Allan 
 
 
GIFT OF 
 
 a 
 

SAN GABRIEL MELODIES 
 
 AUBREY jlLLAN GRAVES 
 W 
 
BENSON PRINTING CO.. NASHVILLE 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 Flowing through Georgetown, Texas, the seat 
 of Southwestern University, is the beautiful San 
 Gabriel River, scene of many student pleasures 
 and outings. This clear, slowly-moving stream 
 courses through a picturesque country of pic- 
 turesque people, and gives to the old college 
 town an atmosphere all its own. These verses, 
 written for the most part in the environs of this 
 tuneful old river, are dedicated to my 
 Fellow-Southwesterners of 
 1918-1921. 
 
 497965 
 
For permission to reprint certain of these verses, grate- 
 ful acknowledgment is made to editors of the South- 
 western University "Megaphone" ; to Dr. Henry T. 
 Schnittfyind, editor of "The Poets of the Future" ; to 
 Mr. Hilton R. Creer of the "Dallas Journal" ; and 
 to Professor W . W . Lyman, editor of "Figs from 
 California." 
 
ALONG SAN GABRIEL WAY 
 
 Along San Gabriel Way 
 The flowers bloomed but yesterday; 
 And every creature beneath the sun 
 Found Life a course of mirth and fun; 
 And every thought was light and gay 
 
 Before Love came. 
 
 Along San Gabriel Way 
 A richer foliage grew one day, 
 While breezes mild and moonlight pale 
 Mingled with Love's old golden tale; 
 And Life grew sweeter with each day 
 
 When Love had come. 
 
 But no longer does the sway 
 Of Beauty hold San Gabriel Way; 
 The flowers all have withered brown; 
 The shrubs have all been trampled down; 
 And in my heart grey shadows stay 
 
 Since Love has gone. 
 
THE TYPIST 
 
 / love the music 
 
 Of my typewriter at work. 
 
 There is melody in its tapping 
 
 As in the golden harmony 
 
 Of a thousand harps, 
 
 Or the crying of a steel guitar. 
 
 I love the music 
 
 Of my typewriter at work: 
 
 For the rhythm of its tapping 
 
 Is the beating of my heart. 
 
 We have been close friends 
 
 My typewriter and I 
 
 The little I have known of life, 
 
 We have known together, 
 
 And it's the only instrument 
 
 I have learned to play upon. 
 
 Into it, I have fingered 
 
 The feelings I would have uttered, 
 
 Had I only the voice 
 
 Of a Galli-Curci. 
 
/ love the music 
 
 Of my typewriter at work; 
 
 For through the years 
 
 It has earned me bread and Tvine. 
 
 Through its strange music 
 
 I have given to my soul 
 
 Its expression; 
 
 Through its many tunes 
 
 I have beaten out my sorrow 
 
 And my bursting songs of joy! 
 
BLUE-BIRD OF HAPPINESS 
 
 //on; / miss you, little blue-bird, since you have 
 
 flown from me! 
 Always in the boundless night-time, I pursue you 
 
 as you flee. 
 Far too sweet your notes to linger, and too sweet 
 
 your song to stay 
 All too soon your song was broken and you, 
 
 frightened, flew away. 
 
 I remember, little blue-bird, how you came to be, 
 
 How I woke to find you singing, singing in the 
 heart of me; 
 
 How I sang full-throated with you, free from 
 thought of grief or care, 
 
 Till you flew from out my heart and left but dis- 
 mal sorrow there! 
 
 No longer does your singing call me up to greet 
 
 the dawn, 
 
 But forever I am searching, always on, forever on! 
 Little blue-bird, how I miss you, how I follow as 
 
 you flee! 
 Then wake to know you never can come singing 
 
 back to me! 
 
FOR OLD TIME'S SAKE 
 
 / met her far away from home 
 A college chum of mine 
 We two had "wandered far apart 
 Since merry college time. 
 Right warmly did I greet the lass; 
 Joyous laughter did I make 
 O no! I did not love the girl 
 'Twas just for Old Time's Sake! 
 
