UC-NRLF 
 
 B 4 513 
 
 E EARTH PASSION 
 
 ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE 
 
 
THE EARTH PASSION, BOUNDARY, AND 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
BT THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 FROM THE ISLES 
 
 THE HAPPY PRINCESS, AND OTHER 
 POEMS 
 
THE EARTH PASSION, 
 
 BOUNDARY, > OTHER POEMS 
 By ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE 
 

 TO 
 
 W. H. L. B. A. F. J. H. C. J. R. 
 
 H. W. B. C. J. H. L. W. 
 
 R. W. C. T. N. M. L. W. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS AND NIGHTS 
 
 334340 
 
THE author wishes to express his gratitude to the 
 editors of Scribner s Magazine, Harper s Magazine^ 
 The Smart Set y and The Century, for courteous 
 permission to reprint several of the shorter poems 
 in this volume. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE EARTH PASSION. 
 
 I. A PRAYER AT THE SUMMER SOLSTICE - - 3 
 
 II. SONG IN SEPTEMBER - - 5 
 
 III. THE WINTER SOLSTICE - - 6 
 
 IV. A SONG IN MARCH - - 8 
 V. A MONODY IN APRIL - - "9 
 
 VI. HYMN IN JUNE - II 
 
 VII. A SONG IN MIDSUMMER - 13 
 
 A SONG OF EAST AND WEST - 15 
 
 BOUNDARY : A STUDY IN DESIRE. 
 
 PROLOGUE - - 23 
 
 PART I. - 25 
 
 PART II. - 31 
 
 PART III. - - 36 
 
 PART IV. - - 39 
 
 EPILOGUE - - - 43 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 KEATS : AN ELEGY - - 49 
 
 THE INTERVAL - 53 
 
 ON HAVING KNOWN AN ASTRONOMER - - 54 
 
 THE ORACLE - - "55 
 
 RALEIGH S SONG - - -56 
 
 THE VENDORS - - - "57 
 
 A VIKING SONG - - - - - - 58 
 
 Vll 
 
THE EARTH PASSION 
 
 The senses are of the earth ; the reason stands apart from them 
 in contemplation. LEONARDO DA VINCI. 
 
 The body and the soul are twain : but it hath not always been 
 so. . . . This is because of the Fall of Man. . . . There 
 shall be a new Paradise, if you believe me. DEMITRIUS PHORUS. 
 
A PRAYER AT THE SUMMER SOLSTICE 
 
 STRONG in its mood, the year s sunlighted noon 
 Of earth s wide solstice burns over the fields, 
 And in my brain and body. 
 
 Is it enough, 
 
 O Earth, that through the long flickering hours 
 Of sun and shade, where the green flame of grass 
 Trembles along the meadows is it enough 
 That I, too, tremble with the passion of sun ? 
 Art thou content, branding and sealing me, 
 In the sight of mine own soul, as a thing of clay 
 Shaped from thy very fibres and subdued 
 To thy terrene desires ? Along my blood 
 Thy flame kindles ; yea, one who would be winged 
 With the white pinions of unbodied thought 
 Utterly sinks beneath the power of thee 
 And thy eternal passion. . . . 
 
 Do the years, 
 
 The unfulfilling years, bring no revolt 
 In thee against this mastery that sways 
 Thy being ? Do the longings of thy Spring, 
 The fury of thy Summer, and the spent 
 Weariness of thy Autumn never lead thee 
 Into some haven of satiety ? 
 
 3 A 2 
 
Earth may not answer ; and the gods are still; 
 And silenter than all, the mastered soul 
 Wavers. For earth and gods and soul go by 
 Though fleet or slow like aeoned suns, or stars, 
 Or like the moth s wing ; but one thing alone, 
 The eternal passion, is forever young 
 A tide that throbs, beating like air around 
 Created form, and stirring over chaos. 
 Ah, does it shape, or does it crumble down 
 The universe ? . . . 
 
 Now swells the golden light 
 Born of an azure ocean, never foamed 
 Save by the fiery ship whose foam is cloud 
 Of curling silver ; magic light, swelling 
 As from the deeps of a terrestrial ocean 
 Melodies arise. Yet not for ear alone 
 The music trembles, but through every vein 
 It stirs, like breath on a reluctant lyre 
 Kindled by consonance with some far chords. 
 Whom shall it sing to ? Wherefore thus outpour 
 Wanderingly its music ? For the silence 
 Drinks, and is never sated of its strain. 
 
 Therefore I call upon ye, shining gods 
 Of earth and sunlight if my soul must sing 
 In your antiphonal, captured in your clay 
 Grant, ere the sunset, that some heart, listening, 
 Wander these meads along, and bring fulfilment 
 With burning lips, rapt soul, and eager arms, 
 And instinct clear to justify earth-passion. 
 Give me thy revelation ; mould my dust, 
 Thirsty with drought of body in the sun, 
 To beautiful flowers by thy secret dew ; 
 
Or else sweep it in whirlwinds over space, 
 
 Strew out my dust into the infinite, 
 
 And free the spirit mastered of thy solstice. 
 
 II 
 SONG IN SEPTEMBER 
 
 Now is the quiet evening of the year. 
 The passionate blooming of the fields is done ; 
 Earth from her task of bearing is set free 
 The soul of earth released the straining hope 
 Of bud and fruit ruined, and now at peace. 
 As here I wander, in these Autumn valleys, 
 Watching the purple hazes on the hills, 
 Hearing the slow, soft falling of the leaves, 
 Loving the silence of these Autumn valleys 
 I somehow know that now, of all the year, 
 Does earth cast off her gross material yoke 
 Transcends the clay that forms her very heart, 
 And sends her soul in amethystine mists 
 Over these hills ; pouring her hopeless dreams 
 Of more-than-earthly fruitage in these leaves 
 Most gorgeous hued with death ; and when the sun 
 Touches the hilltops with its setting light 
 Of shadowy golden floods, earth s soul draws near 
 To him who wanders in these Autumn valleys. 
 
 The passion and the blooming find their close 
 Here ; and the fruitage here ; and, in the end, 
 Untroubled by these grievous needs, the spirit 
 Arises free and calm, and of itself 
 
 5 
 
At last is master, sundered from its dust. . . . 
 Wherefore beyond all seasons do I love 
 This solemn Autumn. 
 
 O glory of the hills 
 
 Clothed with the dream-hues of the dying leaves ! 
 O dreams that rise from out mine own deep breast, 
 Not less divine ! . . . Is, then, the dust s decay 
 The one road to the free life of the soul ? 
 
 Ill 
 THE WINTER SOLSTICE 
 
 GODS of the North ! Strong Gods, risen from dusk 
 And unto dusk departed when the solstice 
 Returns, then ye return, druid and dark 
 Phantoms among the dead and phantom days. 
 In the short twilights and the pageant hours 
 That quiver night-long under the cold stars, 
 Solemnly ye come, stalking the herds of dusk 
 Like slow gigantic hunters on the hills. 
 Yea, in the night mine ears have heard your foot 
 steps. . . . 
 
