompanied. I left 
 The god-like state, and mortal, thus I lay 
 In living sad interment on the sand 
 Beside the palest and most sombre sea. 
 
 Thirteen 
 
Long-widowed Memory has bitter power 
 With keening wail that stirs the shrouded dead 
 And creeps within the cold and earth-stopt ear. 
 
 For ’neath the weeds that sobbing mourner wears 
 The quick and still join frighted, friendless hands. 
 Within my heart I heard the plaintive moan. 
 
 Obeyed and tried my most unsteady limbs 
 That senilely responded, tottering, 
 
 Weak matter subjugate to forming will. 
 
 Would these same limbs that once outpaced the wind 
 Endure the journey destiny ordained? 
 
 For ’tis a long and never-measured way 
 That winds and leads to Eden once again, 
 
 Through pallid plains and many numbing wastes 
 Which lie within the kingdom of remorse. 
 
 Through arid steppes and deserts limitless. 
 
 The country of unhorizoned Regret, 
 
 Through ranges mountainous of grim Reproach 
 Stabbing cold clouds of damned and withered dreams. 
 Long aeons seemed to pass with trials untold 
 In backward march to my remembered spring. 
 
 I flung me spent and bleeding, half-alive. 
 
 Upborne by Desperation and Despair 
 Through the fierce final leagues until I reached 
 The mighty portal, and the flaming sword 
 One moment ceased to swing. I lay within. 
 
 In all its glory Eden shone again. 
 
 Unending summer, flowers infinite 
 Of beauty, scent, and hue. Soft mossy ways 
 Caressed my feet, and breezes lingering. 
 
 Upraised my hair, while velvet-leaved boughs 
 Brushed faint my passage down the verdant aisles. 
 Unfading amber lilies bathed the sense 
 With odours earthly roses never gave. 
 
 Light emerald brooks streamed swift with joy intense 
 W'hile sunlight sparkled on each laughing wave; 
 Jonquils and daisies nodded from the grass 
 That wore the colour of immortal June, 
 
 Rose-wing^ figures lightly floated past 
 With flower-petals on their samite strewn. 
 
 The boughs in leaf eternal arching high 
 Gave perfect coverture, v/hile foliage 
 Hid pleasant dells, and ferns like tapestries 
 Made setting rich for every joyous tree. . . . 
 
 Fourleen 
 
And now mine eye remarked within the heart 
 Of all the happy woodland round about 
 One slim black cypress needling to the sky 
 And, drawn inevitably as wind to leaf, 
 
 I neared the quiet space where mystic gloom 
 Stirred strangely forth from all the cypress* boughs. 
 I saw beneath, half-sensing ere 1 saw, 
 
 A narrow mound that rose above the sward. 
 
 And there, beside that pitiful small hill. 
 
 Grass-clad, and silent in its sacred peace, 
 
 I slowly knelt and watered with my tears 
 The place where angels laid in tenderness 
 The loveliness and beauty that were you. 
 
 Fifteen 
 
DIRGE FOR POESY 
 
 E arth wakes no more. 
 
 The Spirit’s hymn is dead 
 Save o’er one grave 
 Where youth’s first fire breathes red. 
 Earth wakes no more, 
 
 Her magic songs are still. 
 
 No spring wind drives 
 Sweet buds o’er plain and hill. 
 
 Youth’s ecstasy 
 
 Finds never god-like voice, 
 
 No thousand hearts 
 Awake and loud rejoice. 
 
 The breast feels not 
 A crimson-bursting glow. 
 
 As winter noons 
 
 With sun athwart the snow. 
 
 The silver cords 
 
 Of the high lyre are loose. 
 
 For sweetest songs 
 Earth knows no gloried use. 
 
 The swelling strains 
 That rapture voiced for men 
 Are quiet, spent 
 And shall not sound again. 
 
 The harmony 
 
 Of wind on forest-strings 
 
 Strikes all unheard 
 
 And folds great golden wings. 
 
 The surging sea 
 
 Stirs wonder forth no more — 
 
 Now falls the wave 
 Unanswered on the shore. 
 
APOLOGUE 
 
 T here are a thousand lovely lips to kiss 
 And must I choose but one, 
 
 Losing an heritage of gathered bliss 
 When youth’s brief day is done? 
 
 It is not joy to pass by field and flower 
 And take one full-blown rose, 
 
 Whose heart of red will deepen with an hour 
 As he who gathers knows. 
 
 It is not well to drain one golden glass 
 In passion’s eager haste; 
 
 The after-years bear goblets one must pass 
 Of lost yet sweeter taste. 
 
 It is not fair to dream one only dream. 
 
 That falls to sward from sky; 
 
 The truth awakening must bring would seem: 
 All guarded beauties lie. 
 
 It is not life to love one only love 
 In ardour sweet and wild. 
 
 Since Love, the king, lies dead upon his throne, 
 Sorrow, his single child. 
 
 V V 
 
 THERMOMANIA 
 
 T HEY’RE sleeping in the Ward to-night 
 Full five in a single bed. 
 
 With fifty steaming toes in sight. 
 
 With faces stewed and red 
 Buried in grimy pillows tight 
 In many a hovelly shed. 
 
 They’re snoring in the Ward to-night 
 In fat, warm kinsmen’s ears 
 Where beards of sleepers twine and fight 
 And dry a drunkard’s tears. 
 
 And down in the Ward to-night, to-night 
 The thick air never clears. 
 
