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Tous las autras axamplairas origlnaus sont fllmas an commancant par la pramiara paga qui comporta una amprainta d'imprassion ou d'llluatratlon at an tarmlnant par la darnlAra paga qui comporta una talla amprainta. Un daa symbolas sulvants tpparaitra sur la darniara Imaga da chaqua microficha. salon la cas: la symbols — » signlfia "A SUIVRE". la symbols V signlfia "FIN". Las cartas, planchas. tablaaux. ate, psuvant itra filmAs t das taux da reduction difftrants. Lorsqua la documant ast trop grand pour itra raproduit an un saul cllch*. 11 ast film* i partir da I'angia aupAriaur gaucha. da gaucha S droits. at da haut an bas, an pranant la nombra d'Imagaa nteaasalra. Las disgrammas suivsnts illustrant la mathoda. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 WCROCOPV HSOIUTION TBT CHA«T lANSI and ISC TEST CHART No 2| |I.O Irl^ l£ II l-l t lis ■" £ Li §20 i^ ^ m III ^ 11^ _J APPLIED IIWOE ^fI '6^3 Eail UQin SIrHI PAINTERS HODDAY and Otl^r Poems BY BLISS CARMAN New York PRIVATEi.V PRINTED Copyright iqii by Frederic Fairchild Sherman To Mr. and Mrs. E A Drake 15. >6 April, iqii CONTENTS A Pa uter's Houday 7 On The Plaza tl Mirage ■4 A Christmas Stranger xx The Miracle 31 A PAINTERS HOLIDAY ZE painters sometime J strangely keep iThese holidays. When life arjns deep a And broad and strong it comes to make Itf own bright-colored almanack. Impulse and incident divine ust find their way through tone and line; .le throb of color arid the dream Of beauty, giving art its theme From dear life's daily miracle, Illume the anist" 2 as well. A bird-note, or a turning leaf, The first white fall of snow, a brief Wild song from the Andiology, A smile, or a girls kindling eye, — And there is worth enough for him To make the page of history dim. [7 Who knows upon what day may come The touch of that delirium Which lifts plain life to the divine. And teaches hand the magic line No cunning mie could ever reach, Where Souls necessities find speech? None knows how rapture may arrive To be our helper and survive Through our essay, to help in turn All starving eager souls who yearn Lightward discouraged and distraught Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught And treasured in the heart, how dien We walk enchanted among men. And with the elder gods confer! So art is hopes interpreter. And with devotion must conspire To fan the eternal altar fire. Wherefore you find me here to-day, Not idling the good hours away. But pifluring a magic hour With its replenishment of power. Conceive a bleak December day. The .^eets all mire, the sky all grey, 8] And a poor pinter trudging home Disconsolate, when what should come Across his vision, but a line On a bold-lettered play-house sign, A Persian Sun Dance. In he turns. A step, and diere the desert bums f'urple and splendid; molten gold The streamers of the dawn unfold. Amber and amethyst uphurled Above the far rim of the world; The long-held sound of temple bells Over the hot sand steals and swells; A lazy tom-tom throbs and drones In barbarous maddening monotones; While sandal incense blue and ktcn Hangs in the air. And then the scene Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released. The sorcery of all die East, In rose and safiron gossamer, A young light-hearted worshipper Who dances up the Sua She moves Like waking woodland flower that loves To greet the day. Her lithe brown curve Is like a saplings sway and swerve [9 Before the spring wind Her dark hair. Framing a face vivid and rare, Curled to her throat and then flew wild. Like shadows round a radiant child. The sunlight fi'om her cymbals played About her dancing knees, and made A world of rose-lit ecstasy. Prophetic of the day to be. Such mystic beauty might have shown In Sardis or in Babylon, To bring a satrap to his doom Or touch some lad with glory's bloom And now it wrought for me, with sheer Enchantment of the dying year. Its irresistible reprieve From joylessness, on New Years Eve. .0] ON THE PLAZA SINE August day I sat beside I A cafe \vindow, open wide J To let die shower-freshened air _X Blow in aaoss the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, Saint Gaudens" hero gaunt and grim. Rides on with Virtory leading him. The wet black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold. And clouds of gold and pink and grey Were piled up at the end of day Far down the cross street, where one tower Still glistened from die drenching shower. A weary white-haired man went by. Cooling his forehead gratefully After the days great heat A girl. Her thin white garments in a swirl Blown back against her breasts and knees, Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, Alive and modem and supeib, Crossed from the circle to die curb. We sat there watching