 What far-off horn ? What spear athwart the blackness, 
 Meteor dim ? What quarry pants and flees 
 To shadowy agony among the vales ? . . . 
 To-night is the hunting chosen of the Gods 
 Gods of the North, strong Gods ordaining now 
 One last pursuit before the year is slain. 
 
 Loneliness deeper than the woven bands 
 Of silence over death is on the world, 
 
 6 
 
Closed round with silence. The extinguished fires 
 
 Of earth have left a frozen bulk behind 
 
 That sucks the heart s warmth into its dead dust, 
 
 And the soul with it. The mechanic body 
 
 Remains, a brute shivering in the blank air. 
 
 The winter of the body draweth on, 
 
 Revealing, ere the final Winter falls, 
 
 Many a foretaste of the bitter end 
 
 The sundering and the silence. Now is sundered 
 
 Earth from its soul ; only remains to it 
 
 The gnawing fierceness of its icy pain, 
 
 Winds, and abandoned rivers stiff in death, 
 
 And its most horrible passions, wolf-like, waiting. 
 
 And as the earth is blossomless and void 
 With a vast horror, even so am I. 
 And beaten by the wings of the wild Winter, 
 The faint illusion of my Summer s pride 
 That subtle fabric woven of its passion, 
 Its proud-hued glory in the body s lust 
 Rends ; and in barren nakedness the brute 
 To whom the spirit with a chain is joined 
 Shivers before the stern gaze of the soul. 
 And the soul sees the cowering flesh, ashamed, 
 Hating the brutish shape that snarls and quails 
 Beneath its glances, and the baser clay 
 Which it must see and scorn, but cannot change. 
 
IV 
 A SONG IN MARCH 
 
 THERE is a thawing somewhere in the earth; 
 I know it somehow ; even the icy air 
 Seems to remember Summer and the flowers. 
 Almost I might forget the winter night, 
 The sun that set in blood, the moon that rose 
 As ghost of a long-desolated world, 
 The piercing agony of relentless stars 
 Sown in the blackness like a thousand spears. 
 To-night the stars seem not so very far, 
 And over them the same wind seems to blow 
 That calls my soul to waken from its sleep. 
 The blood is stirring in my veins again, 
 Pouring its tide of dreams upon my heart 
 That was so late the Winter s. 
 
 Bitter days 
 
 Are those the Winter leads in grey-hued train. 
 It is not good that ever the soul should be 
 Dissevered from the body, as has been 
 Throughout the Winter. Save for icy touch, 
 Sharp on my numbed senses, have I moved 
 Oblivious of this flesh, wherein the blood 
 Leaps with such sweetness in the Summertide. 
 I had almost forgot the trembling touch 
 Of summer morning scents in dewy woods, 
 The long aisles of the dawn. I had forgot 
 The stealing bodily rapture felt when winds 
 Come cooling through dim casements silently 
 
 8 
 
To one who sees the wheeling summer stars 
 Beyond the darkness of that pulsing night. 
 All sweet earth-woven joys I had forgot ; 
 And only as a mind I dwelt in space, 
 Chafing my chains with idle bitterness. 
 
 Now with reviving touch, the lengthening days 
 Make me remember all I have put by. 
 Once more the body claims its rightful joy, 
 The pure and simple joy of the warmed earth, 
 That may not wisely ever be forgot. 
 Since we are bound in these strange bonds of clay, 
 He shall do well who seeks no fond release ; 
 But strives to join the warring sense and soul, 
 Not slave and master, but concording lords. 
 
 Wherefore lift up your voices, O ye winds. 
 Ye blossoms hidden somewhere in the earth, 
 Prepare your magic. And O dreams, mine own, 
 With soul and body joined in peace once more, 
 Aw r ake, arise, for we shall see the Spring. 
 
 V 
 A MONODY IN APRIL 
 
 WERE I a painter I would paint these marshes 
 With the sad mist upon them : the low shore 
 Of palest green beyond the mirror water 
 A green thread on the grey of lake and sky. 
 And then, touching the brush most delicately, 
 I would add the mystery of the cold white rain 
 That falls at moments. And I think one bird 
 
 9 B 
 
A heron, or a wild-duck from the north, 
 Should hover like a leaf along the sky. 
 
 Were I a painter ! and how many a time 
 When the world s beauty seemed too much to bear 
 In one small heart how many a time have I 
 Longed for the colour-craft, the magic line ; 
 Cursed mine own art as blind, cold, of the brain, 
 Not of the soul nor of the pulsing heart. 
 Ah, for the pulse of music ! I could weave 
 Out of these marshes such a faint and strange 
 Melody for the viol that all who listened 
 Should silent grow, and think of twilight hours 
 And empty chambers fronting toward the sea. . . . 
 
 This earth to-day is like a silent maiden, 
 Burdened with some deep ecstasy, whose joy 
 Mingles with pain in so divine a web 
 She dares not speak, but moves in mystery. 
 She trembles ; and the sun is almost hers 
 At moments through the brightness of the rain. 
 She breathes, and knows some strange and lovely thing, 
 Some dream, before birth woven over her. . . . 
 
 Vague life is stirring ; and the impassioned winds 
 Seem almost melted from their vigorous freshness 
 By the soft fragrance that their wafture bears. 
 
 breezes, do ye know some secret covert, 
 Some magic sanctuary of the hills 
 
 Where curls the incense and up-springs the fire 
 
 The mystic incense and the pale green fire 
 
 Of flowering worship round the gods of Spring ? 
 
 1 would go with you ; I would bow me there, 
 And there renew the immemorial rapture 
 Breathed on these lands. . . . 
 
 10 
 
O hills ! O silent temple ! 
 O living shrine ! Perhaps that keen delight, 
 That ecstasy of worship which the heart 
 Must pay at such an altar, would destroy 
 This fragile mortal frame with too intense 
 Sharp exaltation ; would transform and mould me 
 To what no longer should be known as I. 
 Yet would I go ; yet would I find the altar ; 
 Yet would I pour my spirit in that worship 
 Which from spent embers lights a new-born fire 
 Though I be wholly folded in its flame. 
 
 VI 
 HYMN IN JUNE 
 
 WE will go out to the light of the new moon 
 In early evening. We will go into the fields 
 When all the willow-trees are soft with evening, 
 And the night air is scented sweet with June. 
 For we are mad this night with June and youth, 
 And time goes back for us, and fauns steal out, 
 And naiads whisper from their sleeping streams. 
 
 Why have we filled our souls with poet-visions 
 If not that they may live in us to-night ? 
 You are Proserpina, and I a lover 
 Who in the later days stretches his arms 
 Down the dim starlight of the shadowy past 
 Toward you in yearning. . . . Dearest of all shades ! 
 To-night no Styx shall part us, for I come ! 
 
 Let us go up into the forest-heart, 
 Where June and you and I can be alone 
 
 II B 2 
 
In the cool sanctuary of the leaves. 
 
 One feels the need of sanctuary now 
 
 Need of some shrine unto whose silent god 
 
 We may pour out the clamours of our hearts. 
 