 Seventeen 
 
I too am hot, but Tm a ghost 
 
 From coldest realms of dread 
 
 To them. What really cools me most 
 
 Is thought of faces red 
 
 Where in the Ward they writhe and roast 
 
 Five in a single bed. 
 
 V 
 
 REVELATION 
 
 T he webs of silver poets weave 
 Within their secret silent dreams 
 Love not the noon, and light of noonday leave 
 For palest far moon-beams. 
 
 The words of poets are not speech 
 That graces all the common way. 
 
 For measured beauty of one word can teach 
 More than all volumes may. 
 
 The thoughts of poets rise like wings 
 Of white birds wheeling in the sun, 
 
 Cleave the bright sky, commune with hidden things 
 In mystic silence won. 
 
 The hearts of poets are as birds 
 Forth- venturing to seek the spring, 
 
 But as first ardour fills their faery woods 
 They find a bitter thing. 
 
 The loves of poets lend the skies 
 A stainless and more sacred light — 
 
 But when the glory, when the wonder^dies 
 There’s nothing but the night. 
 
 Eighteen 
 
NIGHT-PIECE TO GILDA 
 
 W HEREVER rests her golden head 
 A magic there is softly shed 
 In peace across the purple night 
 With steadfast beams of beauty’s light. 
 
 With music there shall silence be 
 Clothed by lutes of mystery. 
 
 And there the enchanted dark will lie 
 Wrapt in a cloak of violet sky. 
 
 As on a couch of starlit roses 
 In sleep her golden head reposes. 
 
 While great archangels guard and bless 
 That very bower of loveliness. 
 
 And as she sleeps my fancy dares 
 Steal near to touch the gown she wears. 
 Of innocence and beauty spun 
 Of love and faith and truth made one. 
 
 Most wondrously twin veils of rose 
 Two little lakes of heaven close 
 Near fairies dancing bright and bold 
 In sheaves of interweaving gold. 
 
 While floats the shallop of her dreams 
 With silver sails on secret streams 
 My thoughts in holiness are led 
 Wherever rests her golden head. 
 
 Nineteen 
 
THE RETURNING 
 
 I WALKED an half -forgotten way again 
 Where came two quiet lovers seen by none. 
 
 These passed me, an unheeding happy twain 
 Whom I shall follow always, being one. 
 
 The April stars were shining as before 
 And spring lay warm and sweet upon the air; 
 
 But springs shall come so tenderly no more 
 As when the loves at twenty wandered there. 
 
 The small rose windows with an ancient light 
 Most slowly led me onward. Three long years 
 Fell like a cloak. Old ardours brimmed the night — 
 But suddenly came truth and time and tears. 
 
 An empty hearth is dark with silent embers. 
 
 One has forgotten and one still remembers. 
 
 A GREAT green holy Candle dripped to earth 
 These most misshapen grim grotesqueries 
 And willed that time should bear in bitter birth 
 This highway rich with sad monstrosities: 
 
 Harlots most venerable, cinders of the flame 
 Stalking in furtive spent futility 
 The phallic swarthy foes who fired their fame 
 To piteousness all archangels flee. 
 
 These are the enigmatic jests of heaven. 
 
 Burning and sobbing down red arches seven 
 And crushing dry vermilion grapes again. 
 
 These suppliants who dance at death’s drab portal 
 Mock and deny desire of life immortal, 
 
 Consoling brutes that may not rise with men. 
 
 V >1* 
 
 QUEEN STREET 
 
 Twenty 
 
THE 
 
 RYERSON POETRY 
 CHAP-BOOKS 
 
 Lome Pierce — Editor 
 
 S Lovers of poetry care more for verse of high quality 
 an for costly bindings. We believe that the cause 
 of Canadian poetry can best be served by enabling 
 our authors more frequently to reach their audience, 
 A chap-bool^ necessitates careful discrimination by the 
 poet, and hence the presentation of small and choice 
 selections. The Ryerson Poetry Chap-boohs will pre- 
 sent significant offerings by our older and younger 
 poets, 
 
 THE SWEET O’ THE YEAR. By CharU$ C, D, Rohtrt$. 
 COMPANIONSHIP AND THE CROWD. By W. H, F, Tmny, 
 FORFEIT AND OTHER POEMS. By Kathryn Munro, 
 THE EAR TRUMPET. By Annie C, Dalton, 
 
 A VALE IN LUXOR. By W, V, Newton, 
 
 THE PROPHET’S MAN. By Geoffrey B, Riddehough, 
 SHEEP-FOLD. By Leo Cox, 
 
 THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS. By Agnes Joynts, 
 BY COBEQUID BAY. By A. L Fraser 
 
 Fifty cents 
 
 A POOL OF STARS. By Lionel Sletenson, 
 
 SPRING IN SAVARY. By Alice Brewer, 
 
 THE CAPTIVE GYPSY. By Constance Davies- Woodrow, 
 THE LOST SHIPMATE. By Theodore Goodridge Roberts, 
 A BREATH OF THE WOODS. By Lilian Leveridge. 
 VAGRANT. By Frederick B, Watt, 
 
 WHAT-NOTS, By Geoffrey Warburton Cox 
 
 TWENTY AND AFTER By Nathaniel A. Benson 
 
 Sixty cents 
 
 SONGS By John Hanlon 
 
 COCKLE SHELL AND SANDAL SHOON. 
 
 By H, T. J. Coleman 
 
 Seventy-five cents