people pass, Clinking the ice against the glass And talking idly — books or art, Or something equally apart From the essential stress and smfe That mdely form and furdier life. Clad of a respite from the heat. When down the middle of the street Tmndling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull stifling day. Three street musicians came. The man. With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace. While a young girl tugged at a trace Upon the other. And between The shafb there walked a laughing queen. Bright as a poppy, strong and free. What likelier land than Italy Breeds such abandon? Confident And rapnirous in mere living spent Each moment to the utmost, there With broad deep chest and kerchiefed hair l^] With head thrown back, bare throat,and waist Supple, heroic, and free-laced. Between her two companions walked This splendid woman, chaffed and talked. Did half the work, made all the cheer Of that small company. No fear Of failure in a soul like hers. That every moment throbs and stirs With merry ardor, virile hope, Brave effort, nor in all its scope Has room for thought of discontent. Each day its own sufficient vent And source of happiness. Without A trace of bitterness or doubt Of life's true worth, she strode at ease Before diose empty palaces, A simple heiress of the earth And all its joys by happy birth. Beneficent as breeze or dew, And fresh as diough die 'vorld were new And toil and grief were not How rare A personality was there! ['3 MIRAGE BERE hangs at last, you see, I my row I Of sketches, — all I have to show lOfoneetKhanted summer spent In sweet laborious content. At little "Sconset by the moors, With the sea thundering by its doors. Its grassy streets, and gardens gay With hollyhocks and salvia. And here upon the easel yet. With the last brush of paint still wet, (Showing how inspiiation toils,) Is one where the white surf-line boils Along the sand and the whole sea Lifts to the skyLne just to be The wondrous background from whose verge Of blue on blue there should emerge This miracle. One day of days I strolled the silent path that strays «4] Between the moorlands and the beach From Siasconset, till you reach Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land That fronts the ocean, lone and grand As when the Lord first bade it be For a surprise and mystery. A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, The level lonely mcxirs, and I The only soul in all that vast Of color made intense to last! The small white sea-birds piping near; The great soft moor-winds; and the clear Bright sun that pales cich aest to jade. Where gulls glint fishing unafraid. Here man the godlike might have gone With his deep thought, on that wild dawn When the first sun came from the sea. Glowing and kindling the world to be. While time began and joy had birdi, — No wilder sweeter spot on earth! As 1 sat there and mused, (the ■, y We painters waste our time, you s«y!; On the sheer loneliness and strength Whence life must spring, there came at length Conviction of the helplessness [>5 Ofeanh alone to ban or bless, saw the huge unhuman sea; •heard the drear monotony W.th heedless fotJe strife and roar. W.thoutamean,ngorana.m. And then a revelation came, In subtle sudden lovely guise, U« one of those soft mysteries Ut Indian jugglers, who evoke A flower for you out of smoke, 'knew sheer beauty Without soul Could never be perfeaions goal. Nor satisfy the seeking mind W.ch all it longs for and must find Oje^y. The lovely things that haunt Our senses wth an achmg want. And move our souls, are like the fair L^tgam^nts of a soul somewhere. ^fature.s naught, ifnot the veil Of««,e great good that must prevail And break ,„ joy. as woods /spring Break mto song and blossoming. But what makes that ^reat goodness start Withm outlives? Wnen 4 the^'^" .6] With gladness, only then we know Why lovely Nature travails so, Why an must persevere and pray In her incomparable way. In all the world the only worth k human happiness: its dearth The darkest ill. Let joyance be. And there is God s sufficiency,— Such joy as only can abound When the hearts comrade has been found. That was my thought And then the sea Broke in upon my revery With clamorous beauty, — '}\e superb Eternal noun diat takes no verb But love. The heaven of dove-like blue Bent oer the azure, round and true As magic sphere of crystal glass. Where faith sees plain the pageant pass Of things unseen. So ! beheld The sheer sky-arches domed and belled. As if the sea were the very floor Of heaven where walked the gods of yore In Plato's imagery, and I Uplifted saw their pomps go by. ['7 TTie Housf of space and time grew tense As if with raptures imminence, When truth should be at last made clea.