 It is a true need, deeper than we know ; 
 
 And therefore come. We will go into the gates 
 
 Of the dim forest, and call upon our god. 
 
 Ay, youth is pagan, for it is so glad ! 
 Not early youth (how sad we were, how doubting !), 
 But that which comes when the mind s will is set, 
 And puzzles seem less real and strength more sure. 
 Ah, let it pass, all but that we are young. 
 Would you recall philosophies this hour, 
 Or systems of the numbering of the stars ? 
 Enough that you are fair and I am strong, 
 And the stars wait to rush upon the dark 
 When the white moon shall sink behind the hills. 
 
 Life and the Mysteries wait on us to-night. 
 Nature is glad because of June and us. 
 In her secret coverts, in her listening places, 
 She would laugh of joy because we come to her. 
 Because we come, as came the Attic youths and maidens, 
 With boughs in their hands. Strew, strew the leaves 
 
 for her ! 
 
 In our blood she calls, in the night-wind, in the stars ; 
 And of all the earth, only we know her voice. 
 We, the free, the dreaming, whose eyes see clear with 
 
 youth, 
 Whose hearts are pure to love her, whose ears are fresh 
 
 to hear. 
 
 Who knows but that to-night she mingles all her magic 
 Only that our children shall worship thus in June ! 
 
 12 
 
VII 
 A SONG IN MIDSUMMER 
 
 O MAIDENS in the meadow, have ye seen ? 
 
 O youths that roam the woods, have ye beheld Her ? 
 
 She dwells not in the city s straitened walls, 
 
 Nor in the market-place. Full of Her song 
 
 Are the river-valleys ; when the August sun 
 
 Falls like a golden veil, come forth with me, 
 
 And let us praise Her with uplifted voices 
 
 And bosoms full of singing. 
 
 Ye, O maidens 
 
 Beside the meadow ; and O youths who roam ^ 
 The wood throughout the long sweet summer s day 
 Ye, too, have known Love, even as I. She comes 
 Clear as the light and fresh as winds that, singing, 
 Blow cool from the wide bosom of some bay, 
 Strewn with green vineyard-isles in the ./Egean. 
 None hath beheld Her ; (may we see the sun-lands, 
 The far-off purple lands beyond the sunset ?) 
 Nor any heard Her ; (is the tremulous music 
 Of dawn s antiphonal for mortal ear ?) 
 Yet has Her light and has Her singing filled us 
 Unutterably ; and the soul forgot the shadow ; 
 And the dim heart lifted its voice and sang : 
 
 Summer of the heart, O stay Thy going ! 
 Hearts are swift to fade ; and dust remains. 
 We have seen Thy roses come and tarry ; 
 Stay the sadness of their final going. 
 
 13 
 
Is there anything more sweet than roses ? 
 
 Can all wisdom pay the price of faded 
 
 Blooms of summer ? Linger with our blooming, 
 
 For when Thou art gone, but dust remains/ 
 
 The aster, and the poppy, and all flowers 
 Golden and red and purple in the sun, 
 That spread the world in height of August s noon, 
 Were at our feet the day when thus we sang. 
 For Summer lingered then, half turning back, 
 As loath to leave the meadows and the streams. 
 Yet but a moment ; for she turned again, 
 And with slow silent footsteps did depart. 
 And on the hill-slopes grew the asters pale ; 
 And down the wind the poppies* gold was blown. 
 Yet as they went, beautifully beloved, 
 One thing remained : that in the August meadow, 
 With Love and Summer upon either hand, 
 We, few and chosen, saw the spaces clear 
 Above the sunset, and the flame of flowers ; 
 Felt the warm earth, and the hushed afternoon 
 Full with a music we alone might hear. 
 We heard that breathless music ; in our spirits 
 Its tones are quivering, unsilenced yet ; 
 And, like dazed worshippers to whom the faces 
 Of the fair gods have suddenly appeared, 
 We may depart, and see no more that vision, 
 But on all hours some light of it shall shine. 
 
A SONG OF EAST AND WEST 
 
 To 
 America 
 
A SONG OF EAST AND WEST 
 To America 
 
 I 
 
 OUT of our streets a strange tale came to me 
 Of how a nation, glowing in young might, 
 Suddenly trembled, since from o er that sea 
 Where sink the Day and Night 
 Strange aliens were coming to its shores 
 Its shores long called the free 
 And unknown peoples flocking at its doors 
 Filled it with terror lest its golden stores 
 Should at their mercy be. 
 And closing fast the gateways in its pride 
 My nation stood ; and lo ! I turned my eyes 
 To its unpeopled lands, empty and wide- 
 Its parching deserts that beneath the tide 
 Of labouring peoples might in fruitage rise, 
 Where now all blossom dies. 
 
 Into our streets I went; and passing there 
 I saw the heavy face, the matted hair, 
 The wild and sinister eyes of many a race. 
 From Baltic islands and from Ural hills, 
 From Polish plains and from Italian rills, 
 All here had come, and found abiding-place. 
 And one who moved these teeming throngs among, 
 A low-browed Russian, spake with savage tongue, 
 Lifting a brute-like visage shot with hate. 
 Shall yellow men befoul our wonted haunt ? 
 
 17 c 
 
No ! Infidels ! They are too ignorant. 
 We would not see always the yellow face. 
 No ! dead alone shall they invade our gate. 
 
 II 
 
 Springing from Europe, westward like a flame 
 The high triumphant wave of thought has swept. 
 Across wide oceans, to new lands it came, 
 Changing, yet still the same, 
 To where the Western Sea its boundaries kept. 
 And there it tarried ; while beyond, there slept 
 Old nations mid their dreams 
 Dreams wonderful and rich with golden store 
 Of buried ages. Now the young light streams 
 In eager leaping beams 
 Out to those lotus-waters where the East sleeps on its 
 
 shore. 
 
 Who shall bid stay, who hinder now that course 
 Which folds the whole world with its passionate flame, 
 Completing now the cycle to its source 
 More rich than when it came ? 
 
 Behold ! The East is red with flame 
 And incense of majestic thought. 
 Though Brahma be the sacred name, 
 Or Buddha Gaya he who taught, 
 What matter ? since their faiths are fraught 
 With bright imperishable things 
 Things which the whole world needs to take. 
 Two races mutual toll have brought ; 
 And wide the gate between them swings ; 
 And West clasps East, for the world s sake. 
 
 18 
 
Ill 
 
 My thought drifts over sea to that low coast 
 Where temples rise amid the wooded hills. 
 I feel the peace that there the spirit fills ; 
 I know that something we have strangely lost 
 In our onmoving life. 
 1 know that in our strong gigantic strife, 
 The clamour of our cities, and the strain 
 Of restless intellect, we have passed by 
 Peace. And a heavy pain 
 Weighs down my heart, viewing our destiny. 
 
 The lonely priest beside the Inland Sea 
 Knows not the fever of our restlessness. . . . 
 His soul inherits from antiquity 
 Some clearer sight of peace and loveliness. 
 Heirloom is his of beauty and of calm. 
 Oh, could we borrow half that saving balm 
 To still the fever of our whirl and stress ! 
 The envoys of our faith go unto him : 
 Would that his envoys came to us in turn, 
 Bearing the light he has and we have not. 
 Would that we mingled in one common lot 
 What little each has won from out the dim 
 Twilight of Being, where rare beacons burn. 
 