 Each night we had our little chats 
 Talking of . . . many things; 
 Living our college life all over, 
 And playing our college games. 
 Then one night I . . . asked her hand- 
 Now dont my deed mistake! 
 For when I finally married her 
 It was for Old Time's Sake! 
 
YOUTH PASSES IN AN HOUR 
 
 Youth passes in an hour 
 / would spend it in a song! 
 Knowing how little time 
 Is left for singing, 
 V/hen Youth gives way 
 And Time comes bringing 
 Weariness and forgetfulness 
 Oppressing and long. 
 
 So I give myself to singing 
 
 With the wind and jubilant streams, 
 
 Hoping, when Youth passes 
 
 With my song, 
 
 Some fragment of a tune may stay 
 
 To keep the time from seeming long 
 
 When I am old and sleepy 
 
 And tired of dreams. 
 
CERTAINTIES 
 
 / cannot know the purpose of life, 
 The Master-Plan of which "We are par/, 
 Or in that moment that follows death 
 Whither our flashing souls may dart; 
 
 I do not know why men must love, 
 Must dream, aspire, gain, lose, then die 
 Why some can only see the dust, 
 Why others only love the sky. 
 
 But of the little that I know, 
 
 These verities I feel most true: 
 
 God left in my heart a store-room of love 
 
 For all bright things, for life and for you. 
 
TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 O clear-voiced minstrel of the dewy dawn, 
 
 bright-eyed youth who caught the skylark'* song, 
 With friendly hands I come to place upon 
 
 Thy brow the laurels that so well belong. 
 When for the dawn the Cods of morning wait, 
 Thy melodies immortal come to me, 
 And sorrowing at thy cold, untimely fate, 
 
 1 wonder at what might have come of thee. 
 O thou whose almost perfect nature lacked 
 So little to have made a perfect whole, 
 
 If Cod had only granted thee thy time 
 What riches might have issued from thy soul! 
 Had Cod but lengthened, tempered down thy pace, 
 No other bard would share thy lofty place! 
 
TO ROBERT G. MOOD, JR. 
 
 Upon my wall a picture hangs. 
 
 It is not tinted nor framed in gold. 
 It is just a simple likeness of 
 
 A boy-pal I knew of old. 
 
 And strangers, chancing in, take note 
 Perhaps; and in a casual way 
 
 May mat^e some idle query, then 
 Forget, and from my Study stray. 
 
 But to my mind, a feeling vast 
 And deeper does it daily bring: 
 
 The feeling that a dumb man has 
 For one who teaches him to sing. 
 
 A simple picture it may be 
 
 That hangs upon my Study wall; 
 But it brings back a love for him, 
 
 His faults and virtues, all in all. 
 
DISILLUSIONMENT 
 
 / remember, little girl, 
 
 How you loved once, how you caressed 
 That tiny plaything like a child 
 
 And, crooning, held it to your breast; 
 And then the sudden grief that broke 
 
 Upon your fancies like a gust 
 When, after search, you found the babe 
 
 You loved, a heap of rags and dust! 
 
 I remember, too, how we loved once, 
 
 How Heaven came down to earth, 
 How the smile of Cod lay on our hearts 
 
 And filled them brimming with mirth. 
 But now you are gone, little girl, 
 
 No beauty do the eyes see ever 
 How much is Love! How little is Life! 
 
 Life! This thing we loved together! 
 
TO A SUICIDE 
 
 Poor, erring weakling, creature of the dust, 
 You who found life so cold and grey at dawn, 
 
 Who felt its bitter chill, and could not trust 
 To find it warmer when the mist had gone; 
 
 poor, bewildered youth who chose to sleep, 
 Never dreaming the warm bright sun would reign, 
 
 Who failed, then flung back to his Maker's keep 
 The Life He gave, when first it met with pain; 
 
 If your poor soul, doomed to its shady land, 
 Can now perceive all that it threw to waste, 
 
 1 wonder if at last you understand 
 
 And do not curse your ruthless, blundering haste. 
 Do you not now despise each fellow- ghoul, 
 And mutter to yourself, "thou fool! thou fool!" 
 