-. And the great worth of life appear; While I, a worshipper at the shnne. For very longing grew divine, Borne upward on earth s ecstasy. And welcomed by the boundless sky A mighty prescience seemed to brood Over that tenuous solitude Yearning for fomi, till it became. Vivid as dream and live as flame. Through magic art could never niatch. The vision I have tried ;o catcK— All earths delight and meaning giown A lync presence loved and knowa How otherwise could time evolve Young courage, or the high resolve. Or gladness to assuage and bless The souls austere great loneliness, Than by providing her somehow With sympathy of hand and brow. And bidding her at last go free. Companioned dirough eternity? 18] So there appeared before my eyes, In a beloved fai.iiliar guise, A vivid questing human face In profile, scanning heaven for grace. Up-gazing there against the blue With eyes that heaven itself shone through; The tips soft-parted, half m prayer, Half confident of kindness there; A brow like Plato's made for dream In some immortal Acadeine, And tender as a happy girl's; A full dark head of clustered cjris Round as an emperor's, where meet Repose and ardor, strong and sweet. Distilling from a mind unmarred The glory of her rapt regard. So ei^er Mary tnight have stood. In love's adoring attitude. And looked into the angel's eyes With faith and fearlessness, all wise In soul's unfaltering innocence. Sure in her woman's supersense Of things only the humble know. My vision looks forever so. ['9 In«he,v«,„^henmtn5hall„v ^'wasthepun«r-,m«n.ng.p«v> WhvalU„v«tof«a.ndspai'^ JuK to enframe a womans faceT ' Mere IS the peninrnt reply, "What better u* for earth and sky?" The great archangel passed that wav lluminghfewithmysnc^ ^ Not Lippos self nor Raphael iHbd lovelier realer things to tell Than I, beholding far away How all the melt,ng«»e and gray Upon the puT,lesea-l,ne leaned About that head that intervened. How real was she? Ah, my fv-^ ■ hart the fact and fancy blend ' Past telling. All the painters task Isw,ththeglory.Needweask :"» tulips breaking thtough the mould lo their untarnished age of gold, Whence their ideals were derived 1 hat have so gloriously survived? Rowers and painters both must give rhe hint they have received, to Irve,- ^o] Spend without stint the joy and power That lurk in each propitious hour, — Yet leave the why untold — Gxl's way. My sketch is all I have to say. [^« THE CHRISTMAS STOANGER SOU wonder how I ever drew aThat"Gal,leanWorkman---who SI he model could have been -Ji to give My work the charm that makes it live T^t gracious yet comj^ihng mien ' ^ftil of power and poise, that keen ret calm unfathomable gaze Of one who looks upon the maze Ut human folly and sail sees More than our mere infirmuies, With lips that almost smile. i^. , , Myfi-iend, painted that at one years end. ^ng ago now. The swirling snow Down from the sky, up from below Smothered my window with strange light That morning in a world all white Into the studio all warm. All welcome with its atmosphere Of patient beauty, work and cheer. Built up the fire; and turned once more To seek the one thing striven for So mightily by all our tribe, The magic no one can describe. The final touch and miracle Of beauty saying, "All is well." I had a sense of quiet peace. Seclusion, respite and release. At being snow-bound for a day. With interruptions shut away. Hardly had 1 begun to paint. In that fiill mood of unrestraint So typical of Christmas Eve, When some one silendy took leave To turn die latch and enter. There, With his serene diough wistful air. As if too modest to assume My need of him (although the room Was radiant widi his manliness And quienide of proud address). [ij Fronting the world in all mens sight rtom his uncompromising height And bearing of sweet dignity. He stood at pause regarding to— A foreign model, as I thought. Seeking employment, all I caught The brows repose the eyes command, I he mouths compassion Then the hand Was laid upon the bowing breast, The Orients way, the head depressed Fo honor me; while all my heart Went out to him, alone, apart. And far above the mortal men My sight had looked upon till thea Speechless I was before him diere. And dien the glorious head, the hair A mass of wavy coppery gold. Was lifted up. My hand took hold Of the chair-back instinrtiVely, As the clear eyes were turned on me. Then with a didion pure and fine And statelier than yours or mine. And in a rhydimical clear voice ' I heard him saying: "Friend, rejoice! The time is drawing near — the hour When love, intelligence and power Shall be made one, as once they were In the beginning, when the stir Of will took thought, and for the sake Of beauty bade the world awake. "Is the time long, and do die years Outwear thy patience? Are there tears Beneath the proud triumphant strain Of art, die struggle to attain? Does doubt at moments blur away The light within the lamp of clay? "O workman, conscious of the hint Of glory in the line and tint. And searching for the truth, take heart; The haunting secret of thy art Shall be made : ar, and thou shalt know How earth was fashioned long ago — How all the wheeling stars were made And their appointed orbits laid. How space was bridged and time *as spanned. And power was harnessed to command. Till form emerged from measured space. And rhythm was bom of time — the trace [-5 Of mind upon eternity — And power (a tide within a sea) Became within its ordered grooves Not only that which lives and moves, But that which cares and understands. "Behold the work of diine own hands- Is it not so dierein? First springs From vague unmarked imaginings The sweet desire; then sudden thought In some strange secret fire is caught And kindled; and there stands ncw-bom Thy fresh ideal, dear as mom And tender as the evening. Then Remains die godlike task of men. To realize that fair design In sound, in color or in line. Till what was dreamed of good and true Takes on the guise of beauty too, As faith compels and means afford This is thy passion and reward. "So is die world renewed at length In wisdom, holiness and strengdi; The vision of the perfect good Imposed upon the void and crude; ^6] And the benign creative will Slowly ascendant over ill. Accomplishing the sweep and plan Of the development of man. "No hue upon thy palettes nm But leads the minds eye up to Him, The godlike One who is to be The Crown and Lord of destiny. No line upon the canvas laid But shall declare how, unafi^d. Adventuring the bold and new. Thy spirit dared bid hope come true. Aspiring to supreme success — The saving power of loveliness. "Would He who made the water wine Deny employment such as thine Its word of praise, and not commend Thy arts endeavor to transcend The here and now with something more Than ever was accounted for By rule and learning? Take thou heed. And in the hour of thy soul's need. Despair not! Only set more high Above the days idolatry [^7 Thy shining mark, then wait unmoved Until events thy faith have proved; And the round world shall bless thy name, Seeii)g at last thy only aim Was but to feed its multitude With truth, with beauty and with good, The water and bread and wine of life. "Is not thy longing and thy strife To mold the plastic medium To form and rhythm, endow the dumb Material with speech, awake The spirit in the clay, and make The soul within the color sing For rapture like the birds of spring? Does not the music-master fill The silence with desire and will. And give to vague and wandering sound Order, significance and bound? And what is that but to give soul To substance, reason and control To formless chaos, taking part In the illimitable art Whose Spirit moved upon the face Of the great waters under space. ^8] And shed the darkness from the light, And far from near, and depth from height. And false from true, and good from ill. With limits set for them to fill? 'Let glory go, care not for gain! Thy great reward shall still remain— The good for which thy toiling days Were given without heed of praise. Thy intimate and splendid thought Made actual in beauty fraught With joy, with passion, and with power. Not in some far predicted hour. But even now thy heart shall know The wells of gladness To bestow On beauty all the benefit Of being, all thy skill and wit. Thy purpose and thy endless pains. Is thy great task. One thing remains — Thou knowest — one and only one. Without which all were left undone: Love. Hast thou freely given with all Thy life's endeavor beyond recall Thy love each day? For love must be Poured out and spent ungrudgingly. [^9 To give thy work a soul — the fire Of understanding and desire And loveliness — to help the end And purpose of creation's trend. Else were all effort vain, and thou Wert judged and sentenced even now By thine own heart's tribunal. -Yea, The difficult and arKient way To beauty lies through urge and stress Where knowledge walks with love. Unless Great Love arise and take thy hand In that unknown and doubtful land. Not all thy cunning can avail To read the signs and keep the trail; Not love of self and self's employ, But the untarnished seraph's joy In serving others with the best Hand can achieve or brain attest I charge thee in this world, above All other things, destroy not love! For life must spring firom life, and soul Be given sustenance of soul. And knowing love with toil, thine eyes This day shall see lo^re's Paradise. 30] Wilt thou not also follow me ?" His smi'o was like the Apnl sea. His presence like the hills at dawa And then in silence he was gone. What think you — with that mental twist,- A madman or an optimist? At all events there stands to-day My "Galileaa" Say your say, But life took on a change, believe, That memorable Christmas Eve. [3« THE MIRACLE BREAKING of art, and how jwe need I To give our lives up to succeed I Even a liple; it is mote Than that, I fancy. Many pour Their lives out freely and yet reach No point they aim for. You may teach. And they will learn quickly enough — Take every hint, however gruff Or casual, draw, study, toil Like very diggers of the soil. Yet never once achieve that touch Which looks so little, mef ns so much, And comes but by the grace of God, When all is said. Yes, it is odd. How one may strive, yet miss the mark. The incommunicable spark! That is the only phrase that tells The truth about the charm which dwells In mastery, which is not bought. Nor had by any taking thought; 31] A gift, inheritance, or dower, A true possession, yet a power To cultivate at will and use Or not, as freely as we choose. It matters not in having it. Assured and adequate and fit. Whether you're Rafae! or Keats, Beethoven with his music sheets. Or the young lad who drew that thing Behind the easel there. What swing. What quiet sorcery of line. So sure, so final, and so fine. To win and satisfy regard I It is so easy — and so hard. The Word, as true as when it came To Moses from the bush of flame I Sometimes the gift may lie unguessed For years, untii a spring is pressed. And a door opens in the walls Of being, and its master calls. That's genius. But how find the key To that unworldly treasury; How reach the room and light the fire Which kindles not at our desire. [33 For all our efTon? I kiww one Instance, to show what ituy be done By way of setting genius fiee To prove its own divinity — One way to startle atxl arouse The sleeping angel that we house. Love laughs at locksmiths, as we say. You rtuy be sure he knows the way Into the garden of the heart Where all the springs of greatness start — SoTi'ow and pity and remorse And many-colored joy. Of couise The story is not meant for those Who spend a lifetime on the pose Of living. You who paint and carve And sing and dance and ploy — and starve In arts great service every Uiy Will understand me when I say. Knowledge and skill are not enough Ever to take the place of Icve: That hands and brains may strive and die In their own dwarfed fatuity, Unless they learn what love must know, And follow where it bids them go. V»] Unless the dauntless soul take port In all their toil, there is no art, No life, no wizardry, no power, Only contrivance — like a flower Of paper, every curve and hue, Texture and hair, exact and true. But lifeless. Did God ever lay Color and shape upon 'he clay. And not bestow the soul as well? Is there an atom or a cell Unvibrant in the universe? Is beauty impotent or worse? How came the substance and the plan Into accord to make up min ? Was there no energy, no will. No joy to throb, no love to ilrill ? You sav the world was made from naught But plastic matter and pure thoughL I cannot think so. You supply The What and How. I ask the Why. There must have been desire, control. And gladness, — attributes of soul. There must be caring where there's mind; There must be both at once behind [35 All beauty. That's the mYstery, Yet reason, in this world for me. And that is why all art must fail That has no love, — all life grow stale And ineffectual and old. Why hope goes out, why faith turns cold. Why joy expires and strength is wrecked. And evil walks the world unchecked. Like fools we cast out love, then crave The happy radiance he gave. To put the heart into the work. Is the one law we may not shirk Nor alter, standing near to Him Who framed the stars and bade them swim. Who set the music of the sea To sound his rhythm continually. Whose painting of the sunrise glows With tints of daffodil and rose Along the silent dark, and thrills The blue-green-purple of the hills, Whose word called chaos up to norm. And gave it motion, rhythm and form. Beauty and purpose and design. The soul in colour and in line 36] Convinces me, who daily use Experience of tones and hues, (As it must you who know the trick Of Music s great arithmetic) There is a mind which lurks below These pomps of Nature which we know, Nor a mind merely, but a heart Which beats its loving into art I bow to the eternal Skill, The great Artificer, whose will Sustains the world. All you who make Experiment for beauty's sake. With shape, with colour, or with sound. Confess if you have ever found The hidden magic which must give Your work the touch to make it live. In anything but love I Ah, there The secrets of divine despair Reside, the triumph and the dream. The fairy call, die silver gleam, The joy, the sorrow and the hope. The plan, the splendor, and the scope. Which soul must capture and impart, To lend her new