 The ways of East are not the ways of West. 
 Yet when two seekers in a single quest 
 Meet at an evening halt, shall they not part 
 Between them what each one may count as gain 
 The paths of peace, the anodyne of pain, 
 
 19 c 2 
 
And the profoundest secrets of the heart ? 
 And shall not each from other win some light 
 To aid him on his journey through the night ? 
 
 The world is one ; and all its aims are one, 
 Though varying outward aspects they must wear. 
 That which thou callest fair 
 May foul appear to men beneath a different sun. 
 Yet still the same each final goal 
 And the deep-rooted longings of each soul. 
 
 Lo ! now the day of mingled life is come. 
 The high cathedral chimes, the temple drum, 
 The minster organ, the pagoda bells, 
 Unto each other shall no more be dumb. 
 And from deep-hidden wells 
 The secret life of parted races swells 
 To leap the accident of sundering foam. 
 No more is beauty prisoned in its home, 
 Nor truth confined within its native cells. 
 Over the earth one banner is unfurled 
 Of many races, who at last behold, 
 As mists of darkness part in dawn of gold, 
 A single quest for a united world. 
 
 20 
 
BOUNDARY 
 
 A STUDY IN DESIRE 
 
 To the ambitious, whom neither the boon of life nor the beauty 
 of the world suffice to content, it comes as penance that life with 
 them is squandered, and that they possess neither the benefits nor 
 the beauty of the world. LEONARDO DA VINCI. 
 
 * Te shall seek me, and shall not reach me 
 Till the winepress be trod? 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 21 
 
PROLOGUE 
 
 DARK is my song s brief reasoning : 
 How, struggling up the paths of pain, 
 Desire meets chaos whence it came. . . . 
 Few ears shall hear the song I sing ; 
 And fewer still to it shall bring 
 Hearts rightly bent to understand 
 The paths I trace in that strange land, 
 Where the high searchings of the soul 
 Are lost in void and barren sand 
 Where Beauty, Knowledge, Love each goal- 
 Fades, and the mists unbroken roll. 
 
 Yet to that sacred sad-eyed few 
 Who know the pathway who have trod 
 The seeking mountain, touched with dew 
 Of vanquished night, and the ever-new 
 Hope of the dawn who on to God, 
 Love, Beauty, strain from the lower sod 
 To these I sing. To these, who sought, 
 Beyond the curtains of the light, 
 Those rays no dawn however bright 
 Wore, and no moonrise ever brought ; 
 To these I sing, who have been taught 
 The silence of the hopeless night, 
 Where hearts that trust and dream the most 
 In ruin are most wholly lost. 
 
 To these I sing, yet not to wail 
 A lost cause, nor to warn them back 
 Utterly from the hillward track ; 
 23 
 
But that, grown wise, they may take avail 
 
 Of life itself, ere the days wax pale ; 
 
 Not leave it wholly for the black 
 
 Unmeasured wastes, and dream afar 
 
 From earth and all earth s numbered hours ; 
 
 That they may seek no unreal star, 
 
 But know clear-eyed what things there are, 
 
 And what the scope of mortal powers. 
 
 To stand forth free ; to see the form 
 Hidden beneath the faulty clay ; 
 To find the beauty in the storm 
 That tears thy flower s bloom away ; 
 To hold in balance life so warm, 
 And visions keen and pale, that they 
 Together teach thee how to go 
 Along the path that has been set, 
 So that thou mayest neither forget 
 Stern fact, nor dreams that surge and flow :- 
 This is to know what man can know 
 How Beauty, Love, and God have met. 
 
PART I 
 PRELUDE 
 
 HERE sing I of the varied toil 
 
 Whereby man makes more wide^ more sweet, 
 
 Life ; till earth cannot compass it. 
 
 And he forgets his narrow soil. 
 
 Springs forth to make the stars his spoil: 
 
 And then turns back with hopeless feet. 
 
 I 
 There speaketh a Merchant of Grain. 
 
 Great are the blessings of the Lord ! 
 The year turns homeward with its yield, 
 And through the granaries of the field 
 
 The Autumn s yellow wealth is poured. 
 
 Earth is a house of gifts again. 
 And yea, even by my feeble hands 
 The gates are swung which through all lands 
 
 Set free the life-stream of the grain. 
 
 My argosies sail forth at morn, 
 Bearing to nations dwelling far 
 More potent freights than hosts of war 
 
 The peaceful legions of the corn. 
 
 Throughout the world it shall be poured. 
 And ye who take the loving yield, 
 Thank Him who fills the harvest field. 
 
 Great are the bounties of the Lord ! 
 
 25 D 
 
II 
 
 There speaketh a Commander of Legions. 
 
 They surge again in turmoil as of battle. 
 Waking, I see them ; and in midmost night 
 They sleep not at mine eyelids. All the fires 
 That burnt old kingdoms all the pomps at dawn 
 Of new-born empires all the dooms and dreams 
 Of fate and destiny are round mine eyes, 
 Until I feel myself more strong than fate, 
 And grip my sword as sceptre in my hand ! 
 
 Ah, well I know the world s great stream is deep, 
 And deep the course of nations, and that flood 
 Which men who deem it fixed call History. 
 Onset it has, as a resistless river. 
 No man can stay it ; yet one mastering man 
 Could make determinate its random flow 
 Lay the set course plan where the flood shall break 
 Into new channels he has digged for it. ... 
 
 And so to-night, when the flood lies asleep, 
 My brain grows almost drunk with its own perfume. 
 Knowing to my touch these rising waves shall spring 
 Shall tear the old embankments shall leap forth 
 And whirl along the channels I have wrought. 
 And God in His high heaven shall smile on me 
 As one whose power is like unto His own 
 As one whose hand is almost destiny. 
 
 26 
 
Ill 
 
 There speaketh a Lawgiver. 
 
 First Chaos; then the Act; and then the Law: 
 Such was creation. In my mind again 
 Creation has been imaged. For I saw 
 Springing from wealth of earth a fearful strain 
 Of power contesting power, that would have hurled 
 All life into the seething press of force. 
 And broke the balanced rhythm of the world, 
 And spoiled the allotted channel of its course. 
 
 Justice is equilibrium of rights. 
 And to the fixing of its narrow ways 
 Has gone the labour of my sleepless nights, 
 The toil and strength and patience of my days. 
 Now, being old, the recompense will come 
 In seeing thrive the workings of my hand, 
 The warring forces brought in quiet home, 
 And order made established in the land. 
 
 Order and precedent, the rocks of State, 
 On which alone can stand the far-seeing tower 
 Of Law, whose strength must be on earth as fate 
 To crush upheaving forces by stern power. 
 The law we give is not the Law of God, 
 Our justice not His justice; yet its name 
 Shall be a sword, a refuge, and a rod, 
 Lest earth reel back to chaos whence it came. 
 
 27 D 2 
 
IV 
 
 A Student speaketh. 
 
 Here lies it all the mighty past 
 That shaped the present. To each source 
 I trace the channel of each force, 
 
 And the great meaning dawns at last. 
 
 Old faiths, laws, and philosophies, 
 Old conflicts, and old halting-places, 
 Emerge from the dim sea of faces 
 
 And stand revealed unto mine eyes. 
 
 Yet this one thing I may not know, 
 Though often pondered. Toward what goal 
 Do these upgathering billows roll 
 
 To what fulfilment do they go ? 
 
 V 
 
 There speaketb One of the Three Great Teachers of 
 
 the World. 
 
 Would I had been a poet ! Would I had been 
 A man of dreams and not of actual life, 
 That I might seek for truth the absolute, 
 Not human truth, which never can be pure ; 
 And that I had not known necessity 
 To veil my little wisdom, teaching it 
 Fabulously cloaked yea, in a form of lies ! 
 
 28 
 
Dear God, forgive me that I doubt myself, 
 And in myself that essence of eternal 
 Which is as the body and the breath of Thee. 
 But I have struggled in the wastes so long 
 And might not seek the fountain. I must speak 
 Unto a human people give them truth 
 Veiled, guarded for the weakness of their sight ; 
 Since well I knew, not yet the time was here 
 For the real truth nay, not till real man come 
 Out of the clay that now envelops him. 
 
 Man struggles on unto the great fulfilment. 
 The lesser falls ; the higher shall endure ; 
 And in the end, men talk in heaven with God. 
 This know I surely ; and, knowing it, must shape 
 My laws of purity and worthy life, 
 Not for his solace who draws near the height, 
 But for the meanest groveller in the slime, 
 Lest he, made blind with glory, reel to ruin. 
 I may not say Love woman as thou wilt, 
 For love is beautiful ; I may not say 
 Be free in thine own spirit, shun all law 
 Save that within. Yet to the erected man 
 All other course were but apostasy. 
 
 Happy were he who, being pure himself, 
 Spake only unto few who had, like him, 
 Come to their heritage. Ah, he could know 
 Absolute truth, and tell it unto them 
 With all its dominance, as I cannot. 
 
 29 
 
VI 
 
 A Poet speaketh. 
 
 I will remain till my last line is writ, 
 The last dream dreamed, the last enchantment sung. 
 Though life is bitter, I will not turn from it 
 Until, as from ripe grapes, there shall be wrung 
 Into a vase the essence of my being ; 
 And when at length the final drop is pressed, 
 I will turn from life, not timorous nor fleeing, 
 But moving out to take my longed-for rest. 
 
 I was not born for joy, nor have I sought for it. 
 Each blessing fortune gave but raised me higher, 
 That I might scorn the ministers that brought it, 
 And see more clear the single starry fire 
 My goal, the Absolute. Absolute Love, 
 Knowledge, and Beauty. Ah, since Faustus died, 
 No heart save mine did half so fiercely move 
 Along this path s eternal eventide. 
 
 My goal ? I reached it not. . . . Now my sun- 
 setting 
 
 Begins to come, although it still is day ; 
 And I shall pass, far from the troubled fretting 
 Of over-earthly will. I do not pray 
 Nor curse nor thank what powers have made my being ; 
 Till the last drop is pressed, I rule, not they. 
 Yet this I hope, that when my soul is fleeing, 
 Their hands will store my vintage safe away. 
 
PART II 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 HERE s j n g jr ffose ^bo turn toward God, 
 Whose love, growing greater through the years, 
 Would rend the veil His silence wears. 
 They^ leaving myths of crown and rod, 
 Search heights of sky and depths of sod 
 For Him ; and cease, made blind with tears. 
 
 I 
 A Child prayetb. 
 
 I kneel to Thee, dear God, to pray, 
 And thank Thee for this happy day. 
 
 I ask Thee, from Thy Throne above, 
 To watch o er me and those I love ; 
 
 To keep me safe from wrong and harm, 
 And shield me with Thy loving arm ; 
 
 To plant in me true goodness seed, 
 And let me do no evil deed ; 
 
 Until at last the time shall come 
 To go to Thee, Who art my home. 
 3 1 
 
II 
 
 There speaketh a Very Old Man. 
 
 I question not Thy holy ways, 
 Nor do I doubt Thy wisdom s plan, 
 Whose love, beyond the love of man, 
 
 Shines like a light upon our days. 
 
 And in Thy Gospel I have read 
 How Thou wilt aid the soul in need ; 
 How Thou dost will that never seed 
 
 Of righteous man shall beg its bread. 
 
 I who was young have now grown old, 
 And all the flame of my desire 
 Has faded like a smothered fire, 
 
 And my long tale is almost told. 
 
 And all the tears that seared mine eyes, 
 And all the griefs that bowed my heart 
 I doubt not that they were a part 
 
 Of Thy high-holy mysteries. 
 
 Mine eyes are blind to see Thy will ; 
 I only bow my head in trust 
 That Thou, Who makest soul and dust, 
 
 Hast made my path, and makest it still. 
 
 And when I die, I hope for word 
 That shall bring clear the wise intent. 
 What all the toil, the anguish meant, 
 
 Show Thou unto Thy servant, Lord ! 
 32 
 
Ill 
 
 A flayer upon the Viol speaketh. 
 
 Had there been God, He had not set 
 Anguish of soul as gate alone 
 By which men rise above the sod : 
 To none save those whose eyes are wet 
 Can beauty s thrilling light be known ; 
 And this is sore. There is no God. 
 
 If there is God, He stands above 
 With fire and fury in His hands, 
 To scourge the world as with a rod. 
 Yet who could make must surely love ; 
 And who could love must understand ; 
 These he does not. There is no God. 
 
 IV 
 There speaketb a Student of Strange Religions, 
 
 All faiths have done themselves a wrong 
 To make a dogma of their dreams, 
 To think Light compassed by few beams, 
 
 And hide even these in mists of song. 
 
 They have set up, not gods, but men, 
 
 Upon the high eternal throne ; 
 
 And later clearer eyes have known, 
 And cast them down to dust again. 
 
 33 E 
 
That faith shall worthiest serve the Lord 
 Which sets no forms to cheat the mind, 
 No altar-smoke which maketh blind, 
 
 No written Book to hide the Word. 
 
 There speaketh a Philosopher. 
 
 I have searched in the high lone places, 
 In the light of the dawning morn, 
 
 In the smile of human faces, 
 
 In the whisper of growing corn, 
 
 In the dim wild words of sages, 
 
 In the storm with the lightning poured, 
 In the holiest ancient pages 
 
 But I found not Him, the Lord. 
 
 How shall the lifted breaker 
 
 Conceive of the tide that shapes ? 
 
 How shall the dream of the Maker 
 Know aught of the will that makes ? 
 
 How shall the thought of the Mind 
 
 Take to itself swift feet, 
 Turn back, and seek, and find 
 
 The Spirit which fashioned it ? 
 