WHEN I GO HOME 
 
 When I go home, I have such fun 
 When all the chores of day are done, 
 When night has come and supper is over, 
 I become an "onerp" youthful rover. 
 Before midnight makes me retire 
 I place my chair before the fire, 
 And nod and dream of far-off things 
 Until the dying log-fire sings 
 Me off to sleep. 
 
 When I go home where loved-ones stay, 
 I dwell upon each yesterday; 
 The shouting children on the run 
 Recall Life's first fine careless fun. 
 Suddenly I feel the past return, 
 And wordly cares all seem to burn, 
 While a romp with the kids an hour of joy- 
 Makes me again feel like a boy 
 When I go home. 
 
DA LEETLA DAGO 
 
 'Eeza leetla 'aff-breed dago, 
 But da 'art ees mighty gay, 
 
 An ees allus full uf gladness 
 
 While 'e romp da "whole long day. 
 
 'E ees 'appy in da alley 
 
 Where da dirty shanty ees; 
 
 An 'e no would geeve 'eez jacket 
 For da suit uf da poleece. 
 
 'E ees allus love 'eez daddy 
 An ees by 'im all 'e can; 
 
 'E ees glad ta ride da wagon 
 While I peddle da banan. 
 
 'E no know about da sorrow 
 An da 'art-ache uf 'eez dad; 
 
 'E ees teenies 'at life ees playin 
 An 'at evrateeng ees glad. 
 
 An' I no would 'ave 'im learn 'at 
 Eet ees 'ard an full uf pain, 
 
 'At da wor sheep uf my dago 
 Ees in life da bigges' gain. 
 
 'Eeza leetla 'aff-breed dago, 
 Playin weet 'eez broken knife; 
 
 But 'e love da wind an sunshine 
 An 'e feel da joy uf life. 
 
I FEAR THE WAKING MOMENTS 
 
 / fear the waking moments 
 
 That follow sleep! 
 All through the course of day 
 
 Intensely I live! 
 Rigidly I ktep 
 My every thought 
 Fastened on my work and my play. 
 
 And in the lonely night-time 
 
 I am able still 
 To think of common things, 
 
 The little events 
 And trifles that fill 
 The crowded hours 
 Till sleep bears me off on its wings. 
 
 But in the waking moments, 
 
 I am not so strong! 
 The memory of you, of the pain 
 
 Of losing . . . 
 Of days empty and long, 
 Rush mockingly back 
 Before I am master again! 
 
SURRENDER 
 
 / Would not censure, 
 
 Now that the brunt is past, 
 
 Knowing to what poor ends 
 Our hates bring us at last. 
 
 Though your favor passed so soon, 
 
 I freely forgive, 
 Knowing that Love, to be Love, 
 
 Must of its own accord live. 
 
 Though the light was bright in my eye, 
 Though the heart-break torture still, 
 
 Though I sorrow, I cannot censure, 
 For Love comes not of the Will. 
 
 Deep in the nature of things, 
 
 Where our little wishes do not play, 
 God works out His plans for us 
 
 And arranges them His way. 
 
 So I put away my dreams, 
 And the tenderest hope of all, 
 
 Knowing how Love is not a thing 
 That answers to beckon or call. 
 
RETURN 
 
 Chriit, 
 
 In the small, forsaken hours, 
 
 When others are asleep, 
 When nothing remains, save the moonlight, 
 
 Whose company I can eep; 
 When, weary from the exacting cares 
 
 That crorvd the ardent day, 
 I try in vain to resummon the peace 
 
 That my doubting has ta^en away, 
 
 I do not find it so easy then 
 
 To boast I am self-complete, 
 That the story of Cod is only a myth, 
 
 That to live and to die is meet; 
 For the Truth comes stealing through the soul 
 
 With a clearness the senses can see; 
 And feeling secure in Thy care, I surrender 
 
 Myself to sleep and to Thee. 
 
MY OLE BLACK-SPOTTED DOG 
 
 When the whole wide world is gloomy 
 
 An I feel all down an out; 
 When my brain grows tired an sluggish 
 
 An I can but frown an pout, 
 There is one that I can summon 
 
 That will all my broodin end 
 That's my ole black-spotted bird-dog 
 
 He's my ever faithful friend. 
 
 When the clouds hang low an 9 heavy, 
 
 An the weather's bleat? an drear, 
 When there seems no ray o* sunshine, 
 
 Not a gleeful word o' cheer, 
 I can get my dog an rifle 
 
 An go huntin in the brake 
 O it seems to thrill an cheer me, 
 
 An my droopin* spirits wake. 
 
 Cares o' life an* wordly worries, 
 
 I can leave you all behind, 
 When a gun is on my shoulder 
 
 An' a holiday is mine! 
 O I Imow a cure for grouches 
 
 That will drive away their fog! 
 That's to smile an go a'huntin 
 
 With my ole black-spotted dog! 
 
TO HIM WHO WAS CRUCIFIED 
 
 / have thought much on You 
 
 Who were nailed to the cross; 
 I have wept for pit]) of You, 
 
 For Your pain, and Your loss 
 Through him who betrayed You. 
 
 I have murmured aloud 
 At the inhumanity 
 
 And the brutality of the crowd 
 That crowned You with thorns. 
 
 But Brother, for we are sons 
 Of the same high source, 
 
 Are Judas and Pilot the ones 
 From whom You have suffered most? 
 
 Have You failed to feel 
 Our ungraciousness, 
 
 Like a ni/e, steal 
 Through Your heart? 
 
 Loving us all, 
 Have You not sorrowed 
 
 At our songs of hate, and the ceaseless call 
 Of our bugles of war? 
 
 You who died 
 On the cross at Calvary, 
 
 Have we not crucified 
 You, even as they? 
 
 Have You not sorrowed through the years 
 For the little thing we make of life, 
 
 For our blunders, and our needless tears? 
 
I AM YOUR LOVER, LIFE! 
 
 / am your lover, Life, 
 
 Through the many tunes you play! 
 When your rhythm is slow and heavy 
 
 When its lilting turns suddenly gay. 
 
 Whence I came, whither go, 
 
 Are tasks too great for me. 
 I only k^ow your music is grand 
 
 And your colors are bright to see! 
 
 Trying with my songs to match your music, 
 
 Thus do I wear you out; 
 Knowing I must wait till the last tune's over 
 
 To learn what the music s all about. 
 
In Memoriam 
 SOUTHWESTERN MEN 
 
 Killed in the War 
 
 ROB ROY BROWN ROY JOBSON 
 
 WES L. DULLER HAL JONES 
 
 FRED FRANCIS CECIL MCHENRY 
 
 B. H. GARDNER HERBERT McNEiL 
 
 ROBERT GILBREATH BURNS PARTAIN 
 
 EDWIN HARDY JOHN H. TRAYLOR 
 
 J. L. HELLUMS BEDFORD WEAVER 
 
 LLOYD E. WHITE 
 
HILLS OF SCOTLAND! 
 
 This poem of commemoration was Torilien in memory of U. S. Soldiers 
 and Sailors TP/IO are buried in the hills along the coast of Scotland In 
 memory of those who shared the Tuscania's fate. 
 
 O Land of Scotland, sacred hills, 
 What sweeter fate might you implore, 
 
 What greater trust, O Scottish rills, 
 Or gift asfy you, or honor more, 
 
 Than have the graves of our dead braves 
 Strewn across your rocfyy shore! 
 
 In them you have a sacred trust, 
 A trust that you must rightly eep, 
 
 For never was there more noble dust, 
 
 Endowed with Freedom s love more deep, 
 
 Than those brave sons, whose courses are run, 
 Who lie hushed in endless sleep. 
 
 Those stalwart men and youthful boys 
 Who now ma^e part of your rocfyy clay, 
 
 With future hopes, and dreams, and joys, 
 At Duty's call threw all away; 
 
 And though each brow is settled now, 
 They're the heroes of today! 
 
THE CHANGE 
 
 God! But it's quiet here at home! 
 