 The stars and the song of them, 
 
 The purposes of the sod, 
 Far though they be from men, 
 
 They are not so far as God. 
 34 
 
VI 
 
 A Poet speaketh. 
 
 I wait upon the silence of the hill, 
 And all around me is the dim night spread. . . . 
 
 Here stood of old the Aztec multitudes 
 In the warm darkness of the summer night, 
 Watching the silent courses of the stars 
 That this hour rounded out the cycle s end. 
 And as the whitening dawn thrilled through the 
 
 East 
 
 A mighty shout went up to the dim sky ; 
 And all the multitude hurled down the hill, 
 Down the long hill to shatter into dust, 
 The carven statues of their ancient gods. 
 Then looked they up into the paling sky, 
 And with one voice cried out unto the stars. 
 
 And now I stand here on the sacred hill 
 And see the broken idols at my feet. 
 And turning from them to the slow white dawn, 
 I know not unto whom to lift my voice 
 Save unto you, O Stars, that fade from sight 
 Even as I call upon your deathless names. 
 
 35 2 
 
PART III 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 HERE sing I Art^ which, wiser grown, 
 Sees beauties never dreamed before ; 
 Casts by the forms it wrought of yore , 
 And follows as its yearned own 
 A gleam along the adrkness jlown : 
 And cometh back to peace no more. 
 
 I 
 A Sculptor speaketh. 
 
 Above the full, smooth curve of gold 
 Pearls crust like foam the swelling lip. 
 
 1 think not Tamburlaine of old 
 
 From such a cup his wine might sip. 
 
 And see, the frieze around its side 
 Bacchus and all his crew are there 
 
 The fauns that chase, the nymphs that hide, 
 The vine, the rout, the streaming hair ! 
 
 Yea, it is fair, this work of mine. 
 
 It goes to one far over sea 
 A lord. And as he drinks his wine 
 
 He will grow glad and think of me. 
 
II 
 
 There speaketh An Other Sculptor. 
 
 Blow out the candle. For I fain would sit 
 Here in the shadow by the firelight, 
 And watch the ashy logs a little while. 
 
 Methinks mine eyes are tired, and my hand 
 Has not the firmness it will have to-morrow 
 After the long deep rest. It was not wise 
 To try to work when all the light had gone. 
 And yet my chisel seemed to call to me. 
 Almost I felt that now at last my hand 
 Might carve in the cold stone that eager look 
 Lightening through my brain. . . . 
 
 I have worked somewhat long upon this head, 
 This Pan that makes my glory when tis done. 
 There s just one line one look about the eyes 
 One chisel-stroke to bring upon the lips 
 All the great meaning of the purple wine 
 And the high moments of divinity. 
 I know that look ; it haunts me even in sleep. 
 And yet to-night, as many times before, 
 I could not make it hover on his face. 
 
 I am a little weary, and my work 
 Seems not so sweet to me. I somehow know 
 I was not born to do so great a thing. 
 I had so vainly struggled, and so long ; 
 I cannot, cannot carry out my dreams. . . . 
 
 And yet who knows ? perhaps to-morrow morn 
 One stroke may bring the light into his eyes ! 
 
 37 
 
Ill 
 
 A Poet speaketh. 
 
 When all the heart s deep mood is told, 
 Then, like an undiscovered shore, 
 
 Out past the sunset s farthest gold 
 Remains a something more. 
 
 And we, who fain would ferry home 
 Its treasure from those trackless seas, 
 
 Return, bewildered of wide foam, 
 And awed with weight of silences. 
 
 We who had sailed with hope on fire 
 Out to those islands of the West 
 
 Turn back with baffled, sad desire ; 
 And in the end, find silence best. 
 
 Our eager days, our starry nights, 
 Our hope, our singing all is past. 
 
 We have beheld the far-shore lights, 
 And know them vain at last. 
 
PART IV 
 
 PRELUDE 
 
 HERE sing I love, not yet grown wise 
 To know the measure of its power : 
 Then, changing with each perfect hour, 
 A great dream flames within its eyes 
 Till it would seize the wind that flies, 
 And hold the perfume of the flower. 
 
 I 
 A Shepherd singeth. 
 
 Now the Spring s begun to bloom, 
 And the flowers hide the hills. 
 
 Hark ! it s like a merry tune, 
 This white dashing of the rills ! 
 
 This year Winter was not bad, 
 And it s all gone now in Spring. 
 
 Think st thou not we might be glad, 
 Just as every other thing ? 
 
 I ve a house upon the wold, 
 
 And a garden nice to see. 
 Dost thou think that it would hold 
 
 Such a pair as thee and me ? 
 
 39 
 
I have always liked thy hair, 
 
 And thine eyes are sweetly grey. 
 
 Love, we shall be happy there 
 Many a day and many a day. 
 
 II 
 
 There speaketb a Builder of Ships. 
 
 Love has done much for us : for me 
 It has been guide to teach a way 
 
 Unto the clearer light of day, 
 
 And show the highest things that be. 
 
 You taught me paths I had not known 
 Of worthiness, and how to face 
 
 Life and its struggles how the race 
 
 Could best be borne, could best be won. 
 
 Ah dear, together we have met 
 
 Life cruel or kind, and stood the shock 
 
 Of many a tempest-whitened rock, 
 And felt the chilling spray blow wet. 
 
 And better thus than if alone 
 
 We had been battered by the flood. 
 
 Each dower of evil or of good 
 
 Was sweeter since we both have known 
 
 40 
 
Ill 
 
 There speaketh a Teacher of Youths. 
 
 How did I know I loved you ? Why, I think 
 
 It first flashed clear the day when side by side 
 
 We wandered through the crowded gallery. 
 
 And coming to that little sketch of his 
 
 The Master s, which so many years I loved 
 
 As with a passion of wonder there you stopped, 
 
 And gazing, said : c I would give all the rest 
 
 All the great splendours of his perfect work 
 
 Which the world praises canvas, stone, and bronze 
 
 All, all, for this one little half-hour s sketch, 
 
 Which men pass by, being blind unto the Vision. 
 
 It seemed that then I first began to love you. 
 For there are not many who would have understood. 
 
 IV 
 
 There speaketh One Who hath endured Great Suffering. 
 
 I love you not for your sweet grace, 
 Nor for your body s gleaming white, 
 Nor for the laugh of your delight, 
 
 Nor the dim sorrows of your face. 
 
 These things have others ; these things prove 
 
 No barrier to set delays 
 
 To the harsh changes of the days. 
 And so for these I do not love. 
 
 41 F 
 
But rather for some stranger thing 
 
 Less known of earth some unguessed art 
 Of life and love, the mortal heart 
 
 Immortally transfiguring. 
 
 For I believe and hold my trust 
 
 That to the few there may be given 
 Vision of a serener heaven 
 
 Than glimmers through the general dust 
 
 Some peace beyond the common strife ; 
 
 Some evanescent sense, but sure ; 
 
 Alone whose fountains are the pure, 
 Alone which touch the wells of life. 
 
 And so I love you since your grace, 
 Your body s perfect moulded white, 
 Even your sorrows, your delight, 
 
 But hide the secret of your face. 
 
 speaketh. 
 
 The midnight blows its silver horn 
 
 Far off and slenderly, 
 And down the dusk an odour is borne, 
 
 And a dim moth flutters by. 
 
 Speak not. Let night fold round 
 
 Dumbly our seeking eyes. 
 Do you hear yet any drift of sound 
 
 Through the stars pale harmonies ? 
 
 42 
 
Nay. We have sought what earth cannot hold, 
 
 We who have loved too deep. 
 We would have followed the sunset s gold. . . . 
 
 Beloved, sleep, oh sleep ! 
 
 Give me thy quivering hand once more. 
 
 Forget the old deep pain. 
 And take the gladness we knew of yore, 
 
 For the quest is all in vain. 
 
 Somewhere our souls unveiled may meet 
 
 Beyond the bourne of time, 
 But here we wander with blind, cruel feet, 
 
 And grope for a lost sweet rhyme. 
 
 And the midnight blows its silver horn 
 
 Far off and slenderly, 
 And down the dusk an odour is borne, 
 
 And a dim moth flutters by. 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 I 
 
 I REACH at last, even as have these, 
 The place where silence seemeth best. 
 I, too, depart from out the quest, 
 
 Who prayed for light on bended knees. 
 
 Ye poets, lovers, pilgrims wrought 
 To hope too high, whose vision flies 
 Into the undiscovered skies 
 
 Have ye, then, found the thing ye sought ? 
 43 F2 
 
I say to you the quest is vain. 
 
 And he who spends his eager soul 
 To win that more-than-earthly goal 
 
 Shall come in silence back again. 
 
 Beyond the limits of desire 
 
 There lies no land of final peace. 
 The questing soul finds no release ; 
 
 Nor ever fades the heart s wild fire ; 
 
 Nor past the uttermost mortal bound 
 Waits any garden for those feet 
 Which, finding life not wholly sweet, 
 
 Go tread the seeker s futile round. 
 
 Their hearts are drunk with poisoned wine 
 Of over-earthly hopes and fears. 
 They give their fleeting human years 
 
 In quest of something more divine. 
 
 And he whose hopes were high and pure, 
 (Too pure, too high) with fragile wings 
 Beating the bars of changeless things, 
 
 Shall learn defeat alone is sure. 
 
 II 
 
 I sing not for those meaner souls 
 
 Who never burned with hope too high ; 
 Who never saw, in sea or sky, 
 
 The vision of transcendent goals. 
 
 Little they need of warning words, 
 They who did never leave their sod 
 To strain toward Beauty, Love, and God- 
 Mere brothers of the voiceless herds. 
 
 44 
 
Let them not dream my argument 
 Is for their ears, or that my strain 
 Is pretext that they turn again 
 
 To haven of their base content. 
 
 Nay, I am singing for those few 
 
 Touched with the fire of restless stars, 
 Striving to pass their prison-bars 
 
 With hope to seek for regions new. 
 
 For these I weave laborious rhyme, 
 
 And bring strange blossoms dewed with tears, 
 
 And garner harvest of past years 
 As heritage to future time. 
 
 Ill 
 
 But wherefore profits it to sing, 
 
 As I have sung, a mused tale 
 
 Of hope that is of no avail, 
 Of toil that wins not anything ? 
 
 Were it not better silently 
 
 To hide this dark and bitter song 
 Than to lift up amid the throng 
 
 The chant of life s last tragedy ? . . . 
 
 Methinks that one, on a long road, 
 To those who follow, well may say 
 Turn, brother ; this is not the way 
 
 That leads us home to our abode/ 
 
 Methinks even he shall labour well 
 Who proveth false one futile aim, 
 Who doth one snare aloud proclaim ; 
 
 And to the coming lives doth tell 
 45 
 
I know not be it far or near ; 
 If over fields or sands or foam : 
 I only know we seek one home ; 
 
 And that the pathway is not here. 
 
 * I know not where that path may be. 
 
 But sometimes, in a pausing-hour 
 Of my long quest, a sudden power 
 Brings knowledge, veiled ; and I may see 
 
 * Dimly, that we of mortal birth 
 
 Shall find fulfilment of our days 
 Not in the dreams of starry ways, 
 But somewhat closer to the earth ; 
 
 4 Where, hoping little, asking less, 
 We still may find some lovely bloom 
 Sprung from the earthy heart of June 
 
 More worthy of our tenderness : 
 
 And learn at last to take the yield 
 Of what this mortal life may hold, 
 Content with harvest, when the gold 
 
 Lies on the empty Autumn field ; 
 
 Envying not the stars above, 
 
 Whose home is space, whose life is fire ; 
 
 But curbing infinite desire 
 With bonds of mortal toil and love. 
 
 46 
 
POEMS 
 
 47 
 
KEATS 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 I 
 
 UNTO that place where thy spent form is laid 
 
 I came when silence of the old-world flowers 
 
 Was over thee, and the trees little shade 
 
 Was tremulous with April s golden hours. 
 
 And here, where the whole world seemed newly glad 
 
 And flushed with blossom of white feet of Spring, 
 
 A melancholy waited, hidden deep ; 
 
 Here I, I only, lingered to be sad 
 
 With thought of what no budding year could bring, 
 
 Nor ever, with faint lovely echoing, 
 
 Stir thee, abandoned to the dusk of sleep. 
 
 II 
 
 Oh, earlier singer ! on whose paling brows 
 The dews of some unearthly morn are wet, 
 Surely the high gods harkened to thy vows 
 Thy pure and reverent vows, and therewith set 
 Their incense smoke to circle thee and weave 
 Hushed secret gardens where should move thy feet, 
 And vaulted sanctuaries o er thy head, 
 Wherein thou still with mortal heart must grieve, 
 But with immortal eyes might see the fleet 
 Forms that in heaven tread their mazes sweet, 
 And follow where the world s delight has fled. 
 
 49 
 
Ill 
 
 The large pale fire of Autumn afternoons 
 Was open as a chamber unto thee. 
 And for thy sleep, the rising of round moons 
 Wove silence on the marge of a still sea 
 Whereon no eye may look save his alone 
 Who can surmount the piled barriers 
 That life and custom gather, hill on hill. 
 But who should bar thee from this sea, thine own ? 
 Upon its bosom have the domed stars 
 Looked often down, and seen thy shadowy spars 
 Drifting ; and there dawn found thee drifting still. . . . 
 
 IV 
 
 We, too, have seen these fleeting midnight gleams, 
 And peered through chambers where the hid soul 
 
 weaves ; 
 
 Yet thou alone hadst power to tell thy dreams, 
 And scatter like the fall of Autumn leaves 
 Relics of pale magnificence, too fair 
 For work of joyous Nature unoppressed ; 
 Such only comes when in the cold grey heaven 
 Sweeps the immensity of Autumn air, 
 Awakening life from out its Summer rest, 
 Till, on the brink of death, with fire dressed, 
 In ruin and in splendour the leaves are driven. 
 
 In splendour and in ruin thou hast gone, 
 Singer whose like we shall not see again. 
 And even the heart most light takes on a tone 
 Of musing, mingled of strange ioy and pain. 
 
 50 
 
Thy joy too great for mortal life to hold 
 The sunrise of that beauty thou hast made 
 To tremble round thee like a silver fire ; 
 Thy pain the longing of a world grown old 
 For life wind-free as when Apollo s shade 
 Was musical upon each stream and glade, 
 Nor life nor love waned sick with spent desire. 
 
 VI 
 
 Yea, we are sick with thy deep weariness, 
 And for this evil thing there is no cure. 
 Though hope may come with subtle words to dress 
 Our troubled thought, yet only this is sure : 
 That life is dark and death is terrible, 
 And twixt the two, each finer soul is lost 
 In labyrinths of doubt and sorrowing. 
 And to be cold and steadfast, that is well ; 
 Yet who shall say what coarsening it cost, 
 What freezing on the bough, the rest being tossed 
 By blasts that are at least forbears of Spring ? 
 
 VII 
 
 Not for thine eyes that sleep, nor yet for ours, 
 Shall Spring come up over the great green hill. 
 Yet have we share in moulding of its flowers. 
 The deep unrest no happy hour could still 
 The trembling agony of life unsweet 
 Of dreams desires gropings for hope unguessed 
 And more than mortal these have driven far 
 Our whispering leaves beneath the great wind s feet, 
 Yet by the very strength of our unrest 
 No leaf shall come hereafter but is pressed 
 To strain more nobly toward the waiting stars. 
 
 51 G 2 
 
VIII 
 
 This for the world ; that each wind-drifted soul 
 In fiery passion of its agony 
 
 Makes clear, to those who follow, some new goal. 
 But what, O pallid singer, what for thee ? 
 And what for us, in whom thy sickened breath 
 Lives out again its long laborious day 
 Of reconciling what can never meet : 
 Immortal longing in the house of Death ; 
 The free- winged soul, the wings of heavy clay ; 
 Hope of the dawn, and record of the day : 
 What song s enchantment shall make these things 
 sweet ? 
 
 IX 
 
 None. Not thy vision nor our struggling dream. 
 Though we and thou, O greater brother, sing 
 Our hearts out in our music s trembling stream, 
 The world makes gain, but we not anything. 
 Above the tempest of unceasing pain 
 Avails it not at all to raise our cries, 
 Nor call our clamours in the ears of Time. 
 One refuge yea, one only shall remain : 
 The solemn silence, the unshrinking eyes 
 That look from life unto the fairer skies 
 Toward which, upon our dust, the world shall climb. 
 
 Rome, 
 
THE INTERVAL 
 
 NOTHING changes in a day : 
 Even Love, that is so fleet 
 When it lifts its flying feet, 
 
 Turns but gradually away. 
 
 Even Death, that comes so soon, 
 Lingers doubtful through the hours 
 Ere it covers up the flowers 
 
 With vague dusk and spectral moon. 
 
 When the lengthened days shall pass 
 Finally to where the world 
 From its slumber shall be hurled, 
 
 And Life arise from the dim mass, 
 
 Then those who watch the night turn grey 
 Shall know why, patient, still did brood 
 Our hearts that hoped, yet understood 
 
 That nothing changes in a day. 
 
 53 
 
ON HAVING KNOWN AN ASTRONOMER 
 
 I THINK some constancy was his 
 
 Of worlds that move from ours apart, 
 
 Hushing with deeper harmonies 
 The rioting passions of the heart. 
 
 Though darkness brooded on the way 
 Wherein his measured course was run, 
 
 He dwelt in a serener day 
 
 With movements of a greater sun. 
 
 And we who knew him came to know 
 Some touch of that high silent grace 
 
 Which let no clouded tempest blow 
 The calming starlight from his face. 
 
 No intimate dream can give release 
 From life s enforced and narrow bars ; 
 
 Yet was there in that bosom s peace 
 Something not sundered from his stars. 
 
 54 
 
THE ORACLE 
 
 I LAY upon the summer grass. 
 
 A gold-haired, sunny child came by, 
 And looked at me, as loath to pass, 
 
 With questions in her lingering eye. 
 
 She stopped and wavered, then drew near, 
 (Ah ! the pale gold around her head !) 
 
 And o er my shoulder stooped to peer. 
 c Why do you read ? she said. 
 
 c I read a poet of old time, 
 
 Who sang through all his living hours 
 Beauty of earth the streams, the flowers 
 
 And stars, more lovely than his rhyme. 
 
 And now I read him, since men go 
 Forgetful of these sweetest things ; 
 
 Since he and I love brooks that flow, 
 
 And dawns, and bees, and flash of wings/ 
 
 She stared at me with laughing look, 
 Then clasped her hands upon my knees : 
 
 How strange to read it in a book ! 
 I could have told you all of these ! 
 
 55 
 
RALEIGH S SONG 
 
 LOVE who singest before the dawn, 
 
 Give thy kisses unto me. 
 Love who singest when day is gone, 
 
 Bring thy sad tears unto me. 
 On earth below, in heaven above, 
 I would know all the ways of love. 
 
 Love who art sad, thine eyes are sweet ; 
 
 And, ah ! thy lips are lovely still. 
 Love who art glad, thy happy feet 
 
 May climb the path of heaven s hill. 
 But here on earth, or there above, 
 I would know all the ways of love. 
 
THE VENDORS 
 
 THE rich have brought us gifts in lavish measure, 
 And gold, by which all things on earth are bought ; 
 
 And bid us give them for their smiling pleasure 
 
 The sweetest songs our lonely dreams have wrought, 
 
 We gave our sweetest songs and took their payment, 
 Laughing the while upon the foolish throng ; 
 
 Knowing a song is but as beggar s raiment 
 To all save those whose tears are in the song. 
 
 57 
 
A VIKING SONG 
 
 COMRADES, when my time is near, 
 And mine eyes in death grow dark, 
 
 Reef the white sail o er my bier, 
 Stay the billow-cleaving bark. 
 
 Then along the foaming side 
 
 Grimly, slowly, lower me 
 To the depths where I shall bide 
 
 Unto all eternity. 
 
 Let the white spray clasp me round, 
 Let the dark waves fold my head. 
 
 Restless in the fettered ground 
 
 I should lie, though stark and dead. 
 
 Let me sink to the still caves 
 Underneath the troubled foam, 
 
 Where soft gliding shadow-waves 
 Drift the Viking to the home 
 
 Where the souls of all the bold 
 Rovers of the ocean main 
 
 Sail beyond the sunset s gold 
 Sail, and ever sail again. 
 
 Comrades, when the seas of ice 
 In the clear cold Northern night 
 
 Glow with hues of paradise, 
 The aurora s awful light, 
 58 
 
And the twisting streamers whirled 
 Dance with ghostly changing glow, 
 
 And across the arctic world 
 
 Vague vast twilights come and go, 
 
 Think of me that ever bides 
 Underneath the restless sea, 
 
 Where the deep its secret hides 
 Unto all eternity. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY THE SAMURAI PRESS 
 
 AT CRANLEIGH, SURREY 
 
 MARCH, 1908 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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