 So still and silent all the day! 
 With not a sound of bursting shell, 
 
 With not a buddy to bury away. 
 Time was I only knew to fight, 
 
 To chatter death-songs wild and loud. 
 And fight with other boys from home, 
 
 When war closed around us like a cloud. 
 
 With lads I loved, I faced the Hun 
 
 At bloody Marne and on the Aisne, 
 And fought through days of hellish heat, 
 
 Unmindful of the countless slain. 
 I have crawled all night in mud and mire 
 
 Out there where bullets rip the loam; 
 I have heard the shrieks of shrapnel there 
 
 Cod! But it's quiet here at home! 
 
 But now those damning days are gone 
 
 No longer does my blood race hot 
 And gone is every comrade, too, 
 
 Each silent in his six-foot plot. 
 Today I hear no battle-shout, 
 
 No martial notes disturb the gloam 
 With a leg blown off, and a lung gassed out 
 
 Cod! But it's quiet here at home! 
 
VALLEY OF THE FALLEN 
 
 They are there in swollen numbers, 
 
 They are there in all their plight; 
 They are there in long, deep columns, 
 
 Standing silent in the night. 
 They have gathered from the hill-sides, 
 
 They have marched in from the plains; 
 But they're each the other's kinsman 
 
 In the land where silence reigns. 
 
 They are coming with their pack-sacks, 
 
 Smeared and rusting fast with blood; 
 They are rising from their slumbers 
 
 In the murky Flander's mud. 
 They are there in deep formation 
 
 With their faces pale and drawn, 
 For they're standing last inspection 
 
 Before they sleep forever on. 
 
 All is solemn, all is quiet, 
 
 All is still from rank to rank 
 Not a whisper there is uttered, 
 
 Not a sound of musket's clank- 
 They have gathered in the moonlight 
 
 For their final grand review, 
 From the fields of fickle battle 
 
 And the dues of Waterloo. 
 
There the drummers stand attentive, 
 
 Soon to beat their farewell raps, 
 There a million men are waiting 
 
 For the bugler's final taps. 
 They are standing there together 
 
 Before the moon sets wan and pa/e, 
 For it is then they sink forever 
 
 Beneath the grasses of the vale. 
 
REMEMBER US, AMERICA! 
 
 "America's reaction from the idealism that led her into the great 
 World War has inspired this poem of protest. Its author is a young 
 Texan who Was born in Temple in 1900. Mr. Craves spent three 
 years in Southwestern University, Georgetown, Texas, and is now tap- 
 ing his senior year at the University of California." Hilton R. Greer, 
 Editor of "Texas Verse," Dallas (Texas) News. 
 
 We are your sons who fought your fight, 
 
 Deep in the mud of Flemish rain, 
 And who, when Duty called us forth, 
 
 Chose not to count the cost or pain. 
 We are your sons who paid for you 
 
 Who raise our voices broken and sore, 
 To call to mind a trust you eep, 
 
 That we may sleep in peace once more. 
 
 Wake and speak, America! 
 
 Shake off the spell that fastens you! 
 Bring back the far-look t your eyes! 
 
 Complete the task $ou swore to do! 
 Shame that you have martyred him 
 
 Who led you safely through your fight, 
 Why have you scorned his lofty dreams, 
 
 Why have you thrown away your light! 
 
We are your sons "who loved you well 
 
 Who can no longer sleep the day. 
 We see the purpose that we held 
 
 Trampled in dust and thrown away! 
 We fought your good and holy fight, 
 
 No selfish comfort did we seek 
 Great Cod! Will you not listen now 
 
 We are your martyred sons who speak! 
 
 O fairest land of all the world, 
 
 Sweet homeland that we left with tears, 
 Dream on your dreams of brotherhood 
 
 While we lie silent through the years. 
 Turn back to Cod, America! 
 
 Lift up your troubled face again; 
 And keep the trust we left with you 
 
 That we shall not have died in vain. 
 
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 THIS BOOK ON THE DATE DUE. THE PENALTY 
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 OVERDUE. 
 
 OCT 34 1933 
 
 LD 21-50m-l,'3! 
 
1224, 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY