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 POEMS. I. PARCHMENTS AND PORTRAITS. II. MON 
 OLOGUES AND LYRICS. 2 vols. i6mo, $2.50. 
 
 FIAMMETTA. A Novel. i6mo, $1.25. 
 
 ROBA Dl ROMA. New Revised Edition, from new 
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 EXCURSIONS IN ART AND LETTERS. i6mo,$i.25. 
 HE AND SHE; or, A POET S PORTFOLIO. iSmo, illu 
 minated vellum, $1.00. 
 
 A POET S PORTFOLIO: LATER READINGS. iSmo. 
 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK. 
 
A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 LATER READINGS 
 
 [THREE YEARS AFTER] 
 
"And how we spun 
 
 A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun 
 Of this familiar life ... or how 
 You listened to some interrupted flow 
 Of visionary rhyme, in joy and pain 
 Struck from the inmost fountains of my hrain, 
 With little skill perhaps ; or how we sought 
 Those de pest wells of passion or of thought." 
 SHELLEY : LETTEB TO MARIA GISBORNE. 
 
 " And now 
 
 Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be 
 Talk interrupted with such raillery 
 As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn 
 The thoughts it would extinguish." 
 
 SHELLEY: JULIAN AND MADDALO. 
 
A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 LATER READINGS 
 
 BY 
 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 
 
 D. C. L, (OXON.) 
 K. C. C. I., OFF. LEG. D HONNEUR, ETC. 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
 
 1894 
 
 
Copyright, 1894, 
 BY WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
 Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 
 
/> s 
 
 f- 
 
 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 LATER HEADINGS 
 
 /7e. Oh, is that you ? I am delighted 
 to see you. This is a totally unexpected 
 pleasure. I had no idea that you were 
 in these regions. When did you arrive, 
 and where are you staying ? 
 
 She. I arrived only yesterday, and am 
 staying at the same place ; at that little 
 old farm-house, you know, where I put 
 up when 1 was here three years ago. It 
 is very primitive and unpretentious, but 
 it is clean ; and the people are so kindly, 
 and in every way it was so pleasant to 
 me there, that I thought I would return 
 and spend a month here again. But I am 
 quite as much surprised to find you here 
 as you can possibly be to find me. I had 
 no idea that you were in these regions. 
 I thought you had gone to Switzerland. 
 
2 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. I did have a half plan to go 
 there, but after wavering for some time, 
 I finally decided to return here. I had 
 some literary work to do ; and here it 
 is quiet and peaceful, and one is beyond 
 the range of tourists, that throng in Swit 
 zerland and buzz about everywhere like 
 flies. There is not a nook or corner or 
 peak or valley that is not filled with 
 eager crowds of pleasure - seekers, and 
 where one can really find peace. So, 
 knowing that here at least I should find 
 rest and solitude, I determined to return 
 to this place. 
 
 She. And what, may I ask, is this lit 
 erary work that you have laid out, a 
 poem, a novel, a romance, a history, or 
 what? 
 
 He. "Be innocent of the knowledge, 
 till you approve the deed," as Macbeth 
 said to his " dearest chuck." 
 
 She. Dearest chuck, indeed! A queer 
 sort of a dearest chuck was Lady Mac 
 beth, was she not ? But whatever she 
 was, your " deed," I hope, will be differ 
 ent from his ; or do you intend to mur 
 der some other literary man with the dag 
 ger of your pen ? 
 
LATER READINGS 3 
 
 He. Oh ! You wish to be an accessory 
 before the fact, do you ? 
 
 She. Perhaps. 
 
 He. Oh, no ! Where ignorance is bliss, 
 t is folly, you know, to be wise. 
 
 She. You are always quoting, as 
 usual. 
 
 He. It is a vice of mine, I admit, but 
 an innocent one after all; so you must 
 forgive me. Do our best, the world has 
 always been before us in all our thoughts 
 and doings and sayings, and it is pleasant 
 to hook one s self on to some famous pre 
 decessor who has said our best things be 
 fore us. Nevertheless, you know, " Pe- 
 reant isti qui nostra ante nos dixerunt." 
 
 She. No, I don t know anything of the 
 kind. I can forgive you for quoting, so 
 long as your quotation is of something 
 familiar, but when you come to quoting 
 old Latin tags I cannot forgive you ; and 
 to take advantage of me in that way is 
 neither fair nor friendly. 
 
 He. I will try to be fair, and certainly 
 I will be friendly. But you are standing. 
 Won t you take a seat on this mossy bank ? 
 
 She. I thank you. Yes, I will, for I 
 have had a good long walk, and nothing 
 
4 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 could be more enchanting than this spot. 
 It is as enchanting as it seemed to me in 
 my memory, for if I do not mistake, it 
 was here that we spent a long, pleasant 
 morning some three years ago, when you 
 read me a number of poems out of your 
 sketch-book. You see, I have come back 
 again to the same place, with no expec 
 tation, indeed, of seeing you here, but to 
 renew the old memory of that delightful 
 day ; for it was a delightful day, was it 
 not? 
 
 He. It was to me. As to whether it 
 was to you, you best know. Of course 
 you will say that it was. 
 
 She. Yes ; I say it was, because it 
 was ; and more than that, you know it 
 was. What could be pleasanter than to 
 sit under the trees, and look out over this 
 charming prospect, and hear this brook 
 gurgling in its downward course over the 
 moss-covered boulders, playing its deli 
 cate accompaniment to the poet s voice 
 as he read his own poems ? 
 
 He. That depends very much upon who 
 the poet is and what the poems are that 
 he reads. To hear a real poet read his 
 poems is delightful, I admit, always pro- 
 
LATER READINGS 5 
 
 vided he reads them well. But I can 
 conceive of nothing more tedious and irri 
 tating than to listen to a lot of common 
 place verse, read by a commonplace poet, 
 or so-called poet, who expects you to 
 praise everything he reads. 
 
 She. But that every poet expects, or at 
 least desires, whether he is a real poet, as 
 you say, or not. But you must confess 
 that I did dare to criticise much that you 
 read, and I on my part will confess that 
 you took all my criticisms in a kindly 
 spirit, and now I expect just such another 
 morning. 
 
 He. Oh ! you do, do you ? 
 
 She. Yes, I do ! and if that does not 
 imply a pretty compliment to you, I 
 know not what will. But what are you 
 mooning about now, writing, drawing, 
 dreaming, or what ? 
 
 He. Well, I suppose " mooning " is 
 about the best word to describe my pres 
 ent mood. I am doing what the trees and 
 the flowers and the common people of 
 the earth, that we call weeds, are doing. 
 Growing, I hope, but at least submitting 
 myself idly to all the strong influences 
 of nature, and not bothering my head 
 
6 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 with anything in particular, not work 
 ing, as we call it. The best things that 
 ever come to us come without our will. 
 They are gifts from who knows where. 
 So I am lying here fallow, ready to re 
 ceive any seed that falls, weed or flower, 
 hoping that if anything comes, it may 
 prove to be a perfect flower, that is, if 
 I hope for anything, for I am not ener 
 getic enough to-day even to hope. To 
 hope is to seek, and to long, and I am 
 only idly mooning, 
 
 She. And I come in to interrupt you, 
 like a stone thrown into a quiet pool of 
 water, and scare away all your dreams. 
 A horrible reality, am I not ? 
 
 He. Yes, a reality you are, and a dream, 
 too. But let me add that you are a 
 charming reality. I am truly delighted 
 to see you. What a wonderful hat that is 
 of yours. What an almost ideal dress, 
 so light and delicate in color. Really, 
 you might be, perhaps you are, a sylph of 
 the woods. 
 
 She. Nonsense ! Why do you talk 
 nonsense to me ? 
 
 He. You like it, you know you do ; 
 and was there ever a woman who did not 
 
LATER READINGS 1 
 
 wish her dress above all things to be ad 
 mired ? 1 know we men are very clumsy 
 in expressing our admiration, and nearly 
 if not quite always praise the wrong thing. 
 We are far less clever than you of the 
 other sex, who can talk for hours on the 
 subject of dress, and show such know 
 ledge and taste, and discuss with such 
 warmth the tying of a bow, the folds of 
 a skirt, the arrangement and color of a 
 ribbon, or the trimming of a bonnet I 
 beg your pardon, I mean a hat. 
 
 She. Oh, if you are in this mood, I 
 am going. Good-by. 
 
 He. No, you are not going away. On 
 the contrary, you intend, and I applaud 
 your intention, to sit down on this bank 
 under the shadow of this great chestnut- 
 tree, and have a good long talk. 
 
 She. And if I consent, what will you 
 do to repay me for this expenditure of 
 my most valuable time ? 
 
 He. Anything that you command. 
 
 She. Well, read me some more poems, 
 or verses as you call them, and be pleas 
 ant as you were three years ago. 
 
 He. Ah ! how your sex do like to play 
 upon the weaknesses of mine. With what 
 
8 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 subtle flatteries you lead us on to make 
 fools of ourselves. No, I will not read 
 you any more poems. I dare say you 
 have made all sorts of fun to your inti 
 mate friends over my vanity in reading 
 those little verses to you three years ago. 
 She. No; you think a little better than 
 that of me. Confess ! 
 
 He. Well, at least, you had a few little 
 private laughs at my expense, did you 
 not ? Confess ! 
 
 She. I confess nothing of the kind. On 
 the contrary, if I have to confess, hon 
 estly, though I don t like to flatter you, 
 I have kept in my memory some of those 
 poems you read, and often tried to recall 
 the very words. But memory is treach 
 erous, and I am afraid the words have 
 gone. But the sentiment, the thought, 
 the feeling and movement still remain, 
 and I should like to hear them all over 
 again. 
 
 He. Oh, dear me ! no, no, and no 
 again! Don t disturb a pleasant memory; 
 the vaguer it is, the better. 
 
 She. Please read me some new ones, 
 then. 
 
 He. No; nothing can ever be repeated 
 
LATER READINGS 9 
 
 without loss of its original charm. Bet 
 ter to leave things alone. No original im 
 pression of anything connected with a 
 deep feeling can ever be renewed. The 
 second time has never the charm of the 
 first. In this life one never can have 
 both hands full. We return to the old 
 places full of hope and sentiment, but 
 alas ! the somewhat that enchanted them 
 once has almost always, yes always, 
 gone. The Hesperian apples turn to 
 dust in the hand that grasps them. Do 
 you remember that exquisite morning iu 
 June when we sailed together in our 
 yacht, with the fresh breeze swelling our 
 sails, and the sea breathing its salt odors 
 and gleaming in the sun, a few snowy 
 clouds slowly drifting across the blue sky, 
 the white gulls dipping at intervals into 
 the sea and rising again with heavy sickle- 
 curved wings, to sweep away into the 
 distance, and we were a happy company, 
 lounging on deck and talking and laughing 
 and singing? How enchanting it was ! So 
 enchanting, that we did nothing but talk 
 of it for weeks and months, and we would 
 have it again. Oh! we must have it again. 
 There was no dissentient voice. So the 
 
10 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 same happy company (you were one, you 
 know) chose what they thought a delight 
 ful day, and set forth on their sail, and 
 the early hours were very pleasant, not 
 quite so pleasant in fact as they had 
 been in memory, but very pleasant, de 
 spite some little drawbacks. Somehow or 
 other, the hours did not sing and rhyme 
 as they did before. We had forgotten 
 that September is not June, and when we 
 were out in full sea, suddenly a huge 
 black cloud lifted itself from the horizon 
 and swooped down on us, and the thunder 
 roared, and the lightning flashed, tearing 
 its fierce seams in the clouds ; and then 
 came the rain, as if it had never rained 
 before, driving us down into the cabin, 
 and the laughter began to be a little 
 spasmodic, and what began in hope and 
 joy ended in experience. Don t you re 
 member ? 
 
 She. I remember nothing of the kind. 
 It is all an invention of yours. What I 
 remember was the direct opposite. The 
 first day we had forgotten the biscuit 
 or was it the marmalade ? and just be 
 cause we had forgotten it, every one 
 wanted it, and longed for it. But the 
 

 
 LATER READINGS 11 
 
 second time we remembered it ; and the 
 day was perfect, and it was ten times as 
 pleasant as the first. 
 
 He. We all of us long for what we 
 have not ; that is natural, necessary, uni 
 versal. I remember a little boy and his 
 mother whom I once met at Newport. 
 They occupied, at breakfast, the next 
 table to me. The boy was willful and out 
 of humor, and the mother, the light of 
 whose life was evidently the little boy, 
 tried in vain to tempt his appetite by 
 offering him this and that delicacy, any 
 thing that she could think of, and the boy 
 always sullenly refused her offers. At 
 last she cried out, almost in despair, 
 " Well, darling, what will you have ? " 
 "Just what you ain t got ! " he answered. 
 We are all of us like that little boy. We 
 sit at the Banquet of Nature, who offers 
 us everything that heart could desire; 
 and we turn peevishly away, and cry out 
 for something impossible that cannot be 
 given. 
 
 She. As for Nature s offering us every 
 thing, I deny it. There is no such harsh 
 stepmother as she is ; nearly everything 
 we long for and pray for she denies, 
 
12 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 and pelts us with misfortunes. Even her 
 bonbons have very frequently stones in 
 them. Sometimes, I admit, she is in 
 good humor and gives what we crave, 
 but this is very rare. Ordinarily she is 
 harsh and cruel, and only jeers and 
 laughs at us ; and then she is so capri 
 cious, to-day all smiles, and to-morrow 
 all threats and blows. Offers us every 
 thing that heart could desire? Yes, I think 
 so. She may offer them to you. She 
 gives you poems, those are her best 
 of bonbons, but to me what does she 
 give ? 
 
 He. Charm, beauty, a happy heart, 
 and a beautiful dress, and art to wear 
 it with grace. Your hat itself is a poem, 
 with those soft feathers that look as if 
 they had come from a cherub s wing. 
 Where did you get it ? 
 
 She. Please don t talk nonsense, but 
 read me something, won t you? 
 
 He. I thought I was making myself 
 very agreeable. Don t you think I show 
 a good deal of ability in my description 
 of your hat ? 
 
 She. Do say something serious ; read 
 me a serious poem. 
 
LATER READINGS 13 
 
 He. Oh, well, when you assume that 
 tone there is nothing left for me to do 
 but to sacrifice myself ; and here is a 
 really serious poem, which I call " The 
 Bride dressed for the Ball." 
 
 She. Now I know it s going to be ridic 
 ulous. The very name is enough. But 
 I suppose I shall have to hear it. 
 
 He. Brace your mind to it. It is a 
 little sad, perhaps, but things in life are 
 so sad. 
 
 She. Oh, then, it is a serious poem. 
 
 He. Very, very sad, and here it is. 
 
 Do I look well ? How do you like this 
 
 dress ? 
 
 Charming ? Enchanting ? Oh ! 
 Really I am so pleased. You like it ? 
 
 Yes? 
 / think it s pretty, too. 
 
 She. There ! I knew it would be some 
 nonsense like that. But go on, since you 
 have begun. 
 
 He. 
 
 I ve put the diamond necklace on, you 
 see ! 
 
 And on my breast, see ! here 
 
14 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Are those sweet flowers you brought to 
 day to me. 
 One kiss for them ? Yes, dear ! 
 
 Be careful, do be careful, oh, I say, 
 See how you ve crushed those flowers. 
 
 She. No, on the whole I don t care 
 about hearing any more of those verses. 
 I knew they would be very foolish from 
 the very title you gave them, and so did 
 you, Fritz, did not you ? That bark of 
 yours was very expressive, and you don t 
 like them, do you, darling ; and we won t 
 hear them, will we ? 
 
 He. Ah, that is Fritz s opinion, is it ? 
 Then there is nothing to be said if he dis 
 approves. Well, well, my dear little 
 friend, you shall have your way. I won t 
 read any more of those verses, since you 
 do insist ; I won t, indeed. Come and 
 be friends ! How well he looks ; what a 
 beautiful Dachshund he is ! But you 
 don t care for him, I suppose. 
 
 She. Care for him ! I adore him. I 
 don t think life would be worth having 
 without him. You are a perfect blessing, 
 are you not, dear little Fritzzie. I only 
 
LATER READINGS 15 
 
 wish men were half as good, and half as 
 honest and loyal and unselfish. 
 
 He. Oh, men ! They are the most con 
 temptible things. Don t talk of men. 
 Life would be so much better without 
 them, would n t it, Fritz ? Only women 
 are adorable, and I don t know what we 
 should do without them, particularly 
 when they do us the favor to come and 
 sit on a mossy bank beside us and listen 
 to our verses. 
 
 She. Did you ever have dogs of your 
 own ? If you did, you know what a gap 
 they fill in one s life ; how beyond all 
 words they are loyal in their friendships. 
 One may entrust to them one s secret 
 thoughts, and they never gossip and re 
 port and talk scandal. One at least may 
 be sure of one s dog, if not of one s 
 human friends. Dogs have no ifs and 
 buts in their love. There is no one who 
 believes that I am all perfection as Fritz 
 does. He forgives me for all my way 
 wardness, for all my injustice to him, 
 sympathizes with me in all my moods and 
 variations of temper, is never angry or 
 cross to me, but always kind and humble 
 and faithful in his love, whatever hap- 
 
16 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 pens. Are n t you, you dear little Fritz ? 
 Just look at those eyes of his. 
 
 He. I have no doubt he is all that you 
 say. I had a little Dachshund once my 
 self who was very like him, and who was 
 all that you say of Fritz. Poor little 
 thing ! he died in my arms. 
 
 She. Did you ever write any verses 
 about him ? If so, pray let me hear 
 them. 
 
 He. Yes, I wrote a few ineffectual 
 lines, for honestly, to confess the truth, I 
 deeply mourned his loss. I did all that 
 I could for him, but it was useless, and as 
 I said, he died in my arms. Still, I can 
 never forget the fond, beseeching expres 
 sion of his eyes as he looked up to me, 
 trustingly as we to an uncomprehended 
 power above, believing that I could, if I 
 only chose, cure him of his sufferings and 
 make him well by a word, and I all the 
 while so utterly helpless to assuage his 
 pain and to justify his faith. I often ask 
 myself the unanswerable question, what 
 dogs imagine us to be, what kind of a 
 superior power we seem to them ; and, 
 on the whole, I am inclined to think that 
 to them we seem to be some all-powerful 
 
LATER READINGS 17 
 
 and extraordinary kind of dog, with fac 
 ulties beyond their understanding, but 
 still dogs, wonderful and mysterious in 
 all they are and do. At all events, that 
 is what we mortals, in our ignorance, do 
 with the Infinite power above us, giving 
 to God the sublimed characteristics of 
 man, physically as well as spiritually. 
 If we confess the truth, we represent him 
 to our senses as a venerable, long-bearded, 
 superhuman man, whose laws and decrees 
 may be swayed and altered by prayers. 
 And I am afraid those prayers are often 
 as unintelligible as the barking and 
 whining of dogs is to us, and as unrea 
 sonable, too, in their vague demands. I 
 could not help asking myself, as I held 
 my poor little dying dog in my arms, 
 whether our hope and faith in the Higher 
 Power, as we shape that power to our 
 selves, was as unfounded as his was in me. 
 
 She. But still we must cling to that 
 faith, for otherwise how could we bear 
 the ills and sorrows of this life ? 
 
 He. As poor little Fritz did, I sup 
 pose. 
 
 She. No ; he never asked himself the 
 questions which torment our human spir- 
 
18 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 its continually. His life s moment satis 
 fied him. He looked forward to no future 
 beyond. But do not let us enter into 
 these unsolvable problems. Rather, read 
 me what you wrote about him. 
 
 He. I had quite forgotten that I ever 
 wrote these lines until the other day a 
 friend to whom I had given them, and 
 who was as great a lover of dogs as you, 
 recalled them to me, and sent me a copy 
 of them, and as you wish to hear them, 
 here they are. 1 am afraid they ask 
 questions which neither of us can answer. 
 
 All this long night thy sufferings I have 
 seen, 
 
 Thy moans of pain have heard, thy pant 
 ing breath ; 
 
 Thy dim eyes asking what I could not 
 give, 
 
 But humbly trustful in thy dumb, fond 
 faith. 
 
 What hadst thou done that thou should 
 
 suffer thus ? 
 
 Thy life was gentle, kind, affectionate, 
 Unselfish, innocent. Did this avail 
 To avert from thee this cruel stroke of 
 
 fate? 
 
LATER READINGS 19 
 
 Nothing ! and sadly as I gaze at thee, 
 All impotent to give thoe help, I cry, 
 " Why was this suffering given thee to 
 
 bear?" 
 Ah, vain the question ! There is no reply. 
 
 Then I recall thy little sportive ways, 
 Thy leaps and barks of joy, thy trusting 
 
 nose 
 
 Thrust in my hand, thy happiness to lie 
 Under my arm, and pressed against me 
 
 close. 
 
 Grateful for everything, a smile, a nod, 
 A kindly word humble, submissive, 
 
 true, 
 
 Quick to forget injustice, blows, reproof, 
 And seeking but thy master s will to do. 
 
 Where on this earth among our human 
 
 kind 
 
 Is to be found such pure, unselfish love ? 
 Such patience under wrongs, such faith, 
 
 that looks 
 For no reward hereafter, or above. 
 
 If such there be, I know it not, for all 
 Even of the best their earthly duties do 
 
20 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 In the great hope, beyond this passing 
 
 world, 
 That our poor little servant never knew. 
 
 Ah, shall we say, in pride of heart and 
 
 brain, 
 
 " This is the end of all, to such as he," 
 While Death for us but opens the dark 
 
 gate 
 Through which we pass to Immortality ? 
 
 She. Thank you. Yes, that is all true. 
 
 He. It was all true of little Fritz. 
 That is all that I can say. I did honestly 
 mourn for that little thing, though, to con 
 fess the truth, I am not an universal lover 
 of dogs, as I believe you are. One s own 
 dog is one thing, but another person s dog 
 is but too often (don t frown at me) a 
 mere nuisance, and all the more because 
 the owner finds something wonderful in 
 all it does. The barking of my own dog 
 is not always a pure satisfaction, but the 
 barking of another person s dog sets my 
 nerves all ajar. In this I at least resem 
 ble Goethe, if in nothing else, and I often 
 recall his lines on the subject. 
 
 She. His lines ! What are they ? 
 
LATER READINGS 
 
 He. Manche Tone sind mir verdriiss, 
 
 doch bleibet am meisten 
 Hundegebell mir verhasst, 
 klaffend zerreist es mein Ohr. 
 
 She. Did Goethe write that? That 
 lowers him very much in my opinion. 
 
 He. Well, you know one can t help 
 one s nerves. They get the better of 
 us, sometimes, you must admit, and he 
 may, for all I know, have been a lover 
 of dogs, or at least of some particular 
 dog, despite his lines, which perhaps were 
 written in a moment of irritated despera 
 tion. He may have written them after 
 some such call as I made the other day 
 on a lady, or perhaps I should rather say, 
 a visit I paid, for we pay visits as we do 
 debts and bills. But no ! Now that I 
 think of it, though in this little poem, or 
 Elegy as he calls it, he makes a sentimen 
 tal exception in favor of one special dog 
 belonging to his " madchen," whose bark 
 heralded her approach, still that story 
 about the poodle and " The Dog of Mon- 
 targis " seems to prove that he had a gen 
 eral aversion, or at least a strong objec 
 tion, to dogs. 
 
 She. What story ? I never heard it. 
 Please tell me. 
 
22 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. It was this. Goethe, you know, was 
 at one time the director of the Weimar 
 Theatre, and the Grand Duke was anxious 
 that a famous actor of the day, named 
 Karstein, should be requested to perform 
 there the well-known melodrama entitled 
 " The Dog of Montargis," in which a poo 
 dle is brought upon the stage and plays 
 a silent but necessary role in the piece. 
 But Goethe would not hear of this. 
 Strongly as the Grand Duke urged it, 
 Goethe would not yield, and after the 
 first rehearsal he sent in his resignation, 
 saying he would have nothing to do with 
 a theatre in which a dog was allowed to 
 appear. Nor could he be induced to al 
 ter this determination, and resume his po 
 sition as director. 
 
 She. But what harm did the poor dog 
 do? 
 
 He. He not only did no harm, but the 
 play could not be performed without him. 
 It was not, however, to the play itself, 
 poor as it may have been, that Goethe ob 
 jected, but solely to the introduction of 
 the dog. 
 
 She. You were beginning to tell me a 
 story about a call you made on a dog- 
 loving friend. 
 
LATER READINGS 23 
 
 He. Oh, there is no story, it was only an 
 experience which Goethe s lines recalled 
 to me. As I entered the room, four dogs 
 sprang at me, yelling and barking and 
 making (excuse the term) an infernal up 
 roar. Besides being somewhat suspi 
 cious as to their intentions in regard to 
 my legs and trousers, my brain was en 
 tirely confused by this reception, by 
 this expression of joy (for so she termed 
 it) at again seeing me. "Dear little 
 things," she exclaimed, "how glad they 
 are to see you ! " / only wished they had 
 not been so glad, or had been able to 
 find some pleasanter way to exhibit their 
 delight. Stumbling along with rather 
 hesitating footsteps, however, I found a 
 seat at last, and tried to say something, 
 but all our conversation was punctuated 
 by constant and reiterated bursts of 
 barking, which even she found it impos 
 sible to repress. Not that she made great 
 endeavors to stop the horrid noise ; on the 
 contrary, it seemed rather to amuse her, 
 and at intervals she would say, smiling 
 down upon the dogs and patting their 
 heads : " No, darling, no ! You must not, 
 really. It s very charming, all you say, 
 
24 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 but we are talking now, dear ! " Are we, 
 indeed ? I kept asking myself. What is 
 she saying ? What am I saying ? I don t 
 hear anything but what the dogs are say 
 ing, and what that is I neither understand 
 nor appreciate. So, after a half hour of 
 this, I made my bow, shook hands ner 
 vously, smiled as far as I was capable 
 of smiling, and came away, to confess the 
 truth, with a somewhat perturbed temper. 
 
 She. Yes, I admit that was annoying. 
 But human beings very often annoy us 
 quite as much. 
 
 He. Very true, but not exactly in the 
 same way, and then we do not quite love 
 them for it. 
 
 She. We ought to love them, if we 
 were real Christians, and to forgive them, 
 too, for they are our enemies, and de- 
 spitefully use us. 
 
 He. Oh ! forgiving is easy enough, but 
 loving is not so easy ; nor in fact is hat 
 ing I mean, really hating. There is a 
 long step from dislike, or the negative of 
 like and the positive of hate. It requires 
 so much energy of mind and purpose 
 really to hate. There are very few per 
 sons capable of being what Dr. Johnson 
 
LATER READINGS 25 
 
 called "good haters." But haters are 
 not generally very interesting creatures, 
 whereas lovers are most amusing to out 
 siders ; and though you refused to hear 
 the verses I began about two of these 
 lovers, I am sure if you had allowed me 
 to read them, you would have smiled. 
 They are not, I admit, purely Greek, but 
 they are at least simple, natural, and 
 ingenuous. 
 
 She. Greek? I should think not, judg 
 ing from the beginning. Parisian, per 
 haps, but Greek ! ! ! 
 
 He. She was so provokingly lovely, 
 you see, with all those diamonds, and 
 that quaintly becoming dress, and that 
 wonderful lace, and all. But perhaps 
 you would have insisted on hearing the 
 entire poem if you had known who she 
 was. 
 
 She. Who she was ! I know perfectly 
 well without your telling. She was no 
 body. She was a mere fiction. 
 
 He. No ! She was the most beautiful 
 of women. Everybody admired her. 
 She was so full of wit and talent and 
 kindness and sweetness and spirit, and, 
 what is best of all, of charm, which means 
 everything. 
 
26 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Really ! And who was this para 
 gon? 
 
 He. Your great - great - grandmother, 
 and she was all that I say. Indeed, 
 whose great-grandmother was not ? I 
 never heard any one speak of her great- 
 great-grandmother, who does not vehe 
 mently insist that she was a celebrated 
 beauty, and admired by all. Did you ? 
 
 She. If I answer honestly, I never 
 did. 
 
 He. Mine was, I know, a perfect 
 beauty. She exactly corresponded to the 
 description one of my young New Eng 
 land friends gave me of Effie, or Nannie, 
 or Nellie, or Minnie I don t remember 
 which. When I asked her what sort of 
 a girl Minnie or Nannie was, she ex 
 claimed, with a burst of enthusiasm, 
 " Why, she s perfectly sweet and lovely, 
 just as sweet and lovely as she can be 
 (with a strong emphasis on the be). She s 
 simply splendid ! She s gorgeous ! I 
 never did, I give my word, I never did in 
 all my life see anything even half so 
 fascinating and exquisite," and my friend 
 pronounced this last word accentuating 
 strongly the second syllable. 
 
LATER READINGS 27 
 
 She. That describes my ancestress in 
 her youth exactly. She was simply ex- 
 quisite. 
 
 He. We both had the loveliest of 
 great-great-grandm others. Indeed, the 
 whole family without exception were re 
 markable for something or other, for 
 talent, for spirit, for beauty, for size, for 
 strength, for abundance of hair. Every 
 great-great-grandmother, when she let 
 down her profusion of golden or brown 
 or jet-black hair, could walk upon it, and 
 it always curled or waved. 
 
 She. Yes ! I never heard of a great- 
 great-grandmother, and scarcely ever of 
 a great-grandmother, who had straight 
 hair. The further they are removed 
 from us the more beautiful, rarely beau 
 tiful, they are. One s great-great-uncles 
 were only noble, fine-looking men, and 
 some were bald, but one s great-great- 
 grandmothers ! Ah, that is a different 
 case. But if, as you say, that poem was 
 written about her, and of course I shall 
 not be so impolite as to question your 
 statement, I should like to know what 
 has become of those diamonds and that 
 lace. Who has got them ? 
 
28 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. You have. 
 
 She. I have ? and where are they ? 
 
 He. In that chest in the attic, put 
 away with all the precious things she left. 
 Do you mean to say you have never 
 looked into it and examined it ? I 
 thought curiosity was one of the features 
 of a woman s character. You must know 
 they are there. That old chest, you know, 
 with the brass hoops, in the northeast cor 
 ner of the attic. 
 
 She. Oh ! I in so much obliged to you. 
 I have often wondered where the dia 
 mond necklace that I ought to have was. 
 I will look into the matter immediately, 
 that is, as soon as I return home. 
 What I do know is that this interesting 
 fact has been concealed from me, and I 
 think it is shameful. Can t you tell me 
 something more about my family, I 
 mean those that have gone ? 
 
 He. Oh, yes, certainly ; but you must 
 have heard of that pathetic little inci 
 dent that happened centuries ago to your 
 great-grandfather s first wife. She was 
 a charming little creature ; she lived 
 only a year or two after her marriage, 
 and then died very suddenly. This is 
 
LATER READINGS 29 
 
 the account I received from a friend who 
 happened to be staying with her at the 
 time, and accidentally, I suppose, it fell 
 into rhyme : 
 
 She was gazing into her mirror 
 
 And returning her own sweet smiles, 
 
 And half persuading and charming herself 
 With her pretty, innocent wiles. 
 
 When behind her she saw Death s shadow 
 
 Silent and cold and blank, 
 And closing her eyes, with a startled 
 shriek, 
 
 Into his arms she sank. 
 
 She. Oh, what a horrible idea ! It 
 will haunt me whenever I look into the 
 mirror. I am sorry you read it. 
 
 He. Things will happen so, you know. 
 Death is always lying in lurk for us. 
 Whom the gods love, it is said, die young; 
 and our friend was young, and never 
 knew the cares and struggles and pains 
 that accompany even the happiest life. 
 Better to go so, than to outlive one s self 
 and one s youth, and to totter down the 
 vale of old age, accompanied by sad re- 
 
30 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 membrances and abandoned by hope, 
 of anything in this world, at least ; all the 
 gladness of life, if not utterly gone, over 
 shadowed, and our happiest memories 
 ending in sighs. 
 
 She. Oh, no ! no ! not always. Old 
 age is sometimes so charming, when the 
 agitations of life are over, as it sits peace 
 ful and serene with a gentle smile on its 
 face, brooding pleasantly over the past, 
 with gentle memories, and if not in utter 
 satisfaction, at least in calm content. The 
 old loves never entirely die, and the life 
 afar off behind us has a gleam and a 
 color that nothing can take away; like the 
 lovely and delicate distances in the land 
 scape, which are perhaps really, and when 
 we are near them, rude and hard roads 
 through an uninteresting country, but illu 
 minated by the sun s last rays seem in 
 the dying light to be like fairyland. Old 
 Donne was right when he said, 
 
 " No spring nor summer s beauty hath 
 
 such grace 
 As I have seen on one autumnal face." 
 
 He. How do you know ? Not by expe- 
 
LATER READINGS 31 
 
 rience, certainly. That is the way old 
 age in its best phase looks to us ; but to 
 old age itself, how does it look ? For in 
 stance, 
 
 To crawl between earth and heaven 
 
 A poor old broken thing ; 
 To say of all joys, I have known them, 
 
 And they all have taken wing, 
 T is worse than vain to recall them, 
 
 Recalling them is but pain, 
 What is gone is gone, and no wishing 
 
 Will restore it to us again, 
 
 This is terribly sad. I know it, 
 
 But youth had its trials, too, 
 Vain longings, wild wishes, for fruit and 
 flowers 
 
 That never on life s tree grew. 
 Even love at its best had its shadows, 
 
 Ambition fell dead, half-way ; 
 We hit our young feet and we stumbled, 
 
 And hurt ourselves even in play. 
 
 Old age has at least one solace 
 
 That wild youth never had : 
 Calm, quiet, peace, no vain longings, 
 
 But memories sweet and glad. 
 
32 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 The tempests of passion are over, 
 And if the desires that we knew 
 
 Have vanished ; so, also, have vanished 
 Its disappointments, too. 
 
 What ask you, then? What is bet 
 ter 
 
 Than simple, plain content ? 
 T is a staid old matron I know it 
 
 Not the maiden so turbulent, 
 So full of wild graces and fancies, 
 
 The torment and joy of my life ; 
 But she keeps my household tidy 
 
 With never a word of strife. 
 
 She. Ah, yes ; that s an old man s view 
 of it. 
 
 He. Yes ; but I have the misfortune 
 of being only a man. 
 
 She. But not an old one yet. 
 
 He. Oh, yes, old enough ; everybody 
 is old enough after he is thirty. Some 
 of the oldest fellows I know are only 
 about twenty-five. One would think, to 
 see them, that they had known all the 
 experiences of life. There are blighted 
 beings in abundance of about that age, 
 Byronic creatures, with their collars 
 
LATER READINGS 33 
 
 clown and their necks open, who moan 
 over themselves and their fate, to whom 
 the world is but ashes and dust and all 
 because Nannie did not smile. Those 
 are the old young fellows who are amus 
 ing to all the world but themselves. But 
 the old fellows who play at being young 
 are perhaps quite as amusing, who brush 
 up the side locks of their thin hair and 
 endeavor to conceal the bare plains of 
 let us call it the upper forehead, and who 
 compliment so, and bow with such grace, 
 and are so aristocratic and high-toned in 
 all their ways. When it comes to the 
 really old fellows, who acknowledge their 
 years, and are even ready to brag of 
 them, ah ! then the case is different. 
 It is difficult to grow old gracefully, to 
 accept quietly and with dignity the rav 
 ages of time, to make no pretenses either 
 one way or another, and to enjoy what 
 remains of life. There is nothing that 
 makes us feel so old as suddenly, after 
 long years of separation, to meet one of 
 the friends of our youth and prime, 
 one of the reigning belles as they were 
 called ; or one of the beauties with whom 
 we used to flirt ; or an old schoolmate 
 
34 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 with whom we once played, and whom 
 we have lost sight of since, the old girl 
 or boy-look gone from their faces and 
 figures, and in their place, hollow cheeks 
 and wrinkled brows, made by the claws 
 of Time. 
 
 She. And then, sad thought, there 
 conies to some, 
 
 " The last sad scene of all 
 That ends this strange eventful his 
 tory, 
 
 In second childishness and mere obli 
 vion, 
 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans 
 everything." 
 
 The good Lord preserve us from that ! 
 
 He. I don t know that when old age 
 comes to such a pass, it is quite un 
 happy. It is sad to look at, but it does 
 not feel or know enough to be sad in it 
 self. It has no special desires, or hopes, 
 or regrets, so long as it does not suffer 
 bodily. What is worse to bear is old 
 age with gout, and rheumatism, and 
 pains, and desires impossible to satisfy, 
 and a consciousness of its own helpless 
 
LATER READINGS 35 
 
 condition. But let us not think of that. 
 When joy has gone, and we remember 
 more than we hope, and look back with 
 a deep sigh of regret to what has gone, 
 we are all of us old, whatever years we 
 number. So long as we take delight in 
 life, we are young ; but the sad and 
 weary heart is always old. 
 
 The torrent whirls over rock and stone, 
 
 Sparkling and never weary. 
 As I watch it alone, ah ! so alone, 
 
 With a heart that is sad and dreary, 
 So sad and sore for what is no more 
 
 And will never know returning, 
 For the joy that has fled, for the hope 
 that is dead, 
 
 For the light that no longer is burn 
 ing. 
 
 I would that this day had passed away 
 
 With its toil and pain and striving, 
 And that I was at rest neath the earth s 
 
 cold breast, 
 
 For what is the use of living ? 
 For what are our joys and our loves and 
 
 our hopes 
 But bubbles on Time s swift river, 
 
36 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 That a moment gleam on its hurrying 
 
 stream, 
 And then burst, and are gone forever. 
 
 She. Yes, yes ; the world is what we 
 make it, bright and sunny, dark and 
 gloomy, passionate, violent, or calm and 
 serene, as we happen at the moment to 
 be. Love and joy enchant everything. 
 T is the spirit in which we look at things 
 which gives them their color. 
 
 He. Yes. Tonio, who was forty years 
 of age, walked by that same place on the 
 evening of that same day, and sat down 
 on the same knoll and dreamed. 
 
 She. And what did he dream ? 
 
 He. Well, something like this, for look 
 ing back even at the lost and gone is not 
 \N always sad : 
 
 Nina, do you those days remember 
 When, in the amber moonlight s glow, 
 
 Those blissful evenings of September, 
 Beneath these hawthorn bushes low 
 We sat, some twenty years ago ? 
 
 Ah ! then we swore to love forever, 
 In voices passionate and low ; 
 
LATER READINGS 37 
 
 And Fate we dared our hearts to sever, 
 For we were young, and loved, you 
 
 know, 
 But that was twenty years ago. 
 
 What pledges then to life were given, 
 The crickets listening below ; 
 
 The great moon shining up in heaven 
 While vow on vow we squandered so, 
 With faith of twenty years ago. 
 
 But love and youth and fame and glory, 
 So real then in all their glow, 
 
 Are now a dim-remembered story 
 Of some divine and dreamlike show 
 That passed us twenty years ago. 
 
 And half a fact, and half ideal, 
 
 O er memory s magic glass you go, 
 
 And o er your head, but scarcely real, 
 There shines a faint auroral glow, 
 The love of twenty years ago. 
 
 She. False, fickle, and poor-hearted 
 creature ! He never loved, that is plain. 
 Nina s life he spoilt, and you d better 
 write her history. It is sad enough, you 
 know. 
 
38 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. No ! I know nothing of the kind. 
 The old passionate fervor of love died 
 away in his heart, and the old life in 
 hers, but there survived a warm affec 
 tion, a tender feeling, a peaceful senti 
 ment, which lasted till death. And in 
 his old age, he dedicated to her some 
 verses, in which he strove, however inade 
 quately, to express his feelings. Would 
 you like to hear them ? I have them, 
 I think, here in my portfolio. Yes, here 
 they are. 
 
 She. Do read them. 
 He. 
 Since last we met, how many a long, long 
 
 year 
 Hath flown away with ne er returning 
 
 flight. 
 And now your face brings back those 
 
 days so dear 
 That glow in memory with unfading 
 
 light. 
 We both are changed. Still in your face 
 
 I see 
 That same sweet smile, those same 
 
 sweet tones I hear, 
 
 Those same sweet ways that so enchanted 
 me, 
 
LATER READINGS 39 
 
 When we were young and glad, with 
 out a fear. 
 
 "Ah me!" you say, "changed, changed 
 
 indeed, old friend, 
 
 Nothing is now as once it used to be." 
 No ; age to you hath had the power to 
 
 lend 
 
 An added grace to those of memory, 
 A grace that only time and age can 
 
 bring, 
 
 A twilight grace that noon nor morn 
 ing knows, 
 
 A tenderer charm, that comes when even 
 ing s wing 
 
 Its softening shade across all nature 
 throws. 
 
 With laughter once we greeted every 
 
 day, 
 And now we greet it with a silent 
 
 sigh; 
 Yes ; we were once more thoughtless, 
 
 glad, and gay, 
 But were we happier in those days 
 
 gone by ? 
 Through memory s mists, half real and 
 
 half dream, 
 
40 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Seem they not sweeter than in fact 
 
 they were ? 
 As the steep cliffs of distant mountains 
 
 seen, 
 Their rude facts veiled in mysteries of 
 
 air. 
 
 ^ Our hopes are fewer, but are calmer 
 
 far; 
 We ask for less, but we have gained 
 
 content 
 
 No wild, high dreams our peaceful be 
 ing jar, 
 
 Life is a simpler plain, with less ex 
 tent. 
 We know at last that youth s rash 
 
 dreams were vain, 
 And o er our lesser round we peaceful 
 
 go, 
 Taking what comes, and not with eager 
 
 strain 
 
 Striving for what life gives to none be 
 low. / 
 
 What though your hair is white I like 
 
 it so ! 
 
 Softer it seems, more delicate, and 
 rhymes 
 
LATER READINGS 41 
 
 More truly to the tender soul I know 
 Than those dark curls you wore in the 
 
 old times. 
 Nay ! do not smile and shake your head, 
 
 dear friend ! 
 T is really so I simply speak the 
 
 truth. 
 
 Too old for flattery ? Ah ! but I pre 
 tend 
 
 Old age can be even lovelier than 
 youth. 
 
 You are bound up with all those olden 
 
 days, 
 Their joys and pains, their sorrows, 
 
 cares, and dreams, 
 And o er your head a silent aureole 
 
 plays, 
 Lit by the light of far memorial 
 
 gleams. 
 We have grown old together; we can 
 
 hear 
 
 Through far-off time the bells of mem 
 ory ring, 
 Some sadly sweet, some joyous loud and 
 
 clear, 
 
 That of the past in sweet accordance 
 sing. 
 
42 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Yes ! If he really wrote those 
 lines as you say he did, I think I should 
 have liked him better as aii old man 
 than as a young or middle-aged man. 
 Time does not seem to have robbed his 
 autumn fields of all the flowers of his 
 young romance. There were still some 
 scarlet poppies growing amid his ripe 
 corn. 
 
 He. .Old age can be charming when it 
 is honestly accepted by the owner. It 
 has not so much trumpet and brass band 
 as youth; but at twilight it can draw 
 sweet pathetic tones out of the old harp 
 or spinnet, that are sometimes very touch- 
 ing.\ Did you ever read Cicero s treatise, 
 De Senectute ? There are some charm 
 ing passages in it that I think would de 
 light you ; and the sentiment throughout 
 is most interesting, as well as its argu 
 ments for a future life, specially as coming 
 from one to whom the Christian religion 
 was unknown. One passage particularly 
 struck me the other day as I was reading 
 it ; it is in the last chapter, where he 
 speaks of looking forward to a future life 
 where he should meet all the great and 
 good who have gone before him, and says 
 
LATER READINGS 43 
 
 that if any God should offer to make him 
 young again, he would refuse the offer 
 as having no charm for him. 
 
 She. Ay, but that, you know, was the 
 offer that Mephistopheles made to Faust, 
 and to accept which, old as he was, and 
 philosopher as he was, he gladly aban 
 doned all his studies, and all his re 
 searches in science. You see that lie dif 
 fered from Cicero. 
 
 He. Yes, I know he did. But in my 
 opinion Cicero had the right of it. I 
 never fully appreciated Goethe s scheme 
 of the first part of Faust. As for the 
 second part, it is not only inconsecutive, 
 undeveloped, and almost, if not quite, un 
 intelligible in its design and execution to 
 all the world, but I fear even to the poet 
 himself, for he seems throughout it to be 
 wandering about in a mist, and not quite 
 to understand and know his own way. 
 
 She. But what fault do you find with 
 the first part ? It always seemed to me 
 most admirable and most interesting, and 
 the work of a great genius. 
 
 He. Simply this : it seems to me that 
 to an old philosopher, whose life had been 
 given to science, to alchemy, to the most 
 
44 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 serious researches into life, in the hope 
 to solve the secret which underlies all 
 things, the mere offer of youth would 
 have been but a poor and insufficient 
 temptation to induce him to abandon all 
 his studies and sacrifice all his hopes for 
 the future. To sell one s soul merely to 
 be young again, and to sell it for such a 
 boon, does not, to my mind, accord with 
 the character of Faust as it is drawn in 
 the prologue ; and to such a devil as 
 Mephistopheles is represented to be, a 
 mocking, sneering, grinning fiend, with 
 his silly cock s plumes, seems to make 
 the discord still greater. Had the devil 
 offered to teach him the infinite secret, 
 to open to him the Book of Knowledge 
 and interpret the laws of the universe, 
 however futile and deceptive might be 
 his promise, I can understand the lure 
 and the reward. But simply to make 
 him young again seems to me to be no 
 adequate bribe. And, besides, is it to be 
 supposed that Faust, the philosopher and 
 alchemist, would have been for a moment 
 satisfied, or even aroused, by the silly 
 pranks of Mephistopheles ; for what, in 
 fact, did that sneering spirit do for Faust 
 
LATER READINGS 45 
 
 to compensate him for the loss of his soul ? 
 He introduced him to Auerbach s cellar, 
 where he made jets of wine spring from 
 the table. Then he carried him to the 
 witches company on the Brocken, who 
 had nothing to tell him, and then pre 
 sented him to a young peasant girl, 
 whom, altogether at variance with all 
 his previous character, he seduced and 
 ruined. Is it possible that any old phi 
 losopher should have been willing to 
 forego all the longings and studies of 
 his life for such a miserable result ? No 
 wonder Faust rebelled at times. One 
 would think that any reasonable and de 
 cent person would have been disgusted at 
 such impotent and vulgar results. But 
 this philosopher, despite his casual rebel 
 lions, always yielded at last to the foolish 
 persuasions of a low-minded, sneering 
 spirit. 
 
 She. There is something, I admit, in 
 what you say. I never thought of it in / - 
 that way. But still, you must allow that 
 all men, even the wisest, are waylaid by 
 the evil spirit, that sneers at all that is 
 high and good, and does seduce them 
 from the high paths into low and base 
 
46 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 courses, and though they find in reality 
 that vice does not pay, they still adhere 
 to it. You remember the old lines , 
 
 " I see the right, and I approve it too, 
 Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong 
 pursue." 
 
 But why don t you, since you take these 
 views, so contrary to the almost univer 
 sal acceptance of this great poem and 
 play, write one yourself embodying your 
 own conception ? 
 
 He. Well, to confess the truth, I have 
 written a few verses on this subject in 
 which, while accepting the original char 
 acter of Faust as the philosopher, I have 
 endeavored in my small way to embody 
 what I suppose his answer would be to 
 such propositions and from such a spirit 
 as Goethe s Mephistopheles. I suppose 
 him to be deeply engaged in his studies, 
 when the sneering spirit makes his en 
 trance and offers him his panacea of 
 youth. I see I have quoted as its head 
 ing that short passage from Cicero of 
 which I spoke, in which he says, 
 
 " Si quid Deus mihi largiatur ut ex hoc 
 setate repueriscam, valde recusem." 
 
LATER READINGS 47 
 
 No ! sneering tempter, naught from you 
 
 I ask 
 That you can give. You promise youth 
 
 alone, 
 And its seductive joys. I know them 
 
 well, 
 And I refuse them, even had you 
 
 power 
 To give them back to me. It is not 
 
 youth, 
 Though that was sweet, that I desire. 
 
 Far more 
 ( T is knowledge that I crave, the power 
 
 to see 
 
 Into the inner world of life and things ; 
 Into the mystery that surrounds us all ; 
 Into the future, when this life is done ; 
 Why we are here, and why the power 
 
 above, 
 Around, in everything that lives and 
 
 moves, 
 Has placed us here, if death ends all at 
 
 last. 
 
 All my long years exploring I have 
 
 sought 
 
 To read life s riddle, not alone in man, 
 In all, from lowest things that creep the 
 
 earth 
 
48 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 To man, the highest here we see and 
 
 know ; 
 Have sought the laws that rule the world 
 
 of things 
 
 As well as living, moving creatures here ; 
 Sought them in science, alchemy, books, 
 
 art, 
 In every way that seemed to promise 
 
 light, 
 
 Combining, analyzing, peering close 
 Into the parts of this material world 
 To seek their essence, and with lifted 
 
 eyes 
 Holding mute converse with the silent 
 
 stars, 
 Guessing and reasoning, groping after 
 
 light, 
 Fired by the hope that I at last might 
 
 find 
 Life s secret ; and now here you capering 
 
 come 
 With smirking and grimace, to offer 
 
 what? 
 The boon of youth ; to make me young 
 
 again, 
 
 To gratify man s lower passions here ! 
 Wine woman all the human senses 
 
 crave, 
 
LATER READINGS 49 
 
 As if these satisfied the soul s desires. 
 Fool ! off with you into the lower world ; 
 Even this is far too good and high for 
 
 you 
 With that ridiculous costume and cock s 
 
 plume. 
 Off ! off ! I say. Your offers tempt me 
 
 not. 
 
 Tell me the secret of the life beyond ; 
 Tell me the secret even of this world ; 
 What death is, and what life is, I will 
 
 hear. 
 Tempt fools, that is your office, not the 
 
 wise 
 Who seek for higher things, scorn all 
 
 you say, 
 And all you are and offer in this world. 
 
 You 11 make me young again, you say, 
 
 and I 
 
 With Cato, and with Cicero respond, 
 Even if a God should offer this to me, 
 And not a devil with his treacherous 
 
 wiles 
 As you are, I with them would say, 
 
 No ! no ! 
 Here in this life I am but as a guest, 
 
50 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 A traveler resting at a wayside inn, 
 Longing to reach my home, not to turn 
 
 back. 
 
 My race is nearly run here in this life ; 
 I seek the final, not the starting goal. 
 
 Life is but toil and penance at the best. 
 The higher power hath planted in the 
 
 soul 
 Desires and longings that outreach this 
 
 world 
 Whose joys are transient, and whose 
 
 knowledge naught. 
 My hope looks forward to a wider 
 
 sphere, 
 Where all the good and great of yore 
 
 have gone ; 
 Where I may meet them, listen to them, 
 
 share 
 
 Their noble thinking with a larger sense, 
 A wider view ; where all the secrets 
 
 dark 
 Of this world here will be revealed to 
 
 me ; 
 Where calm in spirit, from base passions 
 
 free, 
 We may look down and see at last, and 
 
 know. 
 
LATER READINGS 51 
 
 Here, the dark veil of death and doubt 
 obscures 
 
 And overshadows all our life and 
 thought ; 
 
 There, all is clear. There, we shall see 
 and know, 
 
 Not dream and hope and fear like trav 
 elers lost 
 
 In the dim darkness of an unseen way. 
 
 Why should I wish life s passions to re 
 new ? 
 
 What is life at the best but toil and 
 strife 
 
 And endless turmoil ; a swift, turbid 
 stream 
 
 Vexed by wild currents as it courses on 
 
 To the great ocean where it tends and 
 ends? 
 
 And youth, what is it but a passing 
 breeze, 
 
 A song that but a moment lasts ; a dream 
 
 Haunted by hopes even while it lasts ; 
 
 a jy 
 
 That while we own it is not truly ours ; 
 A gift that most is prized when it is 
 
 gone ? 
 Why should I ask to have my youth 
 
 again 
 
52 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 With all its passions, all its wild de 
 sires ? 
 
 No ! no ! in looking back our youth 
 seems sweet, 
 
 But sweeter far in memory than in fact ; 
 
 For memory with its spell enchants the 
 past, 
 
 And lends the sternest distances a charm, 
 
 But age looks forward to a higher life. 
 
 But ah ! why talk to you on themes like 
 
 this, 
 Poor taunting devil ! Had you any 
 
 shame, 
 
 Any belief, hope, faith in higher things 
 You had not dared to offer unto me,, 
 Seeking for life and knowledge, your 
 
 mean gift. 
 And so avaunt, poor fool ! Out of my 
 
 sight ! 
 My dim, weak candle shows but little 
 
 light, 
 But purer light at least on life s dark 
 
 path. 
 
 There, that is somewhat the kind of 
 answer that I should have supposed 
 Faust would have made, had he been an 
 
LATER READINGS 53 
 
 old philosopher, and earnest student and 
 seeker. 
 
 She. Almost thou persuadest me to 
 agree with thee. But, if Faust had re 
 jected the temptation, there would have 
 been an end of it. There would have 
 been no play at all, and that would have 
 been an irreparable loss, would it not ? 
 
 He. Not necessarily. Mephisto might 
 have tempted him in another and more 
 satisfactory way. 
 
 She. What way ? 
 
 He. Oh, I am not going to be tempted 
 to think out here on the spot the plan 
 for a play, even though the tempter be 
 so wise and so fair. And perhaps it is not 
 a little presumptuous in me to criticise 
 such a work as this of Goethe, which the 
 universal world has accepted as a work 
 of genius. But we have been led away 
 a little too far from the subject of which 
 we were talking, and I should rather 
 go back to that. Let me see, what was 
 it we were saying ? 
 
 She. We were talking about old age, 
 and when it really began ; and you were 
 saying that it is not so much a question 
 of years as of feeling ; and we were tra- 
 
54 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 cing it from the old young men through 
 the young old men down to the last stage 
 of imbecility and childishness. 
 
 He. Oh, yes, I remember ; and I was 
 saying that sad, even terrible, as it was 
 when it arrived to this, at least to 
 all friends and acquaintances and mere 
 lookers-on, it was not necessarily sad 
 to the person himself, unless it was ac 
 companied with bodily sufferings. It 
 was, in fact, a second childishness, un- 
 tormented by self-consciousness and im 
 possible desires. 
 
 She. Well, don t let us think of that 
 last sad condition. I don t wish even to 
 forecast the possibility of such a state 
 of things. Read me something a little 
 brighter, if you please. 
 
 He. I send you to Cicero, if you really 
 wish to read and ponder the thoughts 
 and imaginings of a noble old man, filled 
 with high aspirations. 
 
 She. I will read his treatise, certainly, 
 as you so strongly advise. But now for 
 something a little lighter in character. 
 
 He. Well, then, let us take our middle- 
 aged man, who still is strong and well, 
 but knows he is growing old, the more s 
 
LATER READINGS 55 
 
 the pity. He returns to his old home 
 and old friends after long years abroad, 
 which he has spent in amassing a fortune ; 
 but he has never been married, never 
 been in love since the old days, the per 
 fume of which still hangs about him as 
 he sees the old friends and the old places, 
 and hears the old voices. It is far away, 
 but still it is not utterly gone, and at one 
 of the first parties he goes to after his 
 return Nannie is pointed out to him. 
 
 Ah, no ! no ! It cannot be ! No ! 
 
 What ! that little stout figure, so gray, 
 Is the Nannie I once used to know, 
 
 So brilliant and charming and gay, 
 So full of wild fancy and whim, 
 
 So careless, so fair, and so young, 
 With a figure so slight and so slim, 
 
 And a jest evermore on her tongue ? 
 
 And yet, now I look at her face, 
 
 There is something I see in it still 
 Of the beauty she had, and the grace, 
 And the loveliness, too, if you will. 
 There is still the sweet charm that 
 
 entranced, 
 
 And the same pleasant smile and sweet 
 tone 
 
56 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 That she had when we flirted and danced 
 In the jolly young days that are gone. 
 
 T is years, such long years, since we met, 
 And I ve changed so ! Perhaps she 
 
 will say, 
 
 Who is this old fellow ? And yet, 
 Though I m older than she and more 
 
 gray, 
 Perhaps she 11 remember me still 
 
 And the days of our twenties. By 
 
 Jove ! 
 I will try it, and laugh if you will, 
 
 But she won t, I hope, my old love. 
 
 She. But you know she did laugh, and 
 smiled, and they grasped each other cor 
 dially by the hand ; and he said, " I hope 
 you are well. It s so many years since 
 we met, some twenty, I fear. But 
 you look the same as ever." " Oh 
 dear ! " she answered, " I am afraid not," 
 and she sighed, and there was a little 
 embarrassed silence for a moment ; and 
 then she said, " I hope life has gone well 
 with you, that that you are happy 
 and well." And then Jones, the ubi 
 quitous Jones, came up and interrupted 
 them, and spoilt everything. 
 
LATER READINGS 57 
 
 He. As usual. There is always an 
 intolerable Jones, who will come in with 
 a laugh when tears are just brimming 
 into the eyes, when the heart and soul are 
 touched by some tender thought, some 
 pathetic feeling. But don t let us be 
 sentimental ! 
 
 She. Oh, yes, let us be as sentimental 
 as we can be. Have n t you any moans 
 over the past that you have put into 
 verse, and can read to me ? 
 
 He. Scores, I am sorry to say ; alto 
 gether too many. 
 
 She. Well, let me hear one. Do ! 
 
 He. So be it, then. Our friend X. the 
 unknown went wandering about the old 
 places, and this was the result of one of 
 his morning rambles under the shadows 
 of the trees in the old place. There is 
 always some old place which is the old 
 Place. 
 
 Ay ! this is the place where I used to 
 
 wander, 
 
 In the happy days that are gone, 
 And dream of the future, while Hope on 
 
 tiptoe 
 Beckoned, and lured me on. 
 
58 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 All seems the same, though the trees 
 must be larger, 
 
 For nothing that lives is still ; 
 But in Memory s fond exaggeration 
 
 The space is far larger they fill. 
 
 All things in life grow dimmer and 
 
 smaller 
 
 The farther from childhood we stray. 
 How boundless once seemed Youth s 
 
 petty garden ! 
 
 How almost endless its day ! 
 Time lingers with Youth and sports and 
 
 dallies, 
 
 But with Age it gallops fast, 
 And narrow to Age looks the little play 
 ground 
 That to Childhood seemed so vast. 
 
 Here, as I listen, the far, old voices 
 
 Call to me as in a dream, 
 And almost, for a moment, alas ! but a 
 
 moment, 
 A child again I seem. 
 The torrent among the moss - grown 
 
 boulders, 
 As it hurries gurgling along, 
 
LATER READINGS 59 
 
 And eddies, and sparkles, and rushes, and 
 
 lingers, 
 Still sings the same old song. 
 
 The voices of nature, the sounds, and the 
 
 odors 
 
 Are still the same as they were ; 
 The hum of the insects, the birds in the 
 
 shadows, 
 
 The whisperings in the air. 
 The wild flowers are blooming the same 
 
 as ever, 
 
 And the quivering sunlight plays 
 On the waving trees and the spiring 
 
 grasses 
 As it did in those early days. 
 
 But the thoughts and the dreams and the 
 
 free, glad spirit, 
 The careless, unreasoning sense 
 Of a joy in mere living, that lent to all 
 
 seeing 
 
 A feeling so glad and intense, 
 Ah ! those have vanished beyond recall 
 ing* 
 
 And over the place is thrown 
 A silent shadow, a veil of sadness, 
 A minor, pathetic tone. 
 
60 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 T is nothing the hand can touch ; t is 
 
 nothing 
 
 That eye, ear, tongue can tell ; 
 But a shadowy somewhat beyond ex 
 pressing, 
 
 Vague and intangible. 
 The very odors so faintly breathing 
 Dim visions and memories bring, 
 And a ghostly feeling of something van 
 ished 
 Hangs over everything. 
 
 It is not a definite sense of sorrow, 
 
 It is not a real pain, 
 Nor even a pining desire and longing 
 
 To have what is gone, again ; 
 There is something more dear in this 
 unnamed feeling, 
 
 That the spirit would shrink to give up 
 For the sharp, quick joy and the eager 
 gladness 
 
 That brimmed youth s sparkling cup. 
 
 So for an hour let me lie half-dreaming 
 
 Under the blue sky s tent, 
 Softened and soothed by a peaceful 
 feeling 
 
 Of tenderest sentiment. 
 
LATER READINGS 61 
 
 Not regretting and never forgetting 
 The life that is past and gone, 
 
 But filled with a pensive sense of pleasure 
 That gladness can never own. 
 
 After the early morning s splendor, 
 
 After the radiant noon, 
 A tenderer sense steals over nature 
 
 As the sun slopes slowly down. 
 As we sit in the twilight gray and tender, 
 
 Is its shadowy light less dear 
 When we know that the work of the day 
 is over 
 
 And the stars are drawing near ? 
 
 She. Yes, that s a little more serious 
 than some of the others, and I like it 
 better. Ah, me ! the little garden did 
 seem so much more spacious when we 
 were children ! I went last year back to 
 the old house where I was born, in that 
 delightful town of S., which charmed me 
 specially because the step of improve 
 ment, as it is called, had but slightly in 
 truded into it, and things, and places, and 
 houses were very much as they used to be. 
 Everything looked smaller, of course ; 
 but, thank God, there was comparatively 
 
62 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 little that was new there. The ghastly 
 new had not trodden over it and obliter 
 ated the old. Even the ghosts were there, 
 and I communed with them sadly but 
 pleasantly ; and the places I used to know 
 were sown with memories. Yes, even 
 the rosebush was still living that clung 
 about the porch, and the scent of those 
 roses had to my spirit something beyond 
 all saying. 
 
 He. Yes ; I sympathize entirely with 
 you. There is nothing so associated with 
 memories of the past as odors. It came 
 over me the other day with peculiar 
 power. I was wandering about in the 
 garden at Ragatz, with no purpose, and 
 with nothing in my thoughts, when I saw 
 a single rose covered with the morning 
 dew, which seemed, as it were, to call to 
 me, as if it had something to say. What 
 it said I scribbled down at the moment 
 on the back of an old letter, and here 
 it is : 
 
 I smelt of a rose in the morning, 
 All cool with its sparkling dew, 
 
 So fresh, so fair, so fragrant, 
 That it made me think of you. 
 
LATER READINGS 63 
 
 It brought up the dreams of the old days 
 
 Ere care and sorrow were ours, 
 And the dear old garden and shadowy 
 
 trees, 
 
 With its springtime fragrance of 
 flowers. 
 
 And there again we were walking, 
 
 And you were so glad and gay, 
 Laughing and talking, and we were 
 children, 
 
 And life was a dream and a play. 
 The veriest nothings amused us, 
 
 For everything seemed so fair, 
 And the simple joy of our innocence 
 
 Was a perfume that filled the air. 
 
 It was but a little moment, 
 
 It passed, and I turned with a sigh 
 And wandered alone through the village 
 
 And dreamed of the days gone by, 
 Gone gone beyond all recalling; 
 
 And a sad old man again 
 I wandered along, with tears in my eyes, 
 
 Half of happiness, half of pain. 
 
 She. It is of no use to sigh and re 
 gret. Everything goes. Life is passed 
 
64 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 either in looking back or in looking for 
 ward. Youth is always looking forward 
 for something vague and indefinite, which 
 it never grasps in its hand and really 
 owns. And Age is always looking back, 
 and trying to gather up the flowers that 
 it carelessly dropped on its track, never 
 knowing their value or enjoying their 
 fragrance so long as it had them in its 
 hand ; but when they are lost beyond 
 recall, what a perfume beyond the telling 
 they seem to have ! 
 
 He. Yes, there is some truth in that, 
 as well as in the opposite statement. It 
 is vain to deny that we did enjoy our 
 youth. If we could pick up those flowers 
 again, perhaps they would not smell so 
 sweet as they did when they were ours 
 to own. Youth not only seems to us, as 
 we look back, like a wonderful dream, 
 it was a wonder and a delight in reality. 
 We were not only young ourselves, but 
 all the world was young, and new, and 
 glad, and gay. The mere sense of living 
 was a joy in itself, and out of its fountain 
 ran for us a perpetual stream of delight, 
 which waters the garden of dreams as 
 long as life remains. And, by the way, 
 
LATER READINGS 65 
 
 here are some verses which my friend X. 
 wrote, which perhaps may interest you, 
 as in some way illustrating what I was 
 saying. 
 
 She. Read them, please. 
 
 He, They embody only a man s feel 
 ings, as well as an artist s, and perhaps 
 you will not sympathize with them. Your 
 memories as a woman would naturally 
 be so different. 
 
 She. Read them, and don t make any 
 more apologies and explanations. You 
 know what pleasure it gives me. 
 
 He. Well, here they are : 
 
 Oh, the gladness, the wild, careless mad 
 ness, 
 
 That youth and youth only can own ! 
 Oh, the joy of mere movement, the body s 
 
 Free Carnival, mere life alone 
 Being joy in itself, the wild nature 
 
 Asserting itself in our veins, 
 The blood mantling fast, the heart 
 
 beating, 
 
 The muscles fierce struggles and 
 strain ! 
 
 All these once were mine, the free 
 gallop, 
 
66 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 The wind blowing fresh on my face ; 
 The hunter s wild revel, the topping of 
 
 fences, 
 
 The eager, glad zest of the chase ; 
 The tramp o er the moor through the 
 
 heather, 
 Where hide the gray grouse ; the long 
 
 stalk 
 On hills, hollows, rocks, crouching, 
 
 crawling, 
 Scarce daring in whispers to talk, 
 
 But pointing, with gesture explaining 
 
 Far more than with words, while we 
 
 hide 
 And watch the far stag as he browses, 
 
 And track him along the hillside 
 As he slowly moves on, ever watchful 
 
 And lifting his head now and then 
 With a sudden and startled half-question 
 
 And doubt of the presence of men. 
 
 Ah, then the mere stretch of the muscles, 
 The straining and playing at strife ; 
 
 The wrestling, the racing, the cricket, 
 
 the football, 
 Were joys in the revel of life. 
 
 From study and wearisome plodding 
 We slipped swift and scornful away, 
 
LATER READINGS 67 
 
 For the body cried, Come, leave your 
 
 working ! 
 
 There is nothing on earth good but 
 play ! 
 
 And now as above the low embers 
 
 Of life I stretch out my cold hands, 
 And dream of the joys that have vanished, 
 
 Before me a dim figure stands, 
 Who smiles, half in pity, and bending 
 
 Towards me, I hear her lips say, 
 It is true, both of body and spirit, 
 
 The best man can do is half play. 
 
 So long as your work is mere labor 
 
 The Gods will not smile nor approve. 
 In the highest and truest is hidden 
 
 The germs both of joy and of love. 
 While your Art is mere toil and your 
 goodness 
 
 Mere duty, t is senseless and dead. 
 There s a smile on the face of all angels 
 
 And Beauty to Gladness is wed. 
 
 It is not enough in our doing 
 
 To strive to do well ; all the while 
 
 We must feel in the doing and wooing 
 A passionate joy, ere the smile 
 
68 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Of the Gods will be given. Their blessing 
 We only can win from above 
 
 When with glad and free spirit like 
 
 children 
 We seek them in joy and in love. ) 
 
 She. My experiences are not, as you 
 say, exactly the same as those of your 
 friend X., but I do sympathize with him, 
 at all events, in the wild gallop over the 
 country. That is fun. Is n t it ? That 
 is life. As for the Art part of his verses, 
 it may be all very well, but I know 
 I had pretty hard work in trying my 
 hand at it, and I never succeeded in 
 doing anything worth doing. I suppose 
 I did not work, as he says, in joy and in 
 love. That I certainly did not, any more 
 than I did at my music. Oh, how tedi 
 ous those scales were ! But don t let us 
 speak of them. Art, I think, in all its 
 forms requires very hard work. I never 
 tried my hand at poems, or, as you would 
 say, verses, for I never could make any 
 lines to rhyme. How do you do it ? 
 
 He. I know as little about it as you 
 do. Where do any of our ideas and 
 thoughts come from, and why do they 
 
LATER READINGS 69 
 
 take the form that they do ? And whence 
 comes the moving force that impels us 
 to do this or that ? Who knows ? ^Ah ! 
 this is an entire mystery to us all. [_The 
 strings of the instrument have only the 
 possibilities of music in them, and some 
 times they are touched to tender tones, 
 sometimes to harsh discords ; and some 
 times they wait vainly for any touch at 
 all, and are simply dead strings. And 
 so it is with the spirit of man. All we 
 can do is to keep it, as far as may be, in 
 tune, and await, hoping that it may fitly 
 respond when it is touched. \ 
 
 She. When that power comes, you 
 call it inspiration, you breathe it in as 
 you do the air. Yes ; I understand the 
 word, but it explains nothing to me, after 
 all. 
 
 He. Can we explain anything, even 
 the most trivial? CA11 life is in one 
 sense a miracle. If I ask you, for 
 example, the simple question how do 
 you move your arm, can you explain ? 
 It has at last become so familiar a fact 
 in your experience, and it seems so simple, 
 that it needs no explanation. But when 
 you ask yourself really how you do it, 
 
70 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 you at once see that it is, like everything 
 else, perfectly unintelligible. If this be 
 so with the body, how far more impos 
 sible it is to explain the movements of 
 the so-called spirit, why it is affected 
 in this way or that; what impels it; and 
 in fact what sort of a definite idea have 
 we of what the spirit is, as distinguished 
 from the body ? And death, what is 
 death? / 
 
 She. Ay, and for the matter of that, 
 what is life ? We talk very glibly about 
 these mysteries, but what do we know, 
 anything ? 
 
 He. I have asked myself these ques 
 tions so often, and the more I seek the 
 less I know. Let me read you a few 
 verses I wrote on this subject. Upon 
 the whole, perhaps they are too serious 
 to be in harmony with the day and the 
 hour. 
 
 She. No ; read them, please. 
 
 He. They were questions I asked of 
 myself on the sudden death of a friend. 
 
 Gone ? What is gone ? and where ? 
 
 Ah ! who of us can say ? 
 Somewhat, we know, that scarce an hour 
 ago 
 
LATER READINGS 71 
 
 Was with us here, quick, sentient, and 
 
 aware, 
 
 Hath passed from Life away, 
 What, where, we do not know. 
 Somewhat that lived and breathed and 
 
 moved, 
 
 Thought, answered, reasoned, loved, 
 Hath vanished from us, out of sense and 
 
 sight ; 
 
 Gone like a breath into the air 
 From this world s good and ill, and joy 
 
 and care, 
 
 Unto the vast Unknown, the Infinite, 
 Where human eye may vainly try 
 To track its pathless flight; 
 Gone, leaving silent, cold, dumb, dead, 
 The mortal tenement it habited. 
 The chambers all are here in which it 
 
 dwelt, 
 
 Its windows open, all that eye can see 
 Of its material house seems here to be ; 
 But what within it lived and moved and 
 
 felt 
 Has gone forever, whither, who can 
 
 say ? 
 All that we know is something s gone 
 
 away 
 Beyond our reach, beyond our love or 
 
 hate, 
 
72 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Where we too all shall go, or soon, or late, 
 And know what now is dim to us and 
 
 blind, 
 Beyond the reach and stretch of human 
 
 mind, 
 
 Having alone the lights of Faith and Hope 
 With which into that vast beyond to 
 
 grope. 
 
 Never again before me he will stand ! 
 Never again the pressure of that hand ! 
 Never again the gladsome light that 
 
 shone 
 From those kind eyes ! Never the friendly 
 
 tone 
 That used to greet me from those silent 
 
 lips ! 
 For Death hath shrouded now in dark 
 
 eclipse 
 And wrapped in silence, terrible and 
 
 grand, 
 All that I knew and loved, nay, will 
 
 not spare 
 The bodily vestment that Life used to 
 
 wear, 
 
 But gives up even that to dark decay 
 Now that its human guest has passed 
 
 away. 
 
LATER READINGS 73 
 
 Gone to the land of spirits, so we say. 
 What to do there ? Will the long toil 
 
 of years 
 While here he moved along this mortal 
 
 way, 
 The experience, training, learning of this 
 
 life 
 Gained by hard struggle, self-denial, 
 
 strife, 
 Avail him aught within those spirit 
 
 spheres ? 
 Stripped of all life has given, what will 
 
 remain 
 More than he owned when to this world 
 
 he came, 
 
 A helpless infant ? Must he there again 
 Begin a new life, struggle, toil, and strain, 
 And then beyond that life still onward go 
 To new existences without a name, 
 Where even our wildest dreams and 
 
 hopes fall back 
 
 All broken-winged, incapable to track 
 One single step beyond this life below ? 
 
 Where has he gone ? Alas ! we only 
 
 know 
 
 That into the vague silence he has gone, 
 The dim, mysterious silence known to 
 
 none, 
 
74 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 From out of which he came, to which 
 
 again, 
 
 All unaccompanied, he goes, alone 
 To a new life, we say, we hope, we guess, 
 Or as fear dictates, to blank nothing 
 ness, 
 
 The nothingness that was before his birth, 
 The dim unknown from which he came 
 to earth. 
 
 And thus to end it all, perchance, were 
 
 best, 
 
 To pass into a deep, eternal rest, 
 Beyond the reach of human praise or 
 
 blame ; 
 All toil, all trouble passed, all growth, 
 
 all change, 
 All sad compunctions, all sharp pangs of 
 
 shame ; 
 The soul swept far away beyond the 
 
 range 
 
 Of personality and conscious sense 
 Into Nirvana s dreamless, blissful trance, 
 Beyond the reach of fate, and death, and 
 
 chance. 
 
 Ah, this perchance were best, no steps 
 to climb, 
 
LATER READINGS 75 
 
 No tasks to master, but a calm sublime 
 Man cannot know in such a world as this. 
 For, as Gautama says, Life s mystery is 
 In life itself inherent. Being here 
 All is illusion, hope, joy, love, or fear. 
 End life, and all is bliss, for while we live 
 Nothing will satisfy. The soul will crave, 
 Do what we will, far more than it can 
 
 have, 
 More than the cup can hold or life can 
 
 give. 
 
 Yet, no ; the soul rebels against the 
 
 thought 
 
 That it can ever end in vacant naught ; 
 That all the loves, joys, friendships, 
 
 memories dear 
 That we have known and felt while living 
 
 here, 
 When this life ends, and death s dark 
 
 veil is drawn, 
 
 Will vanish utterly and disappear 
 And we be nothing, a mere passing 
 
 tone 
 On life s great instrument, that vibrates 
 
 here 
 For one brief moment s space, and then 
 
 is gone. 
 
76 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 You are silent. 
 
 She. What is there to say ? You have 
 asked questions impossible to answer. 
 You have held up a little farthing light 
 to explore infinite worlds above and be 
 yond, that are darkly hidden from us 
 here. And perhaps the best philosophy 
 is to abstain from any attempts to explore 
 into either the past behind our life, or the 
 future beyond it, but without plaguing our 
 minds with problems beyond our power, 
 to resolve simply to strive to do our duty 
 here as it comes to us day by day and 
 hour by hour, to have a fixed faith that 
 all that is is right, and to walk humbly 
 through life. 
 
 He. Yes, undoubtedly ; but one can 
 not help asking such questions, futile 
 as they are. Still, I envy those who 
 stretch themselves out on the pillow of 
 the Church, and accept whatever their 
 priest tells them as the word of God, and 
 who satisfy their minds, or what they 
 call their minds, by "We are told," 
 4 It is affirmed." 
 
 She. Well, any faith is better than 
 none. The wisest as well as the foolishest 
 know nothing. But don t let us plague 
 
LATER READINGS 77 
 
 our minds any more about such questions, 
 but go back to what you were saying 
 about our being instruments that Nature 
 plays upon, sometimes evoking harmonies, 
 sometimes discords and mere noises. 
 Have you any poem developing that 
 idea ? If so, I should like to hear it, if 
 you will kindly read it. 
 
 He. Yes, here is one, I believe, which 
 touches upon it. 
 
 We receive, but we cannot create ; 
 
 Thought is barren, and labor is vain. 
 Till the Gods give the seed and the sun 
 and the rain, 
 
 Nothing flowers ; and we humbly must 
 
 wait, 
 
 Content if, from no one knows whence, 
 By the force of some influence 
 
 Beyond all the reach of our powers, 
 Some seed shall be wafted below 
 In our being to blossom and grow 
 
 And make what is sent to us ours. 
 
 Ah, what do our wishes avail, 
 
 Or our strength that we boast, or our 
 
 will, 
 Though we set to the wind every sail 
 
 With the mariner s perfectest skill ? 
 
78 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 What avails it ? Unless the wind blows 
 There we lie in a helpless repose, 
 
 Or drift with no purpose, half dead ; 
 But when comes the breath and the blast, 
 The veriest rag on our mast 
 
 Will give us a way and a head. 
 
 All we have, all we are, here, is given 
 
 Or just for a moment lent ; 
 We are naught of ourselves, we must 
 wait till from heaven 
 
 That breath and that life has been sent. 
 We only can wait, and must watch 
 The impulse from heaven to catch 
 
 With a spirit receptive and free. 
 Who can tell when that guest may 
 
 arrive ? 
 Let it find us alert and alive 
 
 To receive it whenever it be. 
 
 She. I dare say all that is very true in 
 its way. But you seem in this poem to 
 make very little account of the necessity 
 of labor and preparation on the part of the 
 receiver, be he poet, or artist, or musical 
 composer. Everything is to be given, 
 naught to be sought for or fought for, 
 or even deserved. I had no idea that 
 
LATER READINGS 79 
 
 things came so easy as that. I thought 
 a great deal of training and hard work 
 was a necessary preliminary to any suc 
 cess in any form of art. But it would 
 seem as if, like the beggars at the doors 
 of churches, you artists had only to sit 
 in the sunshine and stretch out your 
 hands for alms. 
 
 He. Oh, you did, did you ? 
 
 She. So at least it would seem from 
 your poem. 
 
 He. Oh, I see. You choose willfully to 
 misunderstand it. Did I ever say that it 
 was not necessary for an artist to work 
 unweariedly and never to relax his efforts? 
 Never ! But only that after he had done 
 his best to prepare the way, the guest 
 often does not arrive. Hard work is of 
 course required, but that will not suffice 
 if he has no ideas ; and where do ideas 
 come from ? I suppose you know ! 
 
 She. Of course I do, but I decline to 
 tell you. 
 
 He. " This easy reading " is, as was 
 once said, excuse the profanity, but it 
 lends force to the statement, "d d 
 hard writing." This I do not understand 
 to mean the mere writing in itself, that is 
 
80 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 easy enough, but the toil that has gone 
 before, the hard hours of study and prep 
 aration. And, by the way, there was 
 once a young lady in Greece, I don t re 
 member whether her name was Alsinoe 
 or Phryne, but I am sure that she re 
 sembled you, for she was a most beautiful 
 and interesting creature, just about your 
 height and figure, as I remember her, 
 though she did not wear the same dress. 
 
 She. Well, and what of her ? 
 
 He. I once overheard a little conversa 
 tion she had with Phidias that I jotted 
 down at the moment, without their 
 knowledge of course, that may interest 
 you in this connection. It was this : 
 
 Speak, Phidias ! speak, and say 
 Does success wait ever on you ? 
 
 Have you never failed ? Is your work 
 
 all play ? 
 Do you find nothing hard to do ? 
 
 Ah, my friend, every road that leads 
 To the easy with hard begins ; 
 
 Nothing entirely succeeds, 
 To Hope s goal nobody wins. 
 
LATER READINGS 81 
 
 Hard ? Of course it was hard ! 
 
 Failed ? Yes, a thousand times ! 
 Victory comes to the scarred, 
 
 The heights unto him who climbs, 
 
 Through falling we learn to walk, 
 Through failure to grow to power ; 
 
 And high on the topmost stalk 
 Of Labor is Art s full flower. 
 
 Nature exacts strict pay, 
 
 Nothing she lends or gives ; 
 No lingerer along Art s way 
 
 The prize and the triumph achieves. 
 
 What we crave is beyond and before, 
 What is done is behind and done. 
 
 The Future keeps promising more, 
 And prompts us forever on. 
 
 The sternest of foes to the good 
 Is the better, the Best, the Ideal, 
 
 However t is longed for, sought, wooed, 
 Laughs fleeing away from the Real. 
 
 The labor in which we delight, 
 The toil to which love is given, 
 
82 A POST S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Is the path that leads to Art s height, 
 But the prize must come down from 
 heaven. 
 
 There ; does that clear up the diffi 
 culty ? 
 
 She. I don t think there is much poe 
 try in it, but it will do. " T is not so 
 deep as a well, nor so wide as a church 
 door ; but t is enough, t will serve," as 
 Mercutio has it. It s very moral, I dare 
 say, and philosophical. 
 
 He. Sermoni propriora, I suppose you 
 mean, " Properer for a sermon," as it 
 was once translated. 
 
 She. I don t understand Latin, and 
 you know it, but " properer for a sermon " 
 it certainly is. But I doubt whether it 
 is poetical. 
 
 He. " I do not know what poetical 
 is : is it honest in deed and word ? is it a 
 true thing ? " 
 
 She. "No," Audrey, "for the truest 
 poetry is the most feigning." 
 
 He. You have n t praised a single one 
 of the verses that I have read to you. 
 
 She. Oh, you expected to be praised, 
 did you ? That s singular, is n t it, for a 
 poet? 
 
LATER READINGS 83 
 
 He. Very, I suppose. 
 
 She. Why do you suppose I ask you 
 to read them, and to continue to read 
 them, if I don t like them ? 
 
 He. Oh, capriciousness, I dare say. 
 
 She. Thank you. Shall I begin to 
 flatter you, and say that every one of the 
 poems you have read to-day is perfectly 
 exquisite ? 
 
 He. Yes ; you can say so, if you please. 
 
 She. And you will believe it ? 
 
 He. Ah, that s another thing. You 
 know that I don t think any of these 
 trifling things of any special value, but I 
 read them because you command it, and 
 I am your slave. 
 
 She. Well, don t let us skirmish any 
 longer ; but go on and read something 
 else. I cry out for more, more, like 
 Oliver Twist in Dickens s work. My ap 
 petite is not yet satisfied. No, really, 
 honestly ! " I can suck melancholy out 
 of a song " as well as Jaques, so " more, 
 I prithee, more." 
 
 He. " My voice is ragged : I know I 
 cannot please you." 
 
 She. Oh, if you will have Shakespeare, 
 my answer is still that of Jaques : " I do 
 
84 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 not desire you to please me ; I do de 
 sire you to sing. Come, more ; another 
 stanzo : call you em stauzos ? " 
 
 He. " What you will." But don t you 
 think we should better walk about a little 
 in the forest, and then we can come back 
 and read a little, if you so desire ? 
 
 She. No, I prefer to sit here. It is so 
 charming a place, and the brook sings a 
 perpetual silvery accompaniment to your 
 reading ; and I don t get a poet every 
 day. The great enemy to the good is the 
 better. Let us be satisfied as we are. 
 This is really an ideal place, a sort of 
 Forest of Arden ; and see ! there comes 
 one of the shepherdesses. How pictur 
 esque she looks in her red bodice, as she 
 saunters along, with that colored kerchief 
 on her head. And what has she in 
 that basket, all covered with leaves ? 
 
 He. Strawberries, or raspberries, I 
 suppose. You know the woods here are 
 filled with them ; or perhaps she has 
 mushrooms. Oh, mushrooms, fit for the 
 tables of the gods, or to be tables them 
 selves for Titania to feast on with Puck, 
 or Bottom, while she his amiable cheeks 
 did coy, and stuck musk-roses in his 
 
LATER READINGS 85 
 
 sleek smooth head. Ah, buon giorno, 
 Livia. Che cosa hai 11 nella tua canestra? 
 Lamponi ? Fungi ? Fravole ? 
 
 Lima. Si, Signore, fravole. Guardi. 
 
 He. E quanto ne vuoi il kilo ? 
 
 Livia. Quel che vuol Lei Signore. 
 
 He. Madl dl quanto? 
 
 Livia. Quaranta centesimi, Signore. 
 
 He. They are strawberries ; would you 
 like some ? 
 
 She. Oh, yes ; buy them all ! What a 
 pretty girl she is ! What a shy little 
 way she has, and what a sweet smile ! 
 And such blue eyes ! Is not that very 
 singular ? I thought all Italians had 
 black eyes. And all these wild straw 
 berries for forty centimes ? It seems ab 
 surd, does n t it ? 
 
 He. Every day there are scores of 
 these little peasant girls ransacking the 
 woods for strawberries, raspberries, and 
 mushrooms ; and they are up and at their 
 work long before the sun rises. 
 
 She. Poor little things ! And what do 
 they do with them ? 
 
 He. Carry them down to the neighbor 
 ing villages, where they are bought and 
 sent to the city. 
 
86 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Lima. Addio, Signore. Grazie, sa. 
 
 He. Addio, Livia. A rivederci ! 
 
 She. And who is this little girl ? You 
 seem to know her. 
 
 He. She is the daughter of one of the 
 contadini here, and is a very good child. 
 
 She. She is very pretty and sweet and 
 simple. 
 
 He. Ah, you should have seen her sister 
 Fioretta, as we called her. She was 
 really a beauty, and, young as she was, was 
 a second mother to all her little sisters 
 and brothers. Ah, me ! 
 
 She. Why do you sigh, and say " Ah, 
 me " ? Did any misfortune happen to 
 her? 
 
 He. I don t know whether it was a 
 misfortune or not. Life is hard to the 
 poor, and her family were very poor ; 
 and there were many mouths to feed, and 
 there was little to do to gain the money 
 necessary for even their small wants ; 
 and but perhaps it is best as it was. 
 
 She. As what was ? 
 
 He. That she should be taken away. 
 
 She. Who took her away, and why did 
 they take her? 
 
 He. Oh, nothing peculiar happened, 
 
 
LATER READINGS 87 
 
 other than what is always happening to 
 the rich and poor alike. I will read you 
 a few verses I wrote about her, which 
 will tell you her story. 
 
 FIORETTA. 
 
 She was but a peasant lass ; 
 
 Nothing of the world she knew ; 
 Neath the trees, along the grass, 
 
 Like a wayside flower she grew. 
 Little thought or hope she had, 
 
 Living happy for the day ; 
 Joyous, innocent, and glad, 
 
 Life to her was only play. 
 
 Blue her eyes were, blonde her hair ; 
 
 When she spoke to you she smiled 
 With a smile so shy and rare 
 
 That the sternest it beguiled. 
 Fioretta she was named, 
 
 For she seemed to one and all 
 Like a flower, as unashamed, 
 
 Modest, sweet, and natural. 
 
 So her little life of May 
 Lived she all unconsciously, 
 
 Till it chanced, one summer s day, 
 Death, as he came wandering by, 
 
88 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Paused, and then with ruthless hand 
 Plucked our little flower to bear 
 
 To a far-off better Land, 
 
 Deeming her for ours too fair. 
 
 Now, whene er that spot I pass 
 
 Where Fioretta used to be, 
 Only a smooth mound of grass 
 
 With a stone and name I see. 
 She is there no more to greet 
 
 With a smile my seeking eyes, 
 And of all those meetings sweet 
 
 Naught remains but memories. 
 
 She. Poor little Fioretta ! 
 
 He. Yes, poor little Fioretta, so 
 pretty, so sweet, so gentle ! She is gone 
 the way we all must go. But, as I said, 
 it is perhaps better so. Who knows what 
 life might have brought her of pain and 
 sorrow and privation. She is safe from 
 all those pangs now, from all the slings 
 and arrows of outrageous fortune, and all 
 the whips and scorns of time, and all the 
 spurns that patient merit from the un 
 worthy takes. Sometimes, when I am 
 low in spirits, I go up and sit by her little 
 grave. It is in a spot of consecrated 
 
LATER READINGS 89 
 
 ground, overlooking (but alas ! she does 
 not see it) a vast and beautiful rolling 
 country of hills and vales, thronged with 
 trees, and bounded by a range of moun 
 tains that, veiled in blue mist, lift against 
 the far-off sky. Through the valley, 
 winding like a ribbon of silver, gleams the 
 distant river, and on clear days sparkle 
 the towers and dome and spires of the 
 silent city that seems to sleep in its lap, 
 all its noise and tumult and confusion 
 of life shrouded and hushed in the dis 
 tance. Now and then across the sky 
 a falcon wings its way, sailing through the 
 ocean of air with easy sweeps, beyond the 
 reach of man s destructive wish. And 
 here many a morning I sit and muse, and 
 many a twilight I watch the sunset s 
 dying glow, transfiguring the clouds that 
 float above it with splendor, and gradu 
 ally giving place to the still gray of even 
 ing. And there one morning I wrote some 
 other lines, haunted by the memory of the 
 little Fioretta. Shall I read them ? 
 
 She. Do, please. 
 
 He. 
 
 Whether it rains or shines, 
 To thee t is one, 
 
90 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Thou art at rest, no more oppressed, 
 
 Thy work, thy duty done. 
 Thou hast no more to fear, 
 
 The busy brain is still, 
 
 Quiet the pulse s thrill ; 
 No more to hope or to regret 
 
 Of good or ill. 
 
 Tempests may rage above thee, 
 
 Thou wilt not stir ; 
 Beyond the range of chance and change, 
 
 Eternal voyager. 
 Death s gate swung open wide 
 
 Hath let thee through 
 
 Into the awful new, 
 Into the life beyond our life, 
 
 Of vaster view. 
 
 Over thy grave, unheeded, 
 
 The seasons run ; 
 But silence and noise, passions and joys, 
 
 Laughter and tears, are one ; 
 Heedless of all that is passing 
 
 Among the loved ones here 
 
 Once to thy heart so dear, 
 Nothing of all that may here befall 
 
 Shall reach thy ear. 
 
LATER READINGS 91 
 
 Nothing ? Ah, who shall affirm it ? 
 
 Ah, can it be 
 That all we know in this world below 
 
 Can die in the memory ? 
 That naught of the past shall live, 
 
 Of the love, and the joy, and the dear 
 
 Affections that bound us here ? 
 Ah, no ! if we live, they as well will live 
 
 In another sphere. 
 
 The body we loved shall moulder 
 
 And pass away ; 
 
 No trace or sign of the life that was 
 thine 
 
 In its earthly form shall stay. 
 But the spirit, oh, where is that ? 
 
 Gone, like a spoken word, 
 
 Passed, like a vanished chord, 
 Where ? To that question, what answer 
 
 Was ever heard ? 
 
 Here in thy grave we lay thee, 
 
 Knowing at least 
 That the evil and strife of earthly life 
 
 For thee hath ceased. 
 And of the life that is coming, 
 
 The untried, vaster scope, 
 
 Weeping here, let us hope 
 
92 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 That we shall again be united 
 When the dark gates ope. 
 
 And here, by the way, I see, lying be 
 side these lines, another set of verses on 
 somewhat the same line of thought. 
 Shall I read them ? 
 She. Do. 
 He. 
 
 When this frail life is over, you say, 
 And we from this earth have passed away, 
 Where stumbling we walk, with our far 
 thing light 
 
 Striving to pierce through the infinite, 
 Guessing and groping with Hope and 
 
 Faith 
 
 Till the curtain dark is drawn by Death, 
 Ah ! then all things which are dark to us 
 
 here 
 In that Life beyond will be all made 
 
 clear. 
 Then, we shall know. 
 
 Perhaps 
 
 Perhaps ? 
 Yes, perhaps we shall know ; and then, 
 
 perhaps, 
 
 We shall know nothing and silently lapse 
 Into an utter nonentity, 
 
LATER READINGS 93 
 
 When naught we shall know or feel or 
 
 see, 
 
 And nothing shall even seek to know, 
 Content in a negative state to be 
 From all Life s painful positives free 
 In that peace and rest that we here below 
 Seek for, and find not, and long for in 
 
 vain, 
 Doomed through this life to struggle 
 
 and strain, 
 
 With a glimmer of joy and hope and light 
 That with feeble flashes illumines our 
 
 night. 
 
 What do you hope for with Faith so fond 
 In that infinite unknown life beyond, 
 Better than peace and an infinite rest ? 
 Of all that you hope, is not that the best ? 
 
 Is there anything better in life than 
 
 sleep ? 
 
 And if Death be a long, eternal, deep 
 And dreamless slumber, no care or task, 
 What better and sweeter could mortal 
 
 ask? 
 
 Ah, yes, perhaps, and yet, my friend, 
 How futile this life, if such be the end ! 
 
94 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Ah, what do we know about it ? 
 Let us hope and believe, for what should 
 we do in our sorrow without such a hope 
 and belief ? That is about the only con 
 solation that is given to us. 
 
 He. All speculations as to what may 
 come hereafter, when this life is over, 
 are of course vague and dim, with no 
 certainty, and only such expectations as 
 Faith and Hope may give us. We can 
 not explain what comes after this life 
 more than what went before it. What 
 were we, and where were we, before we 
 came into this world ? But it is a sin 
 gular fact that we never speculate as to 
 a previous life, and only think of that in 
 the future, which is to come after death 
 has taken us from this. But, seek as we 
 will, the door is shut ; all that we know 
 is that we are here now, where we were, 
 and where we are going, who knows ? 
 " Que scais-je ? " as old Montaigne s 
 motto reads. 
 
 She. Well, is there any use in specu 
 lating about it ? The infinite " may be " 
 must content us. With all these vast 
 questions I do not trouble myself. I am 
 here, and that is enough. Whatever is, 
 
LATER READINGS 95 
 
 is right, and whatever will be, will be, 
 and be right. The Lord s prayer is, 
 " Give us each day our daily bread," 
 not give us to-day to-morrow s bread. 
 To-morrow must take care of itself, and 
 will, doubtless. We cannot do anything 
 to alter what is called Destiny. But 
 we do know what our duty is, and that 
 presses on us as the day goes, and gen 
 erally we know what it is, though at 
 times we make great mistakes, and at 
 other times willfully disobey the duties 
 we know. But don t let us go on with 
 these speculations as to the Future or the 
 Past. Neither of us knows anything about 
 them, and I don t want to have my mind 
 disturbed by any such thoughts. Let us 
 rather enjoy what we have. I don t 
 think it was quite fair in you to introduce 
 any such topics. The day is beautiful. 
 Let us enjoy it. 
 
 He. Yes. That would be best. But 
 as I was turning over these leaves, my 
 eye chanced upon some verses touching 
 on some of these questions. 
 
 She. Oh, if you have written a poem 
 in this vein, do let me hear it ! That is 
 a different thing from prosaic specula- 
 
96 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 tion on what we do not know or under 
 stand. One has a right to dream, how 
 ever wild one s dreams may be. 
 
 He. Now I look at these verses, they 
 don t seem to throw any light on what we 
 were saying. 
 
 She. No matter ! read them. 
 
 He. Well, such as they are, here 
 they are. They have only relation to 
 the life to come after death, not to the 
 life behind, before birth. They were 
 written after the death of a dearly 
 valued friend : 
 
 Smiling if I the days recall 
 
 When Life was glad, and Hope un 
 shaken, 
 Even while I smile a tear will fall 
 
 For all that ruthless Death has taken. 
 
 And what to thee, in vain I ask, 
 
 Hath Death, the dark, the silent, given ? 
 
 An infinite sleep, or some grand task, 
 Peace Rest or all our hopes call 
 heaven ? 
 
 I only know what was is gone 
 
 Beyond all earthly sense and seeing, 
 
LATER READINGS 97 
 
 The smile, the form, the touch, the tone, 
 Have but a dim remembered being. 
 
 I only know no answers come 
 
 To all my longing, praying, sighing, 
 
 That all beyond is deaf, still, dumb, 
 And yields to me no faint replying. 
 
 Still I have Faith, for what were Life, 
 If Faith and Hope were taken from 
 
 us? 
 
 If after this world s strain, toil, strife, 
 Death should to silent nothing doom 
 us? 
 
 There, somewhere, when this Life is 
 
 o er, 
 All that seems dark here shall be 
 
 righted, 
 
 And with the loved ones gone before 
 We shall again be reunited. 
 
 Better that higher Hope, Faith, Trust, 
 Vague though it be, howe er un 
 certain, 
 Than to believe Life is but dust 
 
 When Death across it draws its cur 
 tain. 
 
98 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Yes, yes ! a hundred times 
 yes ! For without such faith and trust 
 we should be like sailless and rudderless 
 ships, drifting in the dark night in a wide 
 sea of doubt. But we do believe, we can 
 not help believing, say what we will. 
 
 He. Yes, let us hope, and have faith. 
 But hope is such an Ignis Fatuus, and 
 leads us so wildly astray at times. 
 
 She. I care not if it does. It is de 
 lightful even to hope for the impossible, 
 and we are never weary of a certain kind 
 of belief that by some miracle even our 
 wildest hope may be realized. Reason 
 has nothing to do with this dim condition 
 of the mind. Though we know we are 
 perfectly foolish in allowing some hopes 
 to come in, still we cannot entirely drive 
 them away. We argue with them ; thrust 
 them out ; shut the door on them, bar it, 
 bolt it ; fancy we have done with it ; and 
 then in a moment it stands smiling at us, 
 just as enticing as ever. Hope comes 
 from the land of dreams, invents Arabian 
 Nights, brings genii and spirits with it 
 to transform all the world, and though 
 Reason laughs at all these genii and phan 
 tasms of the imagination, there is always 
 
LATER READINGS 99 
 
 a vague somewhat which does cling to us 
 despite our will. We take auguries from 
 all sorts of things and events ; we believe 
 in presentiments ; we cut for fates in 
 books ; we woo luck ; we wish, when we 
 first see the new moon ; we are enchanted 
 if we find a four-leaved clover ; we think 
 it brings luck to pick up a crooked old nail 
 or horseshoe that lies in our path ; we 
 wear lucky sixpences, and amulets of for 
 tune. We know perfectly well that this is 
 all folly, but still we have a sort of half 
 faith in all these superstitions, don t we ? 
 He. Of course we do. Hope always 
 stands on tiptoe listening and longing, 
 and the worst or the best of it is that our 
 foolishest hopes sometimes are realized 
 in the most unexpected way. Are there 
 any such things as what we call acci 
 dents ? Is not everything ruled by 
 law ? But what the absolute law is we 
 do not know, we only guess. Our fears, 
 too, have quite as many superstitions as 
 our hopes. We are afraid, some of us, 
 to put on our left stocking first. Who 
 dares to invite thirteen persons to table ? 
 I have known serious persons who took 
 particular pains to put their right foot 
 
100 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 foremost in coming into the room, lest it 
 should bring ill-luck if they entered with 
 the left foot first. We think it will bring 
 bad luck if we see the new moon over 
 the left shoulder, or accidentally put 
 three lights on a table. More or less, I 
 suspect that everybody has some pet 
 superstition, unwilling as he may be to 
 own it. I admit that I have some, but 
 I shall not tell you what they are; and 
 you have too, have n t you? 
 
 She. Don t ask me ! Don t you think 
 I am superior to all that foolishness ? 
 
 He. No, honestly I don t. 
 
 She. Well, I am not going to be put 
 under cross-examination on this subject. 
 
 He. But would you dare to set out on 
 a journey on Friday, or to be married on 
 that day ? 
 
 She. I don t intend to be married at 
 all, if you please. 
 
 He. But perhaps I don t please. What 
 will you do then ? 
 
 She. I will be married on Friday, and 
 set off on my wedding tour the same 
 day. 
 
 He. No, you won t, and you know you 
 won t. Nothing would induce you to be 
 
LATER READINGS 101 
 
 so foolish. What ! in despite of the Italian 
 saying 
 
 She. What is the Italian saying ? 
 
 He. "Ne di Venerdi, ne di Marte, 
 non si sposa e non si parte," not only 
 on Friday, but on Tuesday also, you 
 must neither set out on a journey nor be 
 married. I confess that I should not 
 like to begin anything on a Friday. I 
 know this is all nonsense, and I en 
 deavored one day to prove it to be non 
 sense. So a friend of mine began, with 
 considerable self-assertion, a statue on a 
 Friday, to show his total disbelief in such 
 an idle superstition. He was particu 
 larly pompous in doing this. He made 
 all his preparations on Friday, ordered all 
 his irons to support the statue and began 
 his statue on Friday. But, unfortunately 
 for the experiment, after a fortnight of 
 hard work, during which all went wrong, 
 to his great mortification he was finally 
 obliged to pull it all down and begin 
 anew. 
 
 She. And everybody laughed at him, 
 and said : " I told you so." 
 
 He. Of course they did. 
 
 She. And was he obstinate, and did he 
 
102 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 renew his experiment and begin again on 
 a Friday ? 
 
 He. No ; he did not. He had had 
 enough of it. He bowed down humbly 
 and courted Fortune in despite of his 
 principles, and began anew on Monday, 
 it being agreed that Monday is a lucky 
 day, and all went well. I must tell you 
 too another experience of mine, in which 
 I owed my life to my obeying the super 
 stition against setting out on a journey 
 on Friday. That was the day when it 
 was far more convenient for me to go 
 than any other. I was pressed for time, 
 all my preparations were made, when 
 I said to myself : " What s the use, bet 
 ter have all the luck one can get. It 
 is all very foolish, but but I will wait 
 till to-morrow." And lucky it was that 
 I did, for the very train in which I 
 should have been, had I left on Friday, 
 had a terrible accident, and I know not 
 how many passengers were killed and 
 maimed and ruined for life. What do 
 you say to that ? 
 
 She. Oh, what a lucky superstition it 
 was ! If I had such experiences I 
 should not dare to do anything on Friday. 
 
LATER READINGS 103 
 
 He. But apropos to what we were say 
 ing a few moments ago about our hopes 
 and fears, I think I have two little poems 
 here somewhere, touching upon this sub 
 ject. Ah, yes ; here they are. I will 
 read them to you. 
 
 She. Do. 
 
 He. First I will read you this, which is 
 only a fear, one of those fears which 
 come over us at the very height of our 
 happiness ; one of those dark thoughts 
 which suddenly shadow the spirit with 
 terror, and make us feel that nothing in 
 life, even at its culmination of joy and 
 love, is secure. 
 
 My dearest heart, my life, my joy, my 
 
 love, 
 
 Even as I gaze into thy loving eyes, 
 And feel their blessing like the heavens 
 
 above, 
 At times the o erwhelming thought and 
 
 fear will rise 
 
 Lest thou be taken from me, and, be 
 reft 
 
 Of thy dear presence, life s sad rem 
 nant through 
 
104 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 I with dead memories, graves of joy, be 
 
 left. 
 
 Ah, then what should I do ? What 
 should I do ? 
 
 Pray God that this may never, never be. 
 And yet, how vain the hope ! Too 
 
 well I know 
 That hour must come at last to you, to 
 
 me; 
 
 We cannot both together hope to go. 
 Death will not take us both into its 
 
 arms, 
 
 And bear us both together to its rest, 
 Else death would be all free from life s 
 
 alarms, 
 
 And be as to a child its mother s 
 breast. 
 
 But ah ! the fearful thought, like some 
 
 dark cloud, 
 Comes o er my spirit, that at last, 
 
 alone, 
 
 I may be left, with spirit sad and bowed, 
 Joyless to tread life s mournful jour 
 ney on. 
 
 Oh, my dear love, stay with me to the 
 end! 
 
LATER READINGS 105 
 
 My hope, my joy, iny life, oh, stay 
 
 with me ! 
 Till the dark gates of death shall open, 
 
 lend 
 The blessing of thy love, my angel 
 
 be. 
 
 She. That last hope is too selfish. 
 Ah, to go together is the true wish of 
 love, that neither should be left to tread 
 life s dreary remnant alone after the 
 other is taken. And yet how vain to 
 wish, how useless to hope, that any such 
 consummation of life can ever take 
 place ! 
 
 He. Yes ; but what is horrible in an 
 ticipation, what is equally terrible in fact 
 when it comes, we have to bear, and 
 Time, the only assuager of sorrow, finally 
 throws a veil over our deepest griefs. 
 
 She. Yes ; but life is never the same 
 afterwards. It has for all of us a differ 
 ent aspect, a different sentiment. The 
 best of its melodies are played in a 
 lower and a minor tone. The glad lift, 
 the impassioned utterance, the bounding 
 hope, the unquestioning joy and faith, 
 the confidence in life, are ours no more. 
 
106 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 We have to learn the sadder lesson of 
 patience. We hold life s flowers in our 
 hand with a looser grasp, and almost 
 expect them to fall, thankful if they are 
 ours for a moment. 
 
 He. Yes ; life is only a black-letter 
 text : 
 
 Not till the light of joy has passed away, 
 The orb of patience rises full and 
 
 great 
 To rule our life with soft and shadowy 
 
 sway, 
 
 And sanctify the ruins wrought by 
 fate. 
 
 When sorrow calls us, from the feast we 
 
 rise ; 
 Its lights are glaring, trivial are its 
 
 smiles, 
 And Thought walks on through buried 
 
 memories 
 
 Like some cowled monk along the 
 tomb-strewn aisles. 
 
 We wend to silence. In its cell we sit 
 And read the mournful missal of man s 
 fate, 
 
LATER READINGS 107 
 
 The sad black-letter text in which is writ 
 E en the illumined chapter of the 
 great. 
 
 Girt round by walls we never can o er- 
 
 peer, 
 With one dark gate where all our 
 
 pathways end, 
 
 Puzzled we stand, in hope and yet in fear, 
 Unknowing where the ceaseless passers 
 wend. 
 
 "Farewell," they say. "To love and 
 
 joy we go." 
 We have not faith, or we should smile 
 
 again. 
 But ah, we beat the gate, and, wild with 
 
 woe, 
 
 We struggle like a madman with his 
 chain. 
 
 Yet with this farthing candle of our faith 
 Into the dark, dread, vast beyond we 
 
 peer, 
 Where each beholds upon the blank of 
 
 death 
 
 The trembling shadows of his hope or 
 fear. 
 
108 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Don t let us go into these dark 
 questions, to which we none of us can 
 find any sufficient answer except in our 
 hope and our faith. 
 
 He. But do what we will, we cannot 
 help asking these questions and longing 
 vainly for some definite answer. Un 
 less, indeed, we accept the " we are 
 told," and calmly, without taking the 
 trouble even to think (which is, perhaps, 
 of not much use after all), lay our heads 
 down on the steps of the Church and take 
 for granted all that it says. 
 
 She. Oh, I am not going to allow my 
 self to be drawn into any religious dis 
 cussions. I did not come out here into 
 the woods for that. 
 
 He. And I am afraid if we did we 
 should find ourselves at last entirely in 
 the woods, and utterly lost, not in the 
 least knowing the way out or on. So let 
 us stay where we are. But now that 
 we are in this mood, let me read you a 
 poem which is somewhat in the same 
 tone of thought, and ought to go with 
 the other. 
 
 She. Do. 
 
LATER READINGS 109 
 
 He. 
 
 You pray to God, now as a power of love 
 Who will forgive you all the sins you 
 
 tell; 
 Now as a stern, unpardoning power 
 
 above, 
 To all those sins and faults implacable. 
 
 You make Him share dominion over all 
 With the dark tempter, unto whom is 
 
 given 
 The strength to thwart his every plan, 
 
 and call 
 
 The soul to hell which He had framed 
 for heaven. 
 
 I envy you your faith, your fixed belief 
 That you the secret of the soul pos 
 sess, 
 
 Sure of its future when this life, so brief, 
 Hath passed away to utter nothingness. 
 
 All that I know is that I nothing know ; 
 
 All is a vague and clouded mystery. 
 Whence we have come, and whither we 
 
 shall go, 
 
 And why we all are here is dark to 
 me. 
 
110 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 God hath created man, you say. To me 
 Rather it seems, when the wide world 
 
 I scan, 
 
 With all the myths and dreams of his 
 tory, 
 
 Man hath created God, and not God 
 man ; 
 
 Created God after the image crude 
 Of his own being, like some tyrant 
 
 king, 
 Whose purpose prayer can change ; who 
 
 must be wooed 
 By self-abasement, pain, and suffering. 
 
 If we are good, our spirits are not stirred 
 By love of justice, honor, virtue, love, 
 
 But for the sake of some vague, dim re 
 ward 
 That may be given in some life above. 
 
 She. I am afraid there is something 
 only too true in that last thought, for 
 surely if we look through history we 
 find that man has always shaped his God 
 after his own individuality, and given 
 Him at all periods of time the shape, 
 form, and characteristic spirit, as well as 
 features, of a human being. 
 
LATER READINGS 111 
 
 He. And now, if you are not too much 
 bored, I should like to read you another 
 copy of verses, as our grandfathers used 
 to call them, before we quit this sub 
 ject and train of thought. Perhaps it is 
 a little too gloomy and serious for a sum 
 mer s morning like this, but if you are 
 to hear it at all, you may be, after the 
 last poem, somewhat in its vein, and 
 might like to hear it now. 
 
 She. Pray read it. 
 
 He. 
 I stand in the midnight silence, 
 
 The throbbing stars are above me, 
 And alone I stand, and I long for the 
 lost 
 
 Who used to cherish and love me. 
 To the infinite distance beyond 
 
 I stretch out my hands imploring : 
 Oh, give me one word, one word, I 
 cry, 
 
 All my soul in my prayer outpouring. 
 
 With an infinite longing, a prayer 
 
 That is wordless, I cry, with a yearn 
 ing* 
 
 A hope beyond hope, all my soul going 
 forth : 
 
112 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 And then, with no answer returning; 
 In its passion my spirit uplifts 
 
 Like a wave on its high crest swaying, 
 All shattered to fall, with a baffled 
 sense 
 
 Of the vanity of all praying. 
 
 No answer, no sign, no answer ; 
 
 Blank silence to all this craving. 
 All nature, all heaven, deaf, dumb to 
 us, 
 
 All our longing mere empty raving. 
 God by no sign declaring 
 
 He listens to pity or love us, 
 But, leaving us here in our ignorant 
 blindness, 
 
 Outstretches no hand above us. 
 
 How many hearts are breaking, 
 
 How many weeping and sighing, 
 How many darkly despairing, 
 
 How many starving and dying ; 
 How many praying and praying, 
 
 With wildest imploring ; but never 
 Comes back the least answering word or 
 sign, 
 
 And Death s secret is kept forever. 
 
LATER READINGS 113 
 
 The mystery who can unriddle 
 
 By which we are ever haunted ? 
 To Life s terrible question Death s in 
 finite puzzle 
 
 What answer was ever granted ? 
 Wherever we go it pursues us, 
 
 When we seek to grasp it it flies us, 
 And despite all our longings, our ques 
 tions, our prayers, 
 
 The secret forever defies us. 
 
 All Nature is unrelenting, 
 
 Tears and prayers are alike unavailing 
 To touch her pity. Cold, cruel, and 
 
 hard, 
 
 She heeds not our pain or our ailing. 
 To the good, to the bad, as by chance, 
 Fates gives both her stripes and ca 
 resses ; 
 Do all that we can, what avails it at 
 
 last? 
 As she chooses, she curses or blesses. 
 
 Where, then, shall we turn in our grief 
 When life s burdens upon us are 
 
 lying ? 
 
 When despair at the heart s door is 
 knocking, 
 
114 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 And to prayer there is no replying ? 
 Ah, well ! What we know is nothing, 
 What we hope for, almost beyond 
 
 hoping ; 
 But still let us hope, and let faith be our 
 
 staff 
 While here we are blindly groping. 
 
 We have but to bow our heads, 
 
 And humbly accept what is given. 
 The veil of the future no mortal can lift, 
 
 Nor show us a glimpse of it even. 
 Life to come is a guess, at the best, 
 
 At a vague perfection of beauty. 
 But the life we have here is ours, and we 
 know 
 
 That its law should be love and duty. 
 
 She. Yes, that is sad enough, and true 
 enough. What do we really know about 
 anything ? But still one must have faith 
 in something and hope for something, 
 though it passes all understanding. All 
 nature is deaf to our longing and dumb 
 to our asking, as much in our griefs as in 
 our joys. It never really sympathizes 
 with us, except, perhaps, in our calmest 
 moods. To our passions and longings and 
 cravings, it has no answering voice. 
 
LATER READINGS 115 
 
 He. Ay ; and not only to our deep emo 
 tions of passion or sorrow it does not 
 respond, but often seems to stand before 
 us calm, silent, with a tantalizing smile, 
 almost of scorn, or to answer to our ap 
 peals with a discordant tone that jars on 
 all our sensibilities. For instance, 
 
 Neath the tree where we first told our 
 
 love 
 
 Despairing I stand, all alone, 
 All alone in this dear, happy grove, 
 
 And weep for the days that are flown. 
 Crying out in my bitterest grief, 
 Is there no one to give me relief 
 And help me this sorrow to bear ? 
 
 And I know there is no one, not one ; 
 There is nothing but Nature, and what 
 
 does she care 
 
 For the past and the lost and the gone ? 
 What help can she give ? All the sky, 
 
 all the air, 
 Is as gleamingly happy, as cloudlessly 
 
 fair, 
 
 As if pain, death, and grief were un 
 known. 
 
 No sorrow, no sadness is hers ! 
 Through the leaves up the hillside a soft 
 whisper stirs, 
 
116 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 The banks with gay wild-flowers are 
 
 strewn ; 
 The birds are all singing their fresh 
 
 matin song, 
 
 And the brook babbling gayly goes purl 
 ing along 
 
 To gladden each pebble and stone. 
 All is sunshine and springtime, all Nature 
 
 rejoices, 
 No voice but of gladness I hear in her 
 
 voices, 
 
 Not a note, not a tone 
 Of sorrow or sadness, but all things 
 
 cry out 
 In their freshness and joy with a jubilant 
 
 shout, 
 And I so alone, 
 So wretched that all I can think of is 
 
 death 
 And the days that are flown. 
 
 Oh, Nature, so silent, so heartless, so 
 
 cruel, 
 
 Have you nothing to me to say ? 
 I know but too well there is no more re 
 newal 
 
 For all that has passed away. 
 But why be so glad and so gay, 
 
LATER READINGS 117 
 
 As if all of this life was pure joy, 
 
 With sorrow and death coming never 
 The fondest and dearest to sever, 
 
 Unrelenting to blast and destroy ? 
 
 Why torture my heart with your glad 
 ness, 
 Why sing with such careless delight, 
 
 While my soul, in the depths of its sad 
 ness, 
 Is dark with the darkness of night ? 
 
 Of a night when not even a star 
 Can be seen to illume 
 
 In the heavens so clouded, so far, 
 Its hopeless and terrible gloom. 
 
 If you cannot console me, oh, help me to 
 
 bear, 
 
 At least, what I cannot forget. 
 Weep with me, storm with me, come to 
 
 me and share 
 
 Life s darkness and grief and re 
 gret ; 
 
 Tell over with me all the memories dear, 
 All the joys that are lost, that are 
 
 past ; 
 
 Oh, be not so cold, irresponsively fair, 
 Lay your hand on my breast, give me 
 rest, give me rest ; 
 
118 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Cloud the skies, all too bright in their joy 
 
 and their light, 
 And with tears all the world overcast. 
 
 She. I am afraid we have got into too 
 sad a vein. The day is too bright for 
 such strains, for it is somewhat like what 
 you have described in this poem. And I 
 am happy to say that I see no thunder 
 cloud rising yet, though it may come upon 
 us, and will be sure to if you write a 
 poem about it. See if you can t find some 
 poem in which you take a little more 
 happy view of life. I think we have 
 been sad long enough. I should like to 
 hear something more paradisiacal now. 
 Can t you transport me into some ideal 
 spot, where there is nothing to weep over 
 and mourn over or regret ? 
 
 He. I am afraid all these latter verses 
 are wearisomely sad. I will look and 
 see if I cannot find something a little 
 less gloomy. Ah, yes ! here is one that 
 perhaps you will find as much too ideal 
 as the others were too sadly real. At all 
 events, it will serve for a change, for an 
 other kind of movement after all these 
 largos and adagios. 
 
LATER READINGS 119 
 
 Smile, dearest, smile ! 
 
 Thy love to me 
 Is life s enchanted isle 
 
 In its deep sea. 
 
 Stately and tall, 
 
 There grows the palm ; 
 There peace broods over all, 
 
 Beauty and calm. 
 
 Whispers the wind, 
 
 Murmurs the sea ; 
 All is so sweet and kind, 
 
 There I would be. 
 
 Blue are the skies, 
 
 Fathomless, deep, 
 Softly the clouds that rise 
 
 Over them sweep. 
 
 All there is bloom, 
 
 Tenderness, grace, 
 Never the thought of doom 
 
 Haunts that blest place. 
 
 No storms wild rage, 
 
 No toil, no strife ; 
 There is the golden age, 
 
 There love and life. 
 
120 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Worn out with care, 
 
 Weary, oppressed, 
 Let me seek solace there, 
 
 Let me find rest. 
 
 She. Well, that is an ideal land, such 
 as we never see ; however, we long for it. 
 
 He. Oh, yes. Love finds it easily. 
 
 She. If you say so, of course it is so, 
 for I suppose you know. But, unfor 
 tunately, I am very ignorant of those 
 southern seas and enchanted isles. 
 
 He. I do not profess to know anything 
 about it, but I guess, I fancy, I imagine 
 there must be some such Elysium, at 
 least in dreams there is, and why not in 
 reality, where the breeze is ever mild 
 and the air ever perfumed ; where the 
 flowers grow without attendance or care ; 
 where even the rain sings as it falls ; 
 where nothing is harsh, and all things are 
 perfect, as they are in the Elysian fields. 
 
 She. Perhaps it was in the garden 
 where Adam first met Eve, and she gave 
 him that fatal apple. I suppose it must 
 have been a place into which the devil 
 never entered, or at least before he en 
 tered ; afterwards, you know, there was 
 
LATER READINGS 121 
 
 a terrible shindy. Cain got terribly 
 angry about something, I don t know pre 
 cisely what. 
 
 He. Yes ; I think I have heard of it, 
 and that our progenitor found consolation 
 in a woman of Nod. Where Nod is, 
 and where the woman came from, and how 
 she happened to be there, and who made 
 her, are questions I cannot answer, but I 
 have always felt the greatest interest in 
 it and her. The nearest approximation I 
 have ever made to the laud of Nod is a 
 dreamland, and perhaps the woman 
 there too was a dream. At all events, I 
 cannot help desiring to know a little 
 more about her, if only because she was 
 our earliest ancestress. 
 
 She. Then she must have been beauti 
 ful, as we have already agreed. 
 
 He. You know it was awkward for 
 Cain to have nobody to marry, not even 
 a sister. 
 
 She. Yes, rather, I suppose. But who 
 was this woman of Nod ? I believe you 
 invented her. 
 
 He. On the contrary, she invented me. 
 As for who she was, I refer you to Gen 
 esis. 
 
122 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. I shall read it carefully. 
 
 He. And I hope you will understand it. 
 As for the first chapters, about the gen 
 erations of men, I confess I do not, and 
 I see no light as to who our original an 
 cestress was, whether we came from Seth, 
 or from Cain and the woman of Nod, 
 and whether Eve s name was not Adam. 
 
 She. What do you mean ? 
 
 He. Why, you remember that in one 
 account of creation there, God created 
 them male and female, and called them 
 Adam, don t you ? And in that last 
 account there does not seem to have been 
 any Cain or any Abel, unless Cainan, the 
 grandson of Seth, was he. 
 
 She. Don t ask me what I remember, 
 for I remember nothing about any of 
 them except what everybody knows about 
 Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel, and 
 I don t wish to talk about them, or think 
 about them here. 
 
 He. Well, you remember Paradise at 
 least, and how charming it was until 
 that event of the apple. With your per 
 mission, I am going to take you there, 
 just for a moment. 
 
 She. Do, I beg you. 
 
LATER READINGS 123 
 
 He. 
 
 T was in the lovely month of May ; 
 Clear was the heaven s azure tent, 
 Save where some cloudlet, lost, astray, 
 Loitering along its blue field went ; 
 The world was sown with flowers ; the 
 
 breeze, 
 All perfumed, stirred the blossoming 
 
 trees ; 
 
 And o er the green path through the wood 
 A tender spirit seemed to brood, 
 As we two wandered, idly, slow, 
 
 With throbbing hearts, not quite at 
 
 ease, 
 Ah, dearest ! yes, you know, you 
 
 know, 
 T was not so very long ago, 
 
 Beneath these silent, shadowy trees. 
 
 More than we had what cared we for ? 
 
 We loved, and did not that suffice 
 A light on everything to pour 
 
 As pure as that of Paradise ? 
 The world was fresh with youth and 
 
 spring ; 
 
 What had the orioles then to sing 
 We did not know as well as they, 
 And better, too ! for it was May, 
 
124 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 And we were young, and scarcely knew 
 
 A wish beyond the passing hour, 
 And both our hearts were opening too, 
 And glowing with love s tender hue, 
 Like any opening flower. 
 
 And there it was our love we told, 
 
 With many an inner hope and doubt, 
 But once t was said, we grew more bold, 
 
 And love put all our fears to rout. 
 Birds sang ; the woods their light leaves 
 
 shook, 
 With glad, gay voice laughed out the 
 
 brook, 
 
 And all the world around, above, 
 Cried out to us : Love, only love. 
 Ah, dearest ! yes, you know they did ; 
 
 No voice of nature there 
 Our happy troth of love forbid, 
 Our happy utterances chid, 
 
 All seemed its bliss to share. 
 
 There ; there is no mourning in that, is 
 there? 
 
 She. It is charming ; and I hope all 
 this happiness lasted, for when he uttered 
 what he did, you know, he was still under 
 the spell and the charm. The mourn- 
 
LATER READINGS 125 
 
 ing, I suppose, came in much later, if it 
 came at all, as I hope it did not. For 
 my own part, I am happy to leave them 
 where they are. I do not wish to fore 
 cast the possibilities of the future. I 
 confess I was afraid that some sadness 
 would come in at the end. 
 
 He. Sadness always comes in at the 
 end of everything. Life at such heights 
 does not last. But I think we can leave 
 them there to wander in their Elysi 
 um without forecasting or intruding. 
 Whether that day, bright and clear as it 
 was, ended in a thunderstorm, or, worse, 
 in a gray mist, I know not, and care not. 
 Nor do I care whether Cain killed Abel the 
 next day, and I am perfectly willing to 
 say that if he did, he probably knew why 
 he did, though I don t. Perhaps it had 
 something to do with the woman of Nod. 
 
 She. Oh, don t let us talk any more 
 about any of those people, but rather 
 read me something else. You see that I 
 am like the daughter of the Horse-leech, 
 who always said, Give ! give ! When I 
 looked into that mysterious book of yours 
 you showed me, I saw something there 
 about hopes and fears. If it is not too 
 sad, will you read it to me ? 
 
126 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. I am afraid it is not very gay, 
 but, such as it is, here it is at your service. 
 At all events, it has more to do with 
 hopes than with fears, if I remember it 
 right. 
 
 She. If you remember it right ? I like 
 that. You know that you remember 
 every word of it. 
 
 He. I know nothing of the kind. You 
 don t suppose I burthen my memory 
 with all the rubbish I write. Gott be- 
 wahr ! or, as my English friend trans 
 lated it, God beware ! I have some 
 thing better to do, I hope, than that ; nor 
 do I believe I could repeat by memory a 
 single poem of all that I have written. 
 The fact is that I thrust them away, and 
 try to forget all about them, so that when 
 I look over them I possibly may put my 
 self in the position of a third person, and 
 exercise a little of my judgment upon 
 them. I scribble them on all sorts of 
 fragments of paper, too. That is a fad 
 of mine. A great white, spotless sheet 
 almost frightens me. It seems like a 
 sort of challenge. But with any old, 
 worthless sheet I feel more at ease, more 
 familiar, more, as it were, in my dressing- 
 
LATER READINGS 127 
 
 gown. I don t think I could sit down 
 in a dress coat and white choker, and 
 take out a clean, beautiful, hot-pressed 
 sheet of paper and write what you call 
 a poem on it, of malice prepense, as it 
 were. 
 
 She. Well, but the poem. 
 
 He. Here it is. 
 
 Tis the postman s knock I hear. 
 
 What has he come to bring ? 
 Hope looks out of my heart, and fear 
 
 Of nothing of everything. 
 A foolish hope of I know not what ; 
 An idle fear of nothing begot, 
 
 That still in my heart will spring 
 
 With an anxious questioning. 
 
 Every hour at my heart 
 
 Knocks a fear and a hope, 
 Half glad, half sad ; at the summons I 
 start, 
 
 And the door to hope s promise ope, 
 And there Disappointment sneering 
 
 stands, 
 Only to show me his empty hands 
 
 With his cheating horoscope, 
 
 And no star in the heaven s whole cope. 
 
128 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Yet under all fears will spring 
 
 A hope that I cannot quell, 
 That the very next knock may bring 
 
 The surprise of a miracle. 
 Some Ginn from the world of dreams to 
 
 say : 
 
 " Order, great master, your slave will 
 obey. 
 
 There is nothing impossible, 
 
 As we spirits know full well." 
 
 And then I shall answer, oh, what, 
 
 What shall I answer ? Who knows ? 
 Make the whole world for me what it is 
 not, 
 
 Make it a world of rose ; 
 Make it what dreamers have dreamt it 
 
 might be, 
 When life and love are in sympathy, 
 
 And beauty forever flows, 
 
 And hope to reality grows. 
 
 Make it both young and old ; 
 
 Make it both gentle and strong ; 
 Sweep away care to the devil s fold, 
 
 Purge all this life from wrong. 
 Lift me, set joy on the mountains, 
 Till life from its myriad fountains 
 
LATER READINGS 129 
 
 Fill all the earth with its song, 
 While the angels its chorus prolong. 
 
 Not from one only, from all 
 Lift the great burden of life ; 
 
 Strip from the weary world its pall 
 Of sorrow and pain and strife ; 
 
 Spread the broad banner of peace, 
 
 Bid all life s cruelty cease 
 That now in the world is rife, 
 And strikes at the heart like a knife. 
 
 Dream of wild dreams, not to be, 
 
 Not to be here, at least. 
 Ah, hope s mirage ! Shall we see 
 
 Thy perfection when life has ceased ? 
 Will the promise so dear, so ideal, 
 In the world of the future be real, 
 
 When the soul from this world is re 
 leased, 
 
 And humanity s hunger appeased ? 
 
 Perhaps, though I see not how, 
 
 For the knocking of doubt and fear, 
 
 Beating forever, dull and low, 
 At the door of my heart I hear. 
 
 Is it the knock of some mighty Ginn, 
 
 Or an angel s or devil s now coming in ? 
 
130 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 An angel to wipe away every tear, 
 Or a fiend, with his old habitual sneer, 
 To tempt us to death and sin ? 
 
 She. I don t think you quite knew 
 what you wanted. But no matter. If 
 we are to have a visit from the other 
 world, pray let us have a Ginn. I have 
 a longing to see a Ginn, for I was 
 brought up on "The Arabian Nights," 
 and I know they can do anything they 
 please. 
 
 He. You mean The Arabian Nights " 
 as we read it in the old English version ; 
 but, I am sorry to say, in the original it 
 certainly was not written for delicate 
 ears. There has been a translation of 
 this of late years into English, but I 
 recommend you not to look into it, 
 Burton s, but if you see the cover of it, 
 let that suffice. Guardi e passi. 
 
 She. Are we ever visited by spirits of 
 any kind good or evil from the un 
 known world of mystery ? My notion is 
 that they are born of ourselves, and are 
 only haunting ghosts of our desires, 
 exhalations rising up with or without 
 our call, like those that came from the 
 
LATER READINGS 131 
 
 Fisherman s jar, and assuming form be 
 fore us. 
 
 He. I am really very sorry, but I can 
 not answer that question satisfactorily, 
 because I never saw a spirit. Stop ! 
 when I say I never saw a spirit, I mean 
 with my bodily eyes and when I was 
 awake. In my dreams I have seen many 
 a one, and the other night I had a long 
 visit from a Ginn, or something that said 
 it was a Ginn ; and, for all I know, it was 
 one. 
 
 She. And what did he say ? 
 
 He. I am afraid he was a very tempt 
 ing spirit. However, you must decide. 
 I will read to you a little record made 
 the next morning of the chief things he 
 said to me. No ; on the whole, I won t 
 read it now. I see that it is long, and, 
 I am afraid, rather prosy, and does not 
 quite do justice to my Ginn. I will read 
 it some other time. 
 
 She. Some other time never comes. 
 We are told, " Seize the present by the 
 forelock," whatever that may be. 
 
 He. "Seize Time" is it not? Poor 
 old fellow, he is bald enough behind, but 
 according to all the representations of 
 
132 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 him by painters and poets, he has one 
 lock left on his forehead, and that is 
 what we are requested to seize ; why, I 
 don t know. 
 
 She. Yes, you do ; it is to stop him, 
 and enable you to break his hour-glass. 
 
 He. So it is. 
 
 She. But about the Ginn. I prefer 
 him to old Father Time. 
 
 He. No, not to-day, to-morrow. Sit 
 ting too long at any banqueting-table, 
 although you are provided with the 
 most exquisite of viands and the most de 
 licious of wines (as of course you have 
 been to-day), is sure to produce an in 
 digestion. You ve had enough for to 
 day, and more than enough, and so have 
 I. Let us go and wander about through 
 these delightful woods. I can show you 
 the haunts of fairies under the cool, green 
 shadows, and pure, deep wells where the 
 Naiads bathe, and groves where the 
 Dryads nestle, and beds of wild-flowers 
 on which Titania might sleep. These 
 woods are full of wonders to any one who 
 has the eye to see them. 
 
 She. Yes, to any one who has the eye 
 to see them and the soul to appreciate 
 
LATER READINGS 133 
 
 them. Nature to man is what he is. 
 We only find what we bring. The see 
 ing is in the spirit, not the eye, and all 
 things take the shape and color of the 
 mind. 
 
 He. I have a little poem, in which I 
 have endeavored to embody that idea, 
 and I will read it to you some day, if you 
 like. 
 
 She. Read it now. 
 
 He. I have n t it here. 
 
 She. Well, will you bring it to-morrow 
 and read it, and the Ginn ? 
 
 He. Yes. 
 
 She. You promise ? 
 
 He. I promise. 
 
 She. Well, in that case, we will make 
 a pause for to-day, and perhaps it will 
 be better so. And to-morrow, at the 
 same hour and the same place, we will 
 meet again, and you will bring some 
 more poems. Will you not ? And one 
 word more : you must forgive me for 
 all my apparent flippancy in what I have 
 said, and for my foolish comments and 
 criticisms. Believe me, my clear friend, 
 your poems have often touched me 
 deeply, and I cannot fitly thank you for 
 
134 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 your kindness in reading them to me. 
 In fact, I cannot tell you how deeply 
 they have touched me, and all my flip 
 pancy is but a veil thrown often over 
 myself to conceal what I scarcely dared 
 to own. Put it down to my shyness and 
 inability to express myself, won t you ? 
 Pray do. There are times when we 
 cannot, we dare not, give expression to 
 what moves us within, and we strive to 
 throw off our feelings by a laugh or a 
 banter when tears are too near, and we 
 dare not give way to our impulses. You 
 will make all excuses for me, won t you ? 
 
 He. You do not need them, I assure 
 you. I think we know each other and 
 can trust each other. 
 
 She. And you will bring me some more 
 poems and read them to me to-morrow ? 
 
 He. Certainly I will, if you really wish 
 it. But we have had enough for to-day, 
 and now let us drop the curtain and enjoy 
 the entr acte by wandering through the 
 woods and breathing this pure, delightful 
 air. And I will order Monsieur Cob 
 web to get his weapons in his hand, and 
 kill you a red-hipped humble-bee on the 
 top of a thistle, and bring you the honey 
 bag. Will that satisfy you ? 
 
LATER READINGS 135 
 
 She, Yes, provided you also bring 
 Peasblossom and Mustard Seed and 
 sweet Bully Bottom and his company. 
 Then, indeed, it will be " a most cour 
 ageous day a most happy hour ! " 
 
 [So finished that day s reading. The 
 next morning, at the same hour and in 
 the same place, they met, according to 
 agreement. It does not do for me, for 
 I am only an intruder, a chiel taking 
 notes, to say how pretty she looked, 
 lovely, I ought to say, and how sweetly 
 she smiled as she greeted him. She be 
 gan the conversation.] 
 
 She. Well, you are as good as your 
 word. Here you are, as you promised to 
 be, and with more poems, I hope. 
 
 He. Did not you know I should be ? 
 
 She. H m, h m ! I hoped I did not 
 quite trust poets are very slippery fel 
 lows. 
 
 He. How did you suppose I could break 
 such a promise ? In the first place, you 
 were to be here, and in the next place, 
 you had spread the glamour of your flat 
 tery over me by asking me to read more 
 
136 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 verses to you. Did any poet or poet 
 aster ever refuse such inducements and 
 turn his back to such an invitation ? 
 
 She. And now that all the proper pre 
 liminary flourishes have been made, sup 
 pose we begin. Let it be conceded that 
 I am the most beautiful of beings, the 
 most flattering of women, and you are 
 the perfectest of poets. 
 
 He. I never said either the one thing or 
 the other. 
 
 She. Then you do not admit that I am 
 the most beautiful of beings ? 
 
 He. I only objected that I did not say 
 so. Whatever I may think, I did not 
 put those thoughts into words. Of 
 course I know that I am the perfectest 
 of poets, and that nothing ever was so 
 faultless in thought and form and ex 
 pression as these verses of mine, and that 
 the world is utterly foolish and miserably 
 mean not to acknowledge this. But 
 somehow or other, mortifying as it is, 
 the world has not as yet recognized 
 their wonderful charm. Posterity, of 
 course, will, but I don t know that I shall 
 be any better for that. 
 
 She. You should take a return ticket, 
 
LATER READINGS 137 
 
 and come back unexpectedly and see. 
 Wreaths and laurels are, for the most 
 part, laid by the world upon the grave, 
 not upon the living head. 
 
 He. Oh, I think, on the whole, we get 
 what we deserve in this world while we 
 are living. Nay, perhaps I should say 
 at times a good deal more, but at all 
 events an ample and hearty recognition 
 of our merits as authors. For instance, 
 I took up a little book this morning, 
 and in the fly leaves at the end I found a 
 series of extracts from numerous notices 
 of some recent American books in vari 
 ous American papers, and I confess I 
 was as much surprised as delighted on 
 reading them. I knew that some of the 
 American writers were very clever and 
 amusing, but I confess that I had no idea 
 that some of the writers of novelettes and 
 short stories possessed such an amazing 
 power and genius. I find in three pages 
 of notices, given to three authors, that 
 one a lady, of course " has imagina 
 tion, breadth, and a daring and courage 
 oftenest spoken of as masculine ; " more 
 over, that she is " exquisitely ideal, and 
 her ideals are of an exalted order ; " that 
 
138 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 she " has made a conquest so complete 
 and astonishing as at once to give her 
 fame ; " that she has " wealth of im 
 agination and exuberance of striking 
 language," "straightforward grace that 
 captures the sympathy of the reader," 
 " freshness of feeling and a mingling of 
 pathos and humor which are simply de 
 licious." I find also that the next author 
 whose works are noticed "may easily 
 become the novelist-laureate " (what 
 ever that may be) ; that " she strikes a 
 new and richly loaded vein;" that she 
 " has a wealth of womanly love and ten 
 derness." The third author noticed has 
 "a portfolio of delightsome studies," 
 " musings on a golden granary full to the 
 brim," " true insight, polished irony, a 
 light and indescribable touch which lifts 
 you over a whole sea of froth and foam" 
 " to the true heart and soul of the 
 theme ; " one of his books is pronounced 
 a " noble volume," with " rare fascina 
 tion of style and thought," " delicacy of 
 discrimination and appreciation," "con 
 summate art ; " it " reports perfectly and 
 with exquisite humor all the fugacious 
 and manifold emotions," and is, in a 
 
LATER READINGS 139 
 
 word, "bewitching." All this may be 
 very true. I do not deny it, for I have 
 never read these astonishing works. All 
 I have to say is that no greater praise, 
 nor more peculiar expressions of it, can 
 be given to the as yet supposed to be 
 greatest of English writers. I think 
 at least that the authors of these works 
 must be satisfied, and perhaps blush at 
 these extraordinary eulogiums, if authors 
 can blush. But at all events, they can 
 not complain that they have not received 
 while living an enthusiastic recognition 
 of the great merit of their works. 
 What will happen after they are dead, 
 who knows ? Death has something sa 
 cred in it, and often begets exaggeration 
 of the merits of those who are gone. 
 I am generally surprised to find, as I 
 always do in all obituaries, what a won 
 derful genius, what an able statesman, 
 what a " supreme " poet (that, I believe, 
 is the correct epithet), X was. He 
 seemed to me to be rather a common 
 place man until he died. 
 
 She. Yes, death sanctifies everything. 
 Seen through that veil, even the harshest 
 facts of life have a softer and kindlier 
 
140 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 aspect, and are subdued into tenderer 
 light. But the honors and praises of the 
 world come but too often too late, when 
 the spirit they would have cheered is 
 gone, when the ear that would have 
 heard them with gratitude and delight 
 is beyond the reach of human words. 
 We miss so many opportunities in life to 
 do kind actions. We are so chary of 
 our praise. We are sometimes too shy 
 to utter what lies in our hearts. We dis 
 trust our impulses to say even kind words 
 until it is too late. Out of mere mod 
 esty and false shame we often refrain 
 from giving voice to our feelings. 
 
 He. Yes, yes ; undoubtedly, as you 
 say, the honors and praises are showered 
 on the dead which would have cheered 
 them living. 
 
 Too late, too late, your honors and your 
 
 praise. 
 Could you not speak ere death had closed 
 
 the ear 
 And stilled the heart that would have 
 
 leaped to hear ? 
 What is the use that now, too late, you 
 
LATER READINGS 141 
 
 The tardy monument, and fling your lays 
 Upon the senseless clay, that joy or fear 
 Or loud applause or blame or critic sneer 
 Can reach not where he walks beyond 
 
 life s ways ? 
 
 While here alive and sensitive he went, 
 Unto his living heart your words had sent 
 A thrill of joy his pathway to illume ; 
 Now, when your praise and honors all are 
 
 vain, 
 What serves it that your useless wreaths 
 
 are lain 
 Upon his grave to deck his silent tomb ? 
 
 She. Ah, what serves it, indeed ! To 
 console, perhaps, the friends who are left 
 behind. But what avails it to him who is 
 gone ? Too late is a terribly sad lesson 
 and reproach. 
 
 He. As you were saying, death sancti 
 fies, but memory enhances what we have 
 lost, and art embalms. The charms that 
 life steals gradually away have a peren 
 nial youth. In memory s art they live 
 in perpetual youth. 
 
 She. Yes, and in perpetual regret. Can 
 one in age see one s portrait, painted in 
 youth, without a sigh ? This was what 
 I once was, and now ! Ah me ! 
 
142 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. That is the thought which I have 
 endeavored to express in these lines : 
 
 And this was painted from her face 
 
 Some hundred years ago, 
 When she was young, glad, full of grace, 
 
 In life s first bloom and glow. 
 Here June and joy unfading live, 
 
 Here youth and springtime stay, 
 While she, heart-weary, worn with grief, 
 
 Passed, years ago, away ; 
 
 Passed in the ripeness of her years, 
 
 When she was sad, gray, old, 
 Oppressed with cares, depressed by fears, 
 
 Life s young romance all told. 
 But here no tears are in those eyes, 
 
 No lines are on this brow, 
 And age, death, sadness she defies 
 
 In Art s eternal now. 
 
 She. We must all come to it. The 
 thought that old age must come to us, 
 unless death interposes, is a sad one. 
 But there is no help for it. 
 
 He. Suppose things had been arranged 
 in the entirely opposite way, that it 
 was ordained to us to be born old, and 
 
LATER READINGS 143 
 
 daily and yearly to grow younger and 
 fresher and gladder, and that time, in 
 stead of constantly robbing us of our 
 youth, should as constantly carry us back 
 to it. 
 
 She. And where would you stop ? At 
 the prime of manhood or womanhood? 
 Would not death then seem more cruel 
 than when it comes, as now, after the 
 grasp on life has been loosed and the 
 glamour of youth is gone ? 
 
 He. Perhaps ; but suppose it went on 
 further than that, to the child s life, and 
 to the infant s life, and then to die in the 
 arms of our mother, knowing and fearing 
 nothing ? 
 
 She. There would not then be any 
 living mother. She would have passed 
 away as a child or an infant herself. 
 
 He. That is a difficulty, and perhaps, 
 after all, it is better as it is. However, I 
 shall have to think out this scheme, and 
 see what arrangements I can make to 
 obviate this difficulty, and then I will let 
 you know. 
 
 She. Well ; I will wait in patience for 
 the solution. But now let us go on to 
 the Ginn, if there is any such a poem. 
 
144 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 The Ginn ! the Ginn ! I say. Let me 
 hear what the Ginn said. 
 
 He. No ; wait a moment. First I 
 must do justice to Goethe, and correct 
 the impression I made on your mind yes 
 terday. You may remember that I 
 quoted two lines of his about the barking 
 of dogs. I could only quote those two 
 lines, for I had quite forgotten all the 
 rest. But after returning home I looked 
 up the passage. It occurs in what he 
 calls an Elegy, and I think it but fair to 
 him to say that, however he hates the 
 barking of dogs in general, he makes a 
 special exception in favor of a particu 
 lar dog. His Elegy runs thus. Shall I 
 read it to you in the original German, 
 or translate it ? 
 
 She. Oh, translate it, by all means. 
 
 He. All translations are poor. Even 
 the best are like the reversed side of the 
 tapestry, and mine is not the best, but 
 they give, at all events, the sense and the 
 rhythm of the verses. 
 
 Many noises are hateful to me, but, far 
 
 above others, 
 The barking of dogs I hate ; yelping, 
 
 they tear at my ears. 
 
LATER READINGS 145 
 
 One dog only I know that I hear very 
 
 often with pleasure, 
 Barking, baying, the dog that to my 
 
 neighbor belongs. 
 For once at my maiden he barked while 
 
 she was quietly sitting 
 Here at my side, and so nearly our secret 
 
 betrayed. 
 Now when I hear him bark, I think she 
 
 is coming, is coming, 
 Or I remember the time when she was 
 
 longed for and came. 
 
 She. Well, that is some alleviation, at 
 least, to his general condemnation of 
 dogs, and I take back my reproval, that 
 is, partially, not wholly. He could not 
 have had any dog of his own, to say 
 what he did. However, a little is better 
 than nothing, and we lovers of dogs must 
 content ourselves with the crumbs that 
 are thrown to us, as the dogs do. 
 
 He. No ; they do not content them 
 selves. They will not let us alone. They 
 leap up, and scratch at us, and sit up on 
 their hind legs, and beg and pray for 
 more, whatever you give them. 
 
 She. Poor little things ; why should n t 
 they? 
 
146 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. And why should they? I like 
 dogs very well in their place. But that 
 is not when we are at table, and eating. 
 
 She. And what is their place ? 
 
 He. The place of Fritz is, I suppose, in 
 your lap. At least, he seems to think so, 
 and so do you, if I may judge from what 
 I see ; for he is never content unless he 
 is there. 
 
 She. Don t let us talk any more about 
 dogs. You and I shall never agree upon 
 that subject, so be kind enough to let me 
 hear what the Giun said to you. 
 
 He. I suppose I shall have to read it 
 now. 
 
 She. Yes, you will. 
 
 He. So be it. Here it is. 
 
 A GINN. 
 
 With a prayer to the Power above I laid 
 
 my head on my pillow, 
 And into the realms of silence, 
 The dim, hushed world of silence, that is 
 
 far beyond even dreaming, 
 The blank, vague, far-off nowhere of 
 
 utter unconsciousness, 
 My spirit was borne away. 
 
LATER READINGS 147 
 
 And there, as I drifted, I know not how 
 
 long, knowing nothing, 
 Slowly there issued to me, out of the 
 
 silence and void, 
 A strange, mysterious voice, and a 
 
 strange, mysterious shape, 
 So dim it was scarcely a shape, so faint 
 
 it was scarcely a voice, 
 That cried to me, " Listen and hear." 
 
 At these words in my sleep I started, 
 then back again, utterly helpless, 
 
 I sank, and I drifted away into the realm 
 of dreams. 
 
 And the voice cried, " Fear not, fear not ; 
 listen, and do not fear. 
 
 I am banished from what, in your fool 
 ishness, you deem heaven, 
 But me no power can destroy. 
 
 There cannot be good without evil, 
 
 Or what men in their blindness call 
 evil ; 
 
 All positives negatives need, or else they 
 could not exist, 
 
 And as long as God s positive lives, his 
 negatives also will live. 
 
 This is one half of creation ; the other 
 
 half is my master s ; 
 Turn to me, then, and hear. 
 
148 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 For t is he who has bid me to come, and 
 
 whisper to you a message. 
 Bend to me. Thou shalt hear. 
 
 " I have stood and listened behind the 
 dim, drawn curtain of death, 
 
 And heard the secret words, and the 
 things that are to be. 
 
 Vainly the heavenly guards have hurled 
 
 at me, as I listened, 
 Their flashing arrows of fire. 
 
 With the lightning s power they came, 
 
 But I laughed at them and their threat, 
 For my master protected me. 
 
 Listen ! hark ! I will whisper those hid 
 den secrets to thee, 
 So thou mayst know, and live, 
 
 Know the things that are coming, the 
 secrets of joy, death, life. 
 
 " Think you by prayer to change God s 
 
 purposes, foolish mortal ? 
 Prayer, and the intercession of what you 
 
 call saints and angels ? 
 No ! there is none who can alter or sway 
 
 his slightest intent. 
 
 Has He listened once to your prayers ? 
 Has He answered you ever, or given you 
 
 aught that He promised ? 
 
LATER READINGS 149 
 
 Has He paid you with joy for your ser 
 vice, or scourged you to it with 
 thongs, 
 
 Saying that pain is the path you must 
 travel to conie to Him ? 
 
 " Which is the God you worship ? Is it 
 
 Zeus, Jehovah, or Baal, 
 Isis, Osiris, Jupiter, Christus, or whom ? 
 Whichever it be, has He given you joy in 
 
 this human life, 
 Or only promised a joy when this life on 
 
 earth shall be past ? 
 A wretched perhaps of bliss for a 
 
 present of toil, grief, pain ! 
 Turn, then, to me ; all the joys they 
 
 promise to you in the future 
 My master will give to you here." 
 
 And he bent down his head, and whis 
 pered, 
 
 And I heard, and lost all my senses, 
 And convulsions and mania seized me, 
 And I struggled, and cried out wildly, 
 
 As if a demon possessed me. 
 And what I heard I can tell not, 
 
 For all that I heard seems a dream, 
 That hovers about in my brain, and is all 
 beyond my reach, 
 
150 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 And I cannot utter it. 
 I grasp at it with my thoughts afire, out 
 stretched in the darkness, 
 But it flies, and evades my touch. Yet 
 
 still it is there ! 
 There, whispering dimly, strangely ; 
 
 there, hovering out of sight ; 
 There, tempting with promises vague, and 
 
 wild, mysterious words, 
 To flee with it far away 
 Into boundless regions of beauty, and 
 
 glory, and grace, and gladness, 
 Beyond all sorrow and care, 
 Where knowledge of all shall be given, 
 
 And the secret of all explained, 
 Where power shall be granted beyond all 
 
 human seeing and knowing, 
 Where the wildest hope of the spirit shall 
 
 blossom in perfect flower. 
 When the shadow of sleep comes on, it 
 
 whispers, " Come to me, mortal, 
 I have the key that opens the gates of all 
 
 earthly delights. 
 Linger not here, but come. 
 I am he who whispered in time long ago 
 
 to Mohammed. 
 Maraka, the aged and blind, knew me, 
 
 and heard what I said, 
 
LATER READINGS 151 
 
 Crying out, * Koddus, Koddus. Verily, 
 
 this is the Namus. 
 And the Korybantes knew me, for it was 
 
 I that possessed them ; 
 And the Thyades, and the Maenads, and 
 
 the Lense, and Mirmillones, 
 As they flung their arms about, and 
 
 shouted, and clanged their cym 
 bals ; 
 And Pythia heard my voice, and her 
 
 oracles were my whispers, 
 And all the Bacchantes as well, and the 
 
 soothsayers all, and diviners, 
 And the prophets throughout all time in 
 
 Babylon, Judah, and Egypt, 
 Zoroaster, Maimonides, Enoch, Isaiah, 
 
 Ezekiel, and all. 
 To the Christ I whispered, too, and t was 
 
 He alone that repulsed me. 
 * Tempter, avaunt ! He cried. And so 
 
 He died on the cross. 
 
 "Come walk in the garden of know 
 ledge, 
 
 In the garden of joy and of knowledge, 
 And all that you ask shall be given, 
 
 And none of the secrets of life shall 
 longer be hidden from you." 
 
152 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Starting up from my sleep with a scream, 
 I cry, 
 
 What is it ? Where is it ? Speak ! An 
 swer ! 
 
 And nothing is there but a dream, 
 A wild and horrible dream. 
 
 She. That is a wild kind of thing, and 
 is really something like a dream. The 
 only difficulty is that it is rather too con 
 secutive. In our dreams all things seem 
 to have a natural sequence, though they 
 are, in fact, utterly dislocated, and so look 
 to us when we wake. 
 
 He. What do you make of madness, 
 which seems to be only a dream, or set 
 of dreams, embodying themselves in the 
 facts of inner and outer life, from which 
 the patient cannot free himself, and 
 awake ? 
 
 She. Yes ; and it is difficult to draw 
 the exact denning line between madness 
 and sanity. When does the one overstep 
 the line into the other ? We all of us, 
 even the sanest, have some hallucina 
 tions, called sometimes oddities. We all 
 of us are insane in our dreams, and make 
 excursions into the insane and unreal 
 
LATER READINGS 153 
 
 world of fantasy. A touch of fever, for 
 instance, and the patient goes, as we say, 
 out of his head. But what is his head, 
 and where does he go ? So long as that 
 fever lasts at a certain grade, what he 
 sees, what he does, is to him as real as it 
 is unreal to us. I remember once I had 
 a violent typhoid fever, and for some ten 
 days was quite out of my head. All the 
 real persons around me were phantoms ; 
 all the phantoms of my brain were, on 
 the contrary, real and substantial, at 
 least to me. There was, for instance, 
 one little dwarf-like figure which con 
 stantly attended me, and my mother, 
 who stood at my bedside, was scarcely 
 more than visionary, while this little fig 
 ure was perfectly distinct and real. One 
 day he perched himself upon my pillow 
 at the right side of my head, and, after 
 leaning over, and looking at me, and 
 grotesquely smiling, he drew out from 
 under his arm a large portfolio, which 
 he spread before me, and slowly turned 
 over its pages as I gazed at them. What 
 that book contained of wonderful and 
 beautiful, ay, and of natural and possible, 
 as well as of strange and indescribable, 
 
154 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 it is impossible for me to tell. But at 
 every leaf he slowly turned there ap 
 peared a new scene ; not only the pic 
 ture of a scene, but a real scene. One 
 I remember in particular was the in 
 terior of a vast cathedral, magnificent 
 with columns, and frescoes, and altars, 
 and statues, and thronged by crowds of 
 worshipers, among whom I wandered; 
 and all the while a deep, solemn music 
 was going on, and exquisite voices were 
 sounding in grander strains than ever 
 Handel or Beethoven composed. And 
 this was before I had ever been in a great 
 cathedral. Pictures, too, at that time 
 decorated the bare walls of my cham 
 ber, more beautiful in tone and color 
 than ever Leonardo, or Titian, or Raf- 
 faelle painted. These were not mere 
 reminiscences or evocations from mem 
 ory, for I was very young at that time, 
 and had never been in any of the great 
 churches, and cathedrals, and galleries. 
 Afterwards, when years had passed by, 
 what I did see in them seemed to me to 
 recall the visions that in that fever book 
 before me rose so vividly. How will you 
 explain this ? 
 
 f 
 
LATER READINGS 155 
 
 He. Why do you constantly ask me to 
 explain what is entirely inexplicable to 
 me, to you, to everybody ? I, too, have 
 been in the land of fever, and a wonder 
 ful region it is, beyond experience, and 
 thronged with the strangest and wildest 
 creations of fancy, hideous, horrible, 
 fearful, beautiful. Here are some verses 
 that in this connection may interest you. 
 They were addressed to a great traveler, 
 a friend of mine, and in a morbid fit of 
 jealousy at all the wonders he recounted 
 and described, I taunted him thus : 
 
 You have put a girdle round the earth, 
 
 You have traveled far and wide, 
 From the Orient, where our morning 
 
 rises, 
 
 To the sunset s western side. 
 You have trodden the wastes of the Afri 
 
 can desert, 
 
 And basked in the Tropic s spice, 
 And climbed the peaks of the Hima 
 
 layas, 
 
 And been locked in the Arctic s ice. 
 And I, a short week on my sick couch 
 
 Have journeyed farther still, 
 
156 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 To a region wild, and weird, and won 
 drous, 
 
 Where phantoms wander at will. 
 It was but a moment s sudden parting ; 
 
 Fate opened the door to me, 
 And this world vanished, and I was car 
 ried 
 To regions of mystery ; 
 
 Out of the real world about me 
 
 Into a world of dream, 
 Into the strange world of delirium, 
 
 Where horrors and splendors teem ; 
 Where Afrites, and Ginns, and Spirits 
 wander, 
 
 And wishes and hopes have wings, 
 And dizzy imagination riots 
 
 And plays with the shapes of things ; 
 
 A wonderful world, ah ! far more 
 
 wondrous 
 
 Than any that here we see, 
 Where the brain works out wild, 
 
 strange creations 
 And creatures of fantasy ; 
 Where everything shifts, and moves, and 
 
 changes, 
 Respondent to thought and whim ; 
 
LATER READINGS 157 
 
 Where the body is left behind, and the 
 
 spirit 
 Whirls through a realm of dream; 
 
 A realm that lies on the verge of mad 
 ness, 
 
 Where the mind no helm obeys, 
 But helpless, beyond the reach of reason, 
 
 Is swept through delirium s maze ; 
 Where all that is glorious and ideal, 
 
 And all that is fearful and wild, 
 Throng gathering round us, to jeer, 
 shriek, jabber, 
 
 Or whisper in voices mild. 
 
 Abysms of horror there gape before us, 
 
 Impossible monsters arise, 
 And forms angelic, and struggling crea 
 tures 
 
 With glaring and spectral eyes. 
 Oh, you who for years and years have 
 
 journeyed 
 
 To the ends^of this fair earth, say, 
 Have you seen this world that I traveled 
 
 over 
 While here on my bed I lay ? 
 
 She. Well ! had he ? 
 
158 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. No, he had not ; and I towered 
 over him exultant, and waved my sword 
 for victory, and, I am sorry to say, 
 stopped him short in one of his best 
 stories. Whether it was founded on fact 
 or not is a question. Travelers stories 
 are notorious. A man that cannot shoot 
 a pea-gun at a fly at home does such ter 
 rible ravages among tigers and elephants 
 in the east, and south, and the wilds of 
 Africa. "There I was, all alone, and 
 five hundred tigers came down upon me, 
 roaring for food. Fortunately, I had 
 with me my patent five-barreled, self- 
 loading and priming gun. You should 
 see that gun, my boy ! I believe there is 
 not such another in the world. As this 
 wild band of tigers rushed at me, I stood 
 firm as a rock, and took deliberate aim at 
 the foremost group, and in less than a 
 moment one hundred of them groveled 
 on the sand in their death struggles," et 
 cetera, et cetera, et cetera. There is no 
 computing how many lions and tigers one 
 tremendous traveler will dispose of in a 
 minute ; nor how many thousand dancing- 
 girls, with cymbals and tambourines, 
 waving their twinkling arms covered with 
 
LATER READINGS 
 
 bracelets, creatures beautiful as Houris, 
 will suddenly appear, when, idly repos 
 ing in his Oriental tent in the deserts of 
 Weiss-nicht-wo, he claps his hands lazily; 
 nor how many sherbets he can drink ; 
 nor how many camelopards he can ride. 
 
 She. And was your friend one of those 
 long-tailed Bashaws ? 
 
 He. No ; he was not. He was as brave, 
 good, modest fellow as ever trod on 
 earth. All that stuff I have been talk 
 ing is mere rodomontade and nonsense. 
 There was no exaggeration about him, 
 and no pretense. He was an English 
 officer, who spent several years in India, 
 whose word was as good as an oath, 
 better, too, than most oaths. He told 
 me he made the acquaintance there of a 
 young fellow, he did not tell me his 
 name ; in fact, he thought he went under 
 a name that was not his own. Something 
 had happened to him ; my friend never 
 knew what, but he always suspected that 
 he had had an unfortunate love affair. At 
 least, he gathered it was so from words 
 that the young fellow occasionally let fall. 
 He never said anything about his family. 
 In fact, who he was and where he came 
 
160 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 from was enveloped in a haze that my 
 friend never penetrated. One night he 
 was summoned by an orderly (I think 
 that s what he called the man) to the 
 young man s tent, and he found him 
 alone and dying. Of course my friend 
 at once said he must call the surgeon or 
 physician. But the young man absolutely 
 refused to allow him to do this, saying 
 that nothing could be done for him, and 
 he wished nothing to be done for him, 
 and only prayed him to stay with him 
 and listen to him. And what he said I 
 have put into verse, as well as I could. 
 It was this : 
 
 Bend down your head to me, 
 
 My voice is almost gone. 
 
 Say ! are we quite alone ? 
 
 Yes ? Quite ? Prop up my pillow, 
 
 wipe my brow ! 
 Ah ! I am easier now. 
 Thanks ; I am dying, as you see, 
 Dying afar from all whom once I knew 
 And once I loved save you. 
 
 No ! no ! t is useless all you say, dear 
 
 friend. 
 This is, thank God, the end. 
 
LATER READINGS 161 
 
 They are all happy there. 
 
 Who, in their hearts, could really care 
 Whether I live or die. 
 
 Years have gone by 
 
 Since they have seen me thought of 
 me, perhaps ; 
 
 And after this long lapse, 
 
 Even if perchance they still 
 
 May think at times, Is he now well or 
 ill? 
 
 T is but a passing thought that flies 
 
 Like to a bird that flits across the skies, 
 
 And vanishes, and leaves no trace be 
 hind ; 
 
 T is but a rustle of the wandering wind 
 
 That shakes the leaves a moment, and 
 then dies. 
 
 Let no one of them know 
 That I am dead. T is better so ! 
 Far better. If they ask about me, say 
 You met me here, and I was on my way 
 To a long journey ; that I could not 
 
 write ; 
 
 That it was late at night, 
 And before morning I was forced to go ; 
 
 It will be surely so. 
 Give them my love and greetings ; say, 
 
 as well, 
 
162 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 That whether, where I go, the means 
 
 there be 
 
 To send them news of me 
 I cannot tell. 
 
 The country is so far and strange, I fear 
 There are no means to send to them from 
 
 there 
 Tidings of where I am ; and tell them, 
 
 too, 
 
 I m ill at writing, even at the best, 
 And if they hear not from me, they must 
 
 rest 
 
 Secure, at least, that I am well to do, 
 Pray God that this be true ! 
 
 Thus much to all my real friends ; for 
 
 why 
 Obscure their happiness, or make them 
 
 sigh, 
 Who hold me still dear in their memory, 
 
 If any such there be ? 
 Let them go on and think of me as one 
 Who still is wandering far away, alone, 
 But who, some day, again may come 
 
 Back to his friends and home. 
 
 But to one only tell the truth, for she 
 Has been the cause of all the misery 
 
LATER READINGS 163 
 
 That now for dreary years has haunted 
 
 me. 
 There is my real name there in that 
 
 book ; 
 And there is hers as well, beneath it 
 
 look ! 
 And there s her face, so cruel, cold, and 
 
 fair. 
 If you should chance to meet her, say 
 
 to her 
 You saw me die, death-stricken by the 
 
 dart 
 
 That she thrust cruelly into my heart, 
 Whose poisonous barbs have ever rankled 
 
 there, 
 And driven me from the world in my 
 
 flespair, 
 And cursed my life ; that I have sought 
 
 for Death 
 Wooed him in battle, in the cannon s 
 
 breath, 
 By sea, by land ay, wooed him like a 
 
 bride, 
 And Death, like her, has always turned 
 
 aside, 
 And laughed at me, as she did ; but at 
 
 last 
 He comes to free me from the torturing 
 
164 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 I would forgive her if I could. I pray 
 I may forgive her ere I pass away. 
 
 Tell her all this. Oh, do not fear ! 
 She will receive it calmly, with a smile 
 Cold as a gleam upon an iceberg, while 
 You faltering utter it. But make her 
 
 swear, 
 Ere these last words of mine to her you 
 
 bear, 
 
 To keep the secret hidden in her breast. 
 Be sure it never will disturb her rest, 
 T is but another scalp for her to wear, 
 Another bird, another butterfly, 
 That for her pleasure writhing had to 
 
 die, 
 
 That she might grace with it h*er lus 
 trous hair. 
 
 No, my dear friend, I am not cruel. No, 
 Far from it ! Do you think that she will 
 
 grieve 
 One moment, have one pang, one tear 
 
 will shed ? 
 
 Never ! You 11 see. She will receive 
 With joy the happy news that I am dead, 
 And dance the next dance with a lighter 
 
 tread, 
 
LATER READINGS 165 
 
 If anything upon her heart could weigh, 
 
 Perhaps the thought of me, 
 
 Living, might trouble her. Perhaps, I 
 
 say, 
 
 I know not, and if so it be, 
 My death, the assurance I have passed 
 
 away 
 
 Beyond all reach, all possibility 
 Of speech or of return, might lift from 
 
 her 
 The faintest breath of trouble, that might 
 
 stir, 
 
 Perchance who knows ? some sleep 
 ing memory 
 Far down within the heart, if heart 
 
 there be 
 In that cold nature cruel, cold, and 
 
 hard, 
 That all my life so fatally hath 
 
 marred, 
 And from the dead past set her wholly 
 
 free. 
 
 She. That is a sad enough story. Did 
 he ever deliver that message ? And how 
 did she really take it, if he did ? Did he 
 ever tell you what her name was ? Did 
 you ever see her ? What was her name ? 
 
166 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. Ah, that I promised not to tell, 
 and a promise is a promise, and particu 
 larly a promise to a dying man, you know. 
 
 She. But you did n t make any such 
 promise ; at least, you did not say so. 
 
 He. No, I did not say so ; I only told 
 you what he said, not what she said. 
 
 She. I don t believe one word of the 
 story from beginning to end. You in 
 vented it all to account for your poem. 
 
 He. I am sorry you have so little trust 
 in me. And why, may I ask, don t you 
 believe it to be founded on fact ? 
 
 She. Because, in the first place, you 
 never can trust to what poets say, as a 
 general rule ; and in the next place, be 
 cause I don t believe any man ever died 
 of love, except, of course, in poems and 
 romances. It takes a good deal to kill a 
 man. I dare say your poor fellow, if he 
 ever existed, may have been disappointed 
 in his love affair if he ever had one 
 and did not like being thrown over, and 
 went about mooning and moaning a lit 
 tle while ; but as for dying of love, no ! 
 Sir Poet, no man ever did. I dare say 
 he wore his collar down, and sulked, and 
 posed for a time, and read Byron s 
 
LATER READINGS 167 
 
 poems and all that, and wandered out 
 into the woods alone, and made bad 
 verses, and sighed, and drank too much 
 wine, but there it ended. 
 
 He. This is painful for a poet to hear, 
 very painful. It saps one s trust in 
 humanity. 
 
 She. No ; but you know that you did 
 really delude me at first about your 
 young man, you told his story so seri 
 ously. However, we have had enough of 
 him, and now you must read me some 
 thing more lively, more sentimental, to 
 take the taste out of my mouth, as it 
 were. 
 
 He. One moment ; I found in my 
 friend s pocketbook a few verses, which, 
 I suppose, were addressed to that young 
 woman, and I must read them to you. 
 Really, you know, they were rather like 
 her. 
 
 She. Like what you fancied she was, 
 you mean. 
 
 He. No ; like her, as I knew her. 
 
 She. Well, let me hear them. 
 
 He. 
 
 You spoil my life, you break my heart ; 
 
 but then, 
 What matters that to you ? 
 
168 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 You ve done the same to twenty other 
 
 men, 
 It is not even new ! 
 
 To you t is only what is new that moves 
 
 A moment s interest ; 
 All that is old old joys, old pains, old 
 loves 
 
 Are birds of last year s nest. 
 
 So, with a heartless smile you turn away 
 From my impassioned words, 
 
 And t is as if a hand should strive to 
 
 play 
 A harp that has no chords. 
 
 She. I ve no doubt he bored her to 
 death with his impassioned words. 
 
 He. No ; I knew her well. She was a 
 born flirt. 
 
 She. You knew her ? You just said 
 these lines you found in your imaginary 
 friend s portfolio. Do be careful. 
 
 He. I mean, of course, that he found 
 these verses, not I, in his friend s port 
 folio. 
 
 She. And how did you come to know 
 her, pray ? 
 
LATER READINGS 169 
 
 He. Ob, I won t be examined and cate 
 chised. Are you jealous of her ? 
 
 She. Yes, I am. I am nothing, if not 
 frank. 
 
 He. But you know a hundred such 
 women, without particularizing one. 
 
 She. No ; only men know such women. 
 But read me something pleasanter, 
 about some nice person. 
 
 He. Wait a moment. I want to read 
 you first a little poem about one of these 
 women, as you call them, no better in 
 heart, or feeling, or even morals, than 
 they should be. They are verses from 
 the book of a young man whom one of 
 them had bound and carried at her char 
 iot wheels for years ; who had become at 
 last thoroughly disgusted with her, and 
 yet who was still her slave, and wanted 
 strength of will to break away, so fet 
 tered was he by old habits and old prom 
 ises from which he was utterly unable to 
 free himself. 
 
 She. A nice young man, truly. 
 
 He. Ah, the difficulty was that he was 
 not nice, in the real sense of the word, 
 which we have now lost ; and more, he 
 was utterly weak of purpose, and, though 
 
170 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 he knew the way, he could not take it. 
 But you will see, perhaps, what he was 
 in these verses : 
 
 She has ruined my life, that is all, 
 
 And almost I hate her, but still 
 The old spell remains to enthrall 
 
 My spirit and weaken my will. 
 The grace and the charm of the past 
 
 Have vanished, that lured me like 
 
 fate, 
 But a net o er my life she has cast 
 
 That is woven of love and of hate. 
 
 The old habit, alas ! is a chain 
 
 Whose links I can never undo, 
 And to break them I struggle in vain, 
 
 I am weak, all so weak, through and 
 
 through. 
 I would leave her, and flee, if I could, 
 
 Life and duty call on me to go, 
 But I cannot ; I know that I should, 
 
 But I cannot ; I m chained to her so. 
 
 Ah, well ! T is my fate, I suppose, 
 And t is useless to strive and rebel, 
 
 Though this life now, that once was all 
 
 rose, 
 And half heaven, is simply half hell. 
 
LATER READINGS 171 
 
 Oh ! a curse on the day we first met, 
 Though our love was like heaven at 
 
 first, 
 And its sweetness I cannot forget 
 
 Even now, though my life it has 
 cursed. 
 
 I m a coward ; I dare not to say 
 
 Farewell ! Here s the end ! Let us 
 
 part ! 
 She would storm at me, weep, rave, and 
 
 pray, 
 
 And cry I was breaking her heart. 
 O God, how the glory and grace, 
 
 How the joy and the fragrance have 
 
 gone ! 
 
 All the light gone that once lit that face, 
 Blown out as a candle is blown. 
 
 Nothing left but the smoke and the 
 smell 
 
 Of the wick, while in darkness I 
 
 grope 
 Some outlet to find from this well 
 
 Where I see not one gleam of a hope. 
 Though myself I revile, and revile* 
 
 Her also, and cry like a fool, 
 Making bold resolutions the while, 
 
 And striving my weakness to rule. 
 
172 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Well, well ! there s one outlet alway, 
 
 One remedy death if no more. 
 Here it is. Courage ! What will she say 
 
 When she finds me stretched dead on 
 
 the floor ? 
 T is a coward s resource, well I know, 
 
 But I m weary, so weary of life, 
 And perhaps it is best I should go, 
 
 And end all its struggles and strife. 
 
 But I dare not. I know if I stay 
 
 These chains I shall nevermore break. 
 Life s a torture, but death ah ! that 
 
 way 
 
 Is too fearful too fearful to take. 
 And what would she care if I did ? 
 Would she weep or lament ? Would 
 
 she shed 
 One tear on my cold coffin lid ? 
 
 Would she feel one regret for the 
 dead? 
 
 Perhaps ; but what matters it all 
 
 If she does or does not? Some re 
 morse 
 
 She may feel, and perhaps may recall 
 The old days as she stands by my 
 corse. 
 
LATER READINGS 173 
 
 But I shall not hear her, thank God ; 
 I, at least, shall be free and at rest. 
 And she 11 find, when I m under the 
 
 sod, 
 
 Some new bauble to hang on her 
 breast. 
 
 She. Well, a poorer kind of weak 
 creature than that I never knew. He 
 could not even make up his own mind 
 what to do, and he did n t know even 
 what he wanted. 
 
 He. I don t recommend him to you as 
 so noble and high-minded a being as the 
 rest of us are. But you see that is the 
 wretched condition to which some of your 
 sex reduce some of ours ; for, unwill 
 ingly, I am forced to admit that there are 
 some of our sex who are weak and poor 
 things, and some of yours who do not 
 come entirely up to the grand and pure 
 ideals of life that we sometimes form of 
 them. 
 
 She. But, after all, these despairing 
 and blighted beings of whom you have 
 given me specimens are only rare excep 
 tions in life, if they ever exist. Now, 
 please let me hear something of a more 
 
174 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 genial turn of thought and feeling. I 
 don t at all believe in these misanthropes 
 of yours. But whether they exist or not, 
 I should like to leave them for a pleas- 
 anter company. Have n t you a poem of 
 a kindlier character to read me ? 
 
 He. Yes ; I confess that I agree with 
 you. We have had enough, and more 
 than enough, of these fellows, and to 
 shift the scene, let me read you some 
 lines that Charley wrote to Annie on his 
 return from the Indies. He was a young 
 fellow full of life and hope when he went 
 away. But when he returned, after 
 many years absence, he had grown to be 
 an old fellow, with white beard and hair, 
 and pleasant ways, and a large fortune. 
 His cares and struggles were over, and he 
 had come home to the old places and the 
 old friends to pass the remainder of his 
 life. One of his first visits was to Annie, 
 with whom he had flirted in his youth, 
 and of whom he had preserved in his 
 heart, like rose-leaves in a book, many a 
 half-tender memory. And this is what 
 he said to her at their first meeting after 
 his return : 
 
LATER READINGS 175 
 
 Since last we met how many a long, long 
 
 year 
 Hath flown away, with ne er returning 
 
 flight ! 
 And now your face brings back those days 
 
 so dear, 
 That glow in memory with unfading 
 
 light. 
 We both are changed ! Still, on your 
 
 face I see 
 The same sweet smile; the same sweet 
 
 tones I hear ; 
 
 The same sweet ways that so enchanted me 
 When we were young and glad, without 
 a fear. 
 
 Ah, me ! you say. Changed, changed, 
 
 indeed, old friend ! 
 Nothing is now as once it used to be. 
 No ! Time to you hath had the power to 
 
 lend 
 
 An added grace to that of memory ; 
 A grace that only time and age can bring, 
 A twilight grace that noon nor morning 
 
 knows, 
 
 A tenderer charm, that comes when even 
 ing s wing 
 
 Its softening veil across all nature 
 throws. 
 
176 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 With laughter once we greeted every 
 
 day, 
 And now we greet it with a silent 
 
 sigh ! 
 Yes, we were once more glad and freely 
 
 gay, 
 
 But were we happier in those days 
 
 gone by ? 
 Through memory s mists half real and 
 
 half dream 
 Seem they not sweeter than in fact they 
 
 were ? 
 As the steep cliffs of distant mountains 
 
 seem, 
 
 Their rude facts veiled in mysteries of 
 air. 
 
 Our hopes are fewer, but are calmer 
 
 far ; 
 We ask for less, and we have gained 
 
 content. 
 No wild desires our peaceful visions 
 
 mar ; 
 
 Life is a simpler plain, of less extent ; 
 We know at last that youth s wild dreams 
 
 were vain, 
 
 And o er life s lesser round we peace 
 ful go, 
 
LATER READINGS 177 
 
 Taking what comes, and not with eager 
 
 strain 
 
 Striving for what life cannot give be 
 low. 
 
 What though your hair is white, I like 
 
 it so ; 
 Softer it seems more delicate and 
 
 rhymes 
 
 More truly to the tender soul I know 
 Than those dark curls you wore in 
 
 olden times. 
 Nay ! do not smile and shake your head, 
 
 my friend, 
 T is really so, I simply speak the 
 
 truth. 
 
 Too old for flattery ? Ah, but I pre 
 tend 
 
 Old age can be even lovelier than 
 youth. 
 
 You are bound up with all those olden 
 
 days, 
 Their joys and pains, their sorrows, 
 
 cares, and dreams ; 
 And o er your head an aureole softly 
 
 plays, 
 Lit by the light of far memorial gleams. 
 
178 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 We have grown old together ; we can 
 
 hear 
 From far-off time the bells of memory 
 
 ring 
 Some sadly faint, some joyous, loud, and 
 
 clear 
 
 That of the past in sweet accordance 
 sing. 
 
 She. I must confess these reminiscences 
 make me sad. Pray read me something 
 of a different character at once. 
 
 He. Well, then, absolutely to change 
 the whole course of thought, I will read 
 you what I call my battle hymn. 
 
 She. That will be a change, for there 
 was little that was stirring in the 
 characters you have just drawn, was 
 there ? 
 
 He. Now you will expect trumpets and 
 drums, 1 suppose, and triumph and shouts 
 and roar of cannon. 
 
 She. Of course I shall, as you call it a 
 battle piece. 
 
 He. And perhaps you will be disap 
 pointed. However, such as it is, here 
 it is : 
 
LATER READINGS 179 
 
 BATTLE HYMN. 
 
 Grant us, O God, to crush our enemies 
 That serried round us in battalions rise 
 
 On every side ; 
 That we may trample them beneath our 
 
 feet 
 
 Despite their strength and pride. 
 Grant us the victory, victory is sweet, 
 
 Sweet at whatever cost. 
 Though we be wounded, stricken even to 
 
 death, 
 Still we will praise Thee with our dying 
 
 breath ; 
 
 So that the cause we fight for is not 
 lost. 
 
 Anything give us but defeat, 
 Anything urge us to but base retreat. 
 We seek not ease or peace or truce with 
 these, 
 
 Our mortal enemies, 
 
 But only triumph, victory at the last, 
 When the dread conflict shall be past. 
 Oh, in this battle be our great ally ; 
 Command us, and we will not fear to 
 die. 
 
180 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 And where and who are these 
 Against whose hosts Thy mighty aid we 
 
 ask ; 
 
 Who are our bitter enemies, 
 Whom to subdue is man s severest task ? 
 Behold they all around us stand, 
 Within, without, on every hand, 
 Marshaled by one great leader, Thy 
 
 fierce foe, 
 
 Who fain the hosts of heaven would over 
 throw, 
 And all the angelic band. 
 
 Self-love his armies are, and low desires, 
 And evil thoughts lit by unholy fires ; 
 Greed, envy, passions violent and strong; 
 Revenge, wild impulses to wrong, 
 Hatred, and cruelty, and sullen will 
 That longs to wound, even though it 
 
 dare not kill ; 
 
 Mean jealousy that all but self derides, 
 And pallid cowardice that skulks and 
 
 hides, 
 
 And heeds not duty s call ; 
 Black falsehood tempting with insidious 
 
 wiles, 
 
 And masked hypocrisy that ever smiles 
 Falsely on one and all. 
 
LATER READINGS 181 
 
 This is the mighty band 
 That leaguered round us stand, 
 Against whose fierce attacks and am 
 bushed snares 
 We call upon Thee with our earnest 
 
 prayers 
 To lend Thy helping hand. 
 
 Nor these alone. Against the siren 
 
 power 
 Of sweet, seductive passions make us 
 
 strong ; 
 For as we toil with weary oar 
 
 The sea of life along, 
 They ever sing from off a dreamy shore 
 
 Their sweet, alluring song. 
 Come ! come ! they cry to us, and toil no 
 
 more. 
 Here are sweet winds, and happy bowers 
 
 of rest ; 
 Here is dear leisure for the heart op- 
 
 prest, 
 And flower-enameled meadows, all in 
 
 bloom, 
 
 That fill the ambient air with faint per 
 fume. 
 
 Give o er, give o er 
 This endless strife of ever laboring life, 
 
182 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 And dwell in peace with us, oh, this is 
 best. 
 
 Here love lies sleeping ; here are bliss 
 ful dreams, 
 
 Lulled by the lapse of ever murmuring 
 
 streams. 
 No strife, no toil is here to spoil 
 
 The languid luxury of peace and love 
 
 In the green earth below, or the blue 
 heavens above. 
 
 Oh, bind us to the mast, and seal our 
 
 ears, 
 For sweet, too sweet, are these alluring 
 
 strains. 
 Let Duty s trumpet sound, for in our 
 
 veins 
 The blood flows stagnant, courage ebbs 
 
 away 
 While thus we listen. We are filled with 
 
 fears, 
 And ah ! we fain would stay. 
 
 But we for other lands beyond are 
 
 bound ; 
 
 Here we must not delay. 
 The battle must be fought, and not a 
 
 day 
 
LATER READINGS 183 
 
 Must here be lost. So let the trumpet 
 
 sound, 
 That all these siren voices may be 
 
 drowned ; 
 
 Let us away. 
 Courage, no shrinking, each to do his 
 
 part; 
 Steady, and forward with an earnest 
 
 heart, 
 And victory, O God, to ours, we pray ! 
 
 She. Well, I confess this is not what I 
 expected from a battle hymn. 
 
 He. But is it not one ? What battles 
 are severer than those which we have 
 with the enemy within ? 
 
 She. I admit the battle is stern, the 
 victory difficult and doubtful. 
 
 He. I have got somewhere here, if 
 I remember rightly, not a battle hymn, 
 but a battle speech, which, if you are 
 disappointed hi this, may interest you. 
 It is a little speech by Captain X. on 
 board the Victory, let us call her, before 
 the battle with the Spanish Armada. 
 
 She. Oh, yes ; let me hear that. 
 
 He. It is on rather different lines 
 from the other, but you know it is, 
 
184 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 as far as I can remember it what he 
 really said ; and, by the way, that re 
 minds me of a curious fact in regard to 
 the famous signal of Nelson, "England 
 expects every man to do his duty/ that 
 I believe is little known. 
 
 She. But which, I suppose, you have 
 invented. 
 
 He. No ; this is a real fact, it is, 
 indeed. 
 
 She. Well, what is it ? 
 
 He. Nelson s original order was to sig 
 nal these words : " Nelson expects every 
 man to do his duty ; " but in the hurry 
 and confusion the signal for " Nelson " 
 could not be found, and that for " Eng 
 land " was substituted. 
 
 She. No ! is that really a fact ? 
 
 He. I was not present, but so it is 
 affirmed by those who were. But to go 
 back to Drake s fleet. This is about 
 what the brave Captain X. said to his 
 crew : 
 
 Ah, there they are at last ! 
 
 Give a cheer ; 
 
 Nail your flag against the mast, 
 Nail it firm, and nail it fast ; 
 
 Never fear ! 
 
LATER READINGS 185 
 
 We will give them all they want, 
 
 And more, too, 
 For all their brag and vaunt. 
 Let no doubts your spirits daunt, 
 There is no such word as " can t " 
 For the brave and for the true. 
 We are here to-day to do, 
 Not to talk, but to do ! 
 But that is nothing new 
 For a brave good English crew 
 Such as you, boys, such as you ! 
 
 We are here to-day to fight 
 With all our English might 
 For God and for the right, 
 
 And we mean to do it, too, 
 And for good old England s cause, 
 
 And its liberty and laws, 
 Hearts of oak, boys, hearts of oak, boys, 
 
 Through and through ! 
 
 Are there any wish for flight ? 
 
 Let them go ! 
 Now s the moment ; let them speak ! 
 
 Ah, I thought so ; none so weak 
 As would wish from odds to fly 
 When we see our enemy. 
 
 It is so, boys, is it not ? It is so. 
 
186 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Ay, that s the cheer I like. 
 We are ready now to strike, 
 
 Not our flag, though, not our flag ; 
 
 ah, no ! no ! 
 
 But to strike with hands and heart, 
 And to play our English part, 
 And to teach these Spanish Dons, 
 By the talking of our guns, 
 
 A lesson that as yet they do not know. 
 
 But be steady, heart and brain ! 
 
 Fire low, and sweep their decks 
 With a storm of iron rain ; 
 Keep cool, no hurry, if again 
 They wish to see old Spain, 
 
 We will send them back to see it 
 from their wrecks ! 
 
 Ah, my gallant Spanish ones, 
 
 Who have come with brag and boast, 
 With your galleons, and your host, 
 To threaten England s coast, 
 
 Our answer shall be only with our guns. 
 
 We will teach you in the end 
 That we are not wholly daft, 
 And to all your priestly craft 
 
 The hearts of English faith will not bend. 
 Come what will, and come what may 
 
LATER READINGS 187 
 
 We mean to have our say, 
 And to cry it out from shore unto shore, 
 
 Not with voices sweet and low, 
 But with cannon voice and roar, 
 And a message from old England as 
 
 they go. 
 
 No more bragging. England wants 
 No idle taunts and vaunts, 
 But deeds to answer to her call. 
 
 Every tale our cannons tell 
 
 Will be heard in England well, 
 And echo back from every cliff and wall. 
 
 Now, one more cheer, and then 
 To your work, my boys, like men, 
 Like true-hearted English men ; 
 And let each man fight like ten 
 To conquer if we can or to fall ! 
 The time for talk is past, 
 And if this hour be your last, 
 Do your duty, boys, and God be with us 
 all. 
 
 She. Yes ; that is honest and English, 
 but it does not sound exactly like you, 
 does it ? 
 
 He. No ; perhaps it is not in my usual 
 vein. But all men are really fighters at 
 
188 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 heart. I mean, all who are good for any 
 thing. When the fight in us is wanting, 
 we might as well give it up. 
 
 She. But we women are not fighters, 
 you know. 
 
 He. Oh, are n t you ? I think your sex 
 stand to their guns as stoutly as ours, and 
 more obstinately, perhaps. We fight 
 when the blood is up, and you stand 
 steadfastly to your purpose, and will not 
 yield when the blood is not up. 
 
 She. We are obstinate, you mean. 
 Thank you. 
 
 He. Perhaps, a little. You don t like 
 to give in, do you ? You like to have 
 your own way. 
 
 She. I don t give in on this point. Of 
 course we like to have our way ; who 
 does n t ? But you men don t understand 
 the wear and tear that we women have in 
 the worries and demands of household 
 life. You have fixed and determined 
 daily duties to which you are bound, and 
 which are clear before you. We have all 
 sorts of little petty inconsecutive irrita 
 tions of the household to worry us, and 
 there is never an end of them. 
 
 He. I pity you. They would kill me, 
 
LATER READINGS 189 
 
 I confess. But you bear them with equa 
 nimity, and are infinitely clever in your 
 disposal of them, and I have only admi 
 ration to give you. But now, to change, 
 as we say in the law, the venue, let me 
 read you a poem which I find lying in my 
 portfolio by the side of the other. 
 
 She. What is it ? I hope it is not one 
 of those sad ones. 
 
 He. No, not very. It is a poem that I 
 am going to write about you after some 
 years have gone by. I shall, of course, 
 a little exaggerate some facts, but that 
 does not matter. I take it that no poet 
 is to be bound down to exact accuracy, 
 but only to what might have been, or 
 what would have been so delightful if it 
 really had been, whether true in fact or 
 not. Is the free spirit of a poet to be 
 bound down to facts ? I mean in after 
 years to read it to your daughter or 
 grand-daughter, and declare it to be a 
 fact, and then she will open her great 
 blue eyes and smile upon me, just as her 
 mother or grandmother did. Or perhaps 
 she will cruelly say, just as her aforesaid 
 mother or grandmother would, " I don t 
 believe one word of it." 
 
190 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Well ; let me hear what you will 
 have the audacity to say. 
 
 He. I shall premise it by saying, 
 " You know, my dear " (I shall be very 
 affectionate), " you know, my dear, 
 your mother (or grandmother) was one 
 of the most beautiful and charming of 
 women, and here in this very place " (for 
 it will be here that we shall meet) " she 
 used on summer mornings to sit and smile 
 upon me with that delightful smile, and 
 to jeer at me and what I read to her ; 
 and I, my dear, used to be very foolish 
 then, whatever I may now be, and young, 
 too." 
 
 She. You certainly can be foolish 
 enough ; there is no doubt about that. 
 But I don t know whether I do not like 
 your folly quite as well as your wisdom. 
 
 He. Wisdom is known of its children, 
 you know. 
 
 She. And folly of its father, I suppose. 
 But let us have the poem. 
 
 He. 
 
 Amid the glad green leaves of spring 
 The nightingales are singing, 
 
 Their throbbing notes of happy love 
 Oil the fresh morning flinging ; 
 
LATER READINGS 191 
 
 And, sitting in the garden here, 
 
 Alone, half broken-hearted, 
 I dream of thee, and only thee, 
 
 And the dear days departed. 
 
 When life was young, and love was ours, 
 
 And nought we cared to borrow 
 Of sad regrets from yesterday, 
 
 Or longings for to-morrow, 
 We sat beneath these budding trees, 
 
 By nightingales so haunted, 
 And the whole world love s perfect spell 
 
 Transfigured and enchanted. 
 
 Your head you leaned upon my breast 
 
 In gentle self-surrender, 
 Both hearts were throbbing with one 
 pulse 
 
 Of passion sweet and tender. 
 No need was there of words, for words 
 
 Were all too cold and chilling 
 The perfect bliss of love to tell, 
 
 The inner life of feeling. 
 
 Long years have passed so long, so 
 
 sad 
 
 Of changeful human weather, 
 And here alone again I sit 
 
192 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Where once we sat together. 
 The young fresh hope, the daring joy. 
 
 The infinite love and yearning, 
 Ah, they are gone ! forever gone ! 
 
 To know no more returning. 
 
 Yet still the air, the sky, the earth, 
 
 Are haunted by a feeling, 
 And silent memories, faint as ghosts, 
 
 Through all the air are stealing. 
 You are not here, yet all the place 
 
 Remembers your dear presence, 
 And through the air a whisper runs 
 
 Of tender reminiscence. 
 
 The nightingale the self-same song 
 
 That then he sang is singing ; 
 The same faint odors pierce my sense, 
 
 The past before me bringing ; 
 A distant dream comes over me 
 
 That sets my pulses leaping, 
 And you once more beside me here 
 
 The tryst of love are keeping. 
 
 I dream you back to life again, 
 But ah, t is only seeming ! 
 
 And all the while, with weeping eyes, 
 I know I am but dreaming. 
 
LATER READINGS 193 
 
 The voice, the touch, the smile, the hand, 
 Are gone that used to meet me. 
 
 I turn, but to embrace the air, 
 You are not there to greet me. 
 
 She. That is very sad, but charming 
 and touching, at least to me. What 
 the world would say I cannot tell, and I 
 do not care. Let the world go. But are 
 you not a little Ashamed of pretending 
 that such a poem could possibly be ad 
 dressed to me ? 
 
 He. It might have been. The might 
 have beens " are so much more delight 
 ful than the realities of life. 
 
 She. And so much more painful and 
 horrible as well. For everything might 
 have been so much worse, as well as so 
 much better, than it was. 
 
 He. In medio tutissimus ibis. 
 
 She. What does that mean ? 
 
 He. A friend of mine once translated 
 it thus : " The ibis is safest among the 
 Medes." But he was not what you would 
 call an accomplished Latin scholar, and I 
 believe it has been interpreted differently 
 by other and more accomplished scholars, 
 to mean that the middle way is the 
 
194 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 safest ; the mean between too much and 
 too little. 
 
 She. It may be the safest, but it cer 
 tainly is not the happiest. Such a saying 
 is half-brother to " Enough is as good 
 as a feast," which it never is ; a con 
 temptible kind of a proverb. It is a sort 
 of a " while on the one hand, yet on the 
 other hand, nevertheless," or "there is 
 much to be said on both sides," kind of 
 shilly-shally saying. Some cold, horrid, 
 calculating, commonplace creature in 
 vented them all. You remember Cole 
 ridge s lines ? 
 
 " The certainty that struck Hope dead 
 Hath left Contentment in its stead, 
 And that is next to best," 
 
 not certainly best, but next to best. 
 
 He. Do you think everybody should 
 have an opinion about things in general 
 or things in particular? A good deal 
 of what I hear in life amounts to about 
 this : 
 
 What is your opinion, dear ? 
 
 I don t know ; what is yours ? 
 
LATER READINGS 195 
 
 I don t know ; what is the general 
 opinion ? 
 
 I don t know ; but I suppose it is 
 what everybody says. 
 
 And nobody thinks ? 
 
 Or perhaps what some one says, 
 and everybody repeats. 
 
 Without thinking ? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 She. I am afraid there is some truth 
 in that. It is astonishing in life how a 
 hint, a word, an accidental statement, or 
 a willful misstatement, or a mere guess, 
 or question, or playful allusion, uttered 
 by one person in spite or jest, will grow 
 and grow until it pervades society and 
 becomes a fact believed in by all. Out 
 of one little seed a gigantic upas-tree 
 will expand until it covers and poisons 
 the world. 
 
 He. And so in history, how many 
 facts universally accredited will not bear 
 examination ; but, after all, what differ 
 ence does it make ? What is the use of 
 bothering one s head about it ? And this, 
 by the way, reminds me of an incident 
 that occurred to a friend of mine, iu 
 
196 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 every way a remarkable as well as a 
 charming and beautiful person, of high 
 education and noble manners. She had 
 a son who, from capriciousness and obsti 
 nacy, and the Lord knows for what other 
 reasons (we will not go into them here), 
 chose to marry a handsome but utterly 
 illiterate Italian peasant. After the deed 
 was done the mother had to submit, as 
 all mothers must to the willful whims of 
 their children, and to make the best of 
 it. Shocked at the entire ignorance, even 
 of the history of her own country, her 
 daughter-in-law showed, one day she 
 gave her a brief account very brief, 
 naturally of the lives and history of 
 some of the ancient emperors of Rome. 
 The daughter-in-law, after listening for 
 a while, and gaping at intervals, finally 
 said, as a comment on their lives : " Erano 
 cattive genti ! " (They were wicked 
 people !) " Si, cara mia, cattivissime " 
 (Yes, my dear, very wicked), was the 
 mother s answer. " E dove sono adesso ? " 
 (And where are they now ?) asked the 
 daughter. " Dove sono ? Ma son morte 
 secoli fa " (Where are they now ? Why, 
 they have been dead for centuries), said 
 
LATER READINGS 197 
 
 the surprised mother. " Allora," said her 
 daughter, " se erano cattive genti, e se sono 
 tutte morte, non ne peusiamo piu " (Then, 
 if they were all bad, and are all dead, 
 don t let us think of them any longer). 
 
 She. What a capital way of treating 
 history ! If they were bad and are dead, 
 don t let us think of them any longer. 
 One cannot deny that it is an original 
 view, at least. She must have been a 
 clever girl. Ha, ha ! if they are dead, 
 don t let us think of them any more. 
 Don t let us trouble our heads about 
 them. They can do us no evil, and 
 can do us no good. That exactly ac 
 cords with what you said a minute ago. 
 What difference does it make whether 
 certain accredited facts in history are 
 well founded or not ? 
 
 He. I won t argue with you, for I shall 
 get the worst of it, I know. There is, in 
 fact, very little use in arguing with any 
 body. After the argument is over, in 
 which both parties ordinarily lose their 
 tempers, tlie only result is generally that 
 each is more firmly planted in his own 
 view. So don t let us argue. I will 
 agree to anything you say. 
 
198 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Well, then, read me another 
 poem, and change the subject. 
 
 He. So be it. I have just read you 
 one recalling a morning with you. You 
 profess not to remember that, but you 
 certainly will remember that night scene. 
 
 She. What night scene ? 
 
 He. This is what I said to you ; or 
 no ! it is what you said to me one moon 
 light evening. Was it in July ? Yes, I 
 think so. 
 
 Ah, what a glorious night ! 
 
 Here let us linger, love ! 
 The moon with its tender light 
 
 Brims all the heavens above ; 
 Faintly the dim stars gleam, 
 
 How far in their fathomless deeps ; 
 And the earth below, in its moonlight 
 dream, 
 
 Tranced into silence, sleeps. 
 
 Silence is better than words ; 
 
 All we can say is vain ; 
 For a spirit s touch sweeps over life s 
 chords, 
 
 And wakes them to longing and pain. 
 There s the sense of an infinite thrill, 
 
LATER READINGS 199 
 
 Of a whisper that passes by, 
 Of a haunting mystery, strange and still, 
 We can only express by a sigh. 
 
 Something too much to bear 
 
 Is this terrible secret of night. 
 Lost in the darkness, ne er 
 
 Can thought in its utmost flight 
 Reach to the end of things. 
 
 Onward, onward it goes, 
 Till weary at last, and with broken wings, 
 
 It sinks to the earth s repose. 
 
 Our life is a secret, dear, 
 
 And a secret t will ever be. 
 Who of us mortals here 
 
 Can fathom its mystery ? 
 Love comes as comes the breeze 
 
 As it will, without our art, 
 And its blossom wooes from the trees, 
 
 And its smile from the human heart. 
 
 She. Perhaps I 11 admit that I wrote 
 that, if you 11 give it to me, and you 
 won t tell. 
 
 He. I shall be only too proud and happy 
 to give it to you, and I promise you I 
 won t tell. 
 
200 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Why is it that your poems are all 
 so sad ? You are not what I should call 
 a melancholy Jaques in real life. Very 
 much the contrary ; but all that you 
 write has a deep touch of sadness. 
 
 He. I do not know. I suppose that 
 far down in the unfathomed silences of 
 all our natures, unless they are simply 
 thoughtless and superficial, there is a pre 
 vailing tone of seriousness and sadness. 
 The stream of life only sparkles and bub 
 bles on its surface. The deeps are still, 
 and there the unknown dwells. 
 
 She. Yes, I suppose you are right. 
 Even the happiest memories have a touch 
 of sadness, for they are only memories, 
 and not realities, and yet it is a part of 
 my religion that we ought to be happy, 
 and to enjoy the perpetual gifts that God 
 and nature are so generously offering us, 
 instead of repining and longing for what 
 we have not. 
 
 He. It is only the follies of human be 
 ings that provoke our laughter. Nature 
 never laughs even in her brightest days. 
 At the best, she only smiles, but her 
 smile is a smile of peace. She has vio 
 lent storms of passion, and deep glooms 
 
LATER READINGS 201 
 
 of mystery, and darkness, and unfathom 
 able silences of feeling ; but she never 
 laughs out ; at least, so it seems to me. 
 She is never carelessly gay. There is 
 always a feeling of sentiment even in her 
 happiest moods. 
 
 She. But we are always tormenting 
 ourselves with idle questions, with useless 
 regrets and longings, instead of enjoying 
 what God has given. We are never con 
 tent with the present. We yearn for the 
 impossible, to which we cannot attain, 
 and the human spirit is never at rest, 
 whatever we have. What is distant, 
 whether in the past or in the future, has 
 a charm for us which the present never 
 has. And yet, what do we own but the 
 present ? And ought we not to strive 
 to enjoy it, and thank God for it ? at 
 least, as long as we are oppressed by no 
 deep sorrows and pains. I do not be 
 lieve that God meant us to be wretched 
 here, and that the only way to heaven is 
 through self-inflicted sufferings and pen 
 ances. It is hard enough to bear what 
 we cannot avoid ; but why we should 
 deny ourselves the delights and enjoy 
 ments of life, which are innocent in them- 
 
202 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 selves and do no injury to any one, I can 
 not understand. On the contrary, I think 
 the true feeling which should animate 
 and guide us through life is thankfulness 
 for what we have. To say and to be 
 lieve that all things that delight us and 
 give us happiness are mere temptations 
 of the evil spirit is, in my opinion, rank 
 blasphemy. I think it is our duty to be 
 happy and thankful, and to enjoy the 
 present. 
 
 He. Very true. I agree to all you say, 
 and somewhere I have a little sermon 
 upon that text. Shall I read it to you ? 
 
 She. Do. 
 
 He. Let me see. Where is it ? I had 
 it here, I am pretty sure. Oh ! here it 
 
 Is it worth while to look upon this world 
 As mere probation for another state, 
 Heedless of beauty, scorning all its 
 
 joys, 
 Where we are forced to wander and to 
 
 wait ; 
 
 Holding its sweetest music but as noise, 
 And purest pleasures but the devil s bait 
 To lure us to the loss of all beyond ; 
 
LATER READINGS 203 
 
 Deeming we do God s service when with 
 
 sad 
 And downward eyes we go, and solemn 
 
 gait, 
 Shaking our heads, and crying, "All is 
 
 sad"? 
 
 Ah, no ! it is all good, and glad, and 
 
 fair. 
 Let us give thanks to God for sun and 
 
 air, 
 And spring and summer, and the golden 
 
 chain 
 
 Of the recurrent seasons, and sweet flow 
 ers 
 Painting the meadows, and the singing 
 
 rain, 
 
 And all the beauty of this world of ours 
 That far surpasses all its grief and 
 
 pain ! 
 What if those sorrows and those pains 
 
 there be ; 
 Why dwell alone on them ? Look up and 
 
 see 
 The overplus is beauty, gladness, 
 
 love. 
 Why see in nature nothing but its 
 
 flaws? 
 
204 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 The earth is glad below ; the heavens 
 
 above, 
 When morning opes its gates, or evening 
 
 draws 
 Its splendid curtains in the west, or 
 
 night 
 Sows the fair heavens with constellated 
 
 light, 
 Or the wild winds and tempests, strong 
 
 and free, 
 
 Sound the grand organ pipes of har 
 mony, 
 And bend the forests, and arouse the 
 
 sea, 
 
 And shake the world ; or, with a thun 
 der tone, 
 Drive the black clouds, all seamed with 
 
 lightnings, on, 
 Lifting at last to show more clear, more 
 
 fair, 
 The freshened earth, the invigorated 
 
 air, 
 
 In all its cloudless, calm serenity. 
 Should we prefer one flat monotony 
 Of ceaseless sunshine to this wondrous 
 
 range 
 That Nature plays with her perpetual 
 
 change ? 
 
LATER READINGS 205 
 
 Let us be happy, then, and, grateful, take 
 What God hath given, not weep, and 
 
 sadly wail, 
 
 But, with a spirit eager and awake, 
 Seek for the beauty of the world, and 
 
 spread 
 
 To every breath of joy the spirit s sail ; 
 Doing the work that here to us is given 
 With hearts of gladness, and not holding 
 
 life 
 
 As toil alone, and task, and endless strife 
 Of dull probation for an after heaven. 
 
 It is the eye that sees that makes things 
 
 bright 
 Or dull and dark. The world is what 
 
 we are : 
 Dark in our darkness, glorious in our 
 
 light. 
 
 Love can enchant with beauty infinite 
 The dullest facts, and sorrow or despair 
 The sunniest perfectness of Nature 
 
 blight. 
 Then, since the world our spirit s life 
 
 must wear, 
 
 Be it our duty not to mourn and weep, 
 But evermore a glad, free heart to keep, 
 Feeling that joy and love are each a 
 
 prayer, 
 
206 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 And when the earth looks ugly to our 
 
 eyes, 
 T is God, the Maker, that we criticise. 
 
 She. Yes, it is, as you say, a little ser 
 mon, and might profit some of us, if any 
 body is ever profited by sermons. You 
 might take as a text, " Tongues in trees, 
 books in the running brooks, sermons in 
 stones, and good in everything." 
 
 He. Yes, and thus " translate the stub 
 bornness of fortune " 
 
 She. " Into so quiet and so sweet a 
 style " 
 
 He. No, No ! Into so preaching and 
 so tame a style, I should rather say, and 
 I am sure my critics would. 
 
 She. No matter what your critics would 
 say. As for me, I agree fully with the 
 substance of your little sermon, but it is 
 not always easy to be happy, whatever 
 our duty is. And we ought, as you say, 
 to enjoy the present, and not always be 
 looking back and regretting, or forward 
 and hoping. 
 
 He. But, there is always a but to 
 every proposition, but however we may 
 pretend to live in the present, in fact we do 
 
LATER READINGS 207 
 
 not ; we live in what is past and in what 
 is to come, or what we think is to 
 come, far more than in what we have. 
 Here are a few insufficient lines on this 
 subject : 
 
 None are ever content with the present, 
 Though the present only we own : 
 
 Age is forever looking backward 
 
 To the days and the things that are 
 gone, 
 
 And youth is forever stretching forward 
 To the joys that are coming on. 
 
 Yet all that we really have is the present, 
 And that flees from us so fast 
 
 That, cling to it as we will, we lose it, 
 While we speak, it is lost and past. 
 
 For all things are ours but a single mo 
 ment, 
 And scarcely that moment last. 
 
 Almost we might say that what is van 
 ished 
 
 Alone is ours to keep, 
 For nothing can change or steal it from 
 
 us 
 Till memory falls asleep. 
 
208 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Even fate itself has no power to change 
 
 it, 
 Or death with its sickle to reap. 
 
 She. True, true. The past is ours, ir 
 revocably ours ; the present is but a run 
 ning stream, the future a vague promise. 
 But whatever is, is, and who knows any 
 thing ? But a truce to these sad thoughts. 
 
 He. I know but one exception to the 
 general rule of discontent that is almost 
 universal, and that is in a little stunted 
 figure of a woman I see daily as I go 
 to my work, who reads me ever a silent 
 lesson by which I hope I profit. Na 
 ture and the world have denied her the 
 gifts we all covet, and yet, apparently, 
 her heart has taught her to take content 
 edly what has been given, small and poor 
 as it is. The other day I wrote these 
 lines about her : 
 
 No outward things can happiness bestow, 
 T is born within ; we give what we 
 
 receive. 
 The spirit o er life s dreariest road can 
 
 throw 
 
 Joy s light, the brightest of that joy 
 bereave. 
 
LATER READINGS 209 
 
 What, hapless maid, did God confer on 
 
 thee 
 
 Of what all mortals covet and desire ? 
 Health beauty wealth the world s 
 
 prosperity ? 
 
 Or even the gifts that humblest lives 
 require ? 
 
 Nothing ! a dwarfed, diseased, and 
 
 stunted form 
 He gave. Pain, poverty, is thine, 
 
 and want ; 
 No grace without, and yet, within, a 
 
 warm 
 
 And patient spirit angels seem to 
 haunt. 
 
 Poor, unrepining, plain, but rich in 
 
 heart 
 
 To cheer dull Duty s daily common 
 place 
 
 And sweet content, Life s hardest, happi 
 est art, 
 
 That even to rudest facts can lend a 
 grace. 
 
 When o er thy face thy smile its magic 
 throws, 
 
210 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Plain though thy features are in form 
 
 and hue, 
 It is as if an inward morning rose 
 
 And o er stern cliffs its sudden glory 
 
 threw. 
 
 Others, by fortune blessed with lavish 
 
 dower, 
 Still covet more, and o er their lot 
 
 lament ; 
 But thou, in gratitude for life s least 
 
 flower, 
 Art happier far and richer, in content. 
 
 There, cold or hot, rain, storm, or cloud 
 less skies, 
 
 Patient you sit, your petty wares out 
 spread 
 On the stone steps ; and as I pass you 
 
 rise 
 
 And greet me with a smile, and nod 
 your head. 
 
 That smile is as a rose for me to wear, 
 Which lends a perfume to the dreari 
 est day ; 
 
 A silent lesson, that life s worrying care 
 Rebukes, and bids me for contentment 
 pray. 
 
LATER READINGS 211 
 
 She. You must show me this woman. 
 
 He. Gladly. When I think how mis 
 erable is her lot, and still what a bright 
 and happy face she has despite it all, 
 I feel deeply rebuked for my vain long 
 ings and dissatisfaction with what I have. 
 Ah, yes, the lines of Coleridge are true 
 to her, that we were quoting a few min 
 utes ago : 
 
 " The certainty that struck hope dead 
 Hath left contentment in its stead." 
 
 And perhaps that is not only, in her case, 
 next to best, but best. 
 
 She. Well, well ! All I have to say is 
 that the world is what we make it. But 
 now let us have something of a lighter, 
 gayer sort, something with a little less 
 sadness and retrospection, and more go. 
 
 He. A gallop, for instance. 
 
 She. Oh, yes ! A gallop in the fresh 
 air and the fresh morning. Pray order 
 the horses at once. The very word " gal 
 lop " makes my blood tingle and spin to 
 the ends of my fingers. But I know 
 you. You only mean to taunt me. You 
 have no such poem. 
 
212 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. Oh, but I have, may it please your 
 highness, and the horses are saddled and 
 ready, and gnawing at their bits. One 
 spring, give me your foot (I do not 
 dare to ask for your hand). There, and 
 now are you ready ? 
 
 She. Quite, and impatient to be off. 
 
 He. And where shall we go ? 
 
 She. Anywhere ; you shall lead the 
 way. 
 
 He. And you will trust to my guid 
 ance ? 
 
 She. As long as you behave yourself 
 with sanity. 
 
 He. Oh, I cannot promise to be sane, 
 galloping with you at my side. You 
 must take leave of the flat plains of san 
 ity, if you accept me for a guide ; for I 
 shall carry you far beyond them, into the 
 regions of dreams and wild wishes. 
 
 She. Well, mount your horse at once 
 and let us be off. 
 
 He. All right, gather up your reins, 
 and 
 
 Come, let us gallop, gallop along ! 
 
 T is so golden sweet this early May, 
 The hedges and trees are alive with 
 song, 
 
LATER READINGS 213 
 
 And heaven is thrilled by the lark s 
 
 far lay. 
 Our horses are fresh. How they sniff 
 
 the air, 
 And spread their nostrils, and snort 
 
 and neigh ! 
 
 Come, love, let us be off and away, 
 And fling to the foul fiend every care. 
 
 Ah, how glorious t is ! How glad 
 Nature seems to be all at play ! 
 T would be almost a sin to be dull and 
 
 sad 
 On a day like this, such a glorious 
 
 day. 
 Since we cannot fly, let us ride ride 
 
 ride 
 
 Whither and where, who cares to say ? 
 Anywhere everywhere riding al- 
 
 way, 
 You and I together, side by side. 
 
 I don t know why we should ever stop, 
 Why the morning should fade into 
 
 evening s gray, 
 Why life from its grasp youth s flowers 
 
 should drop, 
 And age on our spirit its cold hand lay. 
 
214 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Time goes ever and ever on, 
 Never is weary, knows no stay ; 
 And why should not youth be ours al- 
 way, 
 
 And love, and joy, till our course is run ? 
 
 Happiness now is in the air 
 
 And our hearts are young and light 
 
 and gay ; 
 
 Let us not darken the morning with care, 
 As we gallop along youth s flowery 
 
 way ; 
 
 Let us dream it will last forever thus, 
 Let us gather our roses while we may, 
 And be glad in the present, and silently 
 
 pray 
 That life may be ever so to us. 
 
 Oh, love, what a glory and bloom you 
 give 
 
 To the commonest things of every day ; 
 Now, t is enough to breathe and live. 
 
 If time and love would together stay, 
 What could we ask for more sweet and 
 fair 
 
 Than thus to go on with youth alway, 
 
 We both together, with love and May, 
 And the perfume of morning in the air ? 
 
LATER READINGS 215 
 
 There is only one thought of doubt and 
 
 fear, 
 That looms from afar, so faint and 
 
 gray, 
 Lest we should be parted, and one left 
 
 here, 
 
 And the other ruthlessly taken away. 
 For life is cruel, and fate unkind, 
 
 And what may come to us who can 
 
 say ? 
 But away with forebodings, for now 
 
 t is May, 
 
 And love to such fears must be deaf and 
 blind. 
 
 She. Yes, that is out of a different 
 mint ; but, as usual, despite the bright 
 ness and spirit, there is that little cloud 
 on the horizon that one cannot help see 
 ing, or feeling, at least, if one does not 
 see, that faint foreboding, that dark 
 possibility that will intrude upon our 
 gladdest hours. Who has ever seen in 
 life a perfectly clear sky ? 
 
 He. Would there be any sentiment in 
 life without it ? Those little clouds afar 
 off lend their charm to our being, and 
 take the tenderest hues of the morning 
 
216 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 and of the evening. Life would, per 
 haps, even at its best, be vapid and mo 
 notonous without them. Look at the val 
 leys and mountains sleeping below in the 
 distance, over which soft silence broods. 
 Is it not the tender haze of blue that 
 envelops them that lends them their ex 
 quisite charm ? Sweep it away entirely, 
 and what would remain but a cold, hard 
 reality ? 
 
 She. Yes ; Nature in her most poetic 
 moods always plays in the minor tone. 
 She never heartily laughs, as you said, and 
 any laugh, even of gladness, has in itself 
 something a little jarring in its sound, 
 from however gay a heart it comes. It 
 is as closely related to a mere noise as a 
 smile is to a silent melody. A laugh 
 simply irritates the nerves ; a smile 
 touches the feelings. 
 
 He. Can anything be less enchanting 
 than silently to listen to a crowd of gay 
 people all laughing together, and think 
 ing, or making believe, that they are 
 happy ? It is all very well when one is 
 joining in the discordant chorus of spas 
 modic voices ; but when one stands aloof 
 from it, and simply listens, what a de 
 testable noise it is ! 
 
LATER READINGS 217 
 
 She. So it is ; and it is curious that the 
 animals do not laugh. That is the ac 
 complishment of human beings only. 
 
 He. I confess that I do not know much 
 about angels, but I do not believe they 
 laugh. At all events, they are never 
 represented as laughing by poets or 
 painters. It is the fiends only that laugh, 
 if we may trust what the poets say. 
 
 She. May I look at that manuscript 
 book of yours ? 
 
 He. Certainly. There it is. 
 
 She. Thanks. Why, here are sketches, 
 as well as poems and notes. 
 
 He. Yes, it is an odd collection of all 
 sorts of things. I always carry one of 
 these books in my pocket, so that I may 
 write down anything that occurs to me in 
 my ramblings. You see, here are little 
 sketches of many different things, land 
 scape, houses, bits of scenery, heads and 
 figures, as well as scribblings of verses 
 and excerpts from books that I am read 
 ing, when the passages particularly strike 
 me. They are mostly very carelessly 
 done, but they serve to recall persons 
 and places, and make for me a little diary 
 of what otherwise would vanish utterly, 
 
218 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 or at least but dimly remain in my mem 
 ory. Some of the verses I have read to 
 you, as you will see, are in the portfolio 
 of the book, and I happen to have them 
 with me because I was questioning as to 
 whether it was worth my while to make 
 a little collection of them and publish 
 them, and I took them out here with me 
 the day before yesterday to look them 
 over. 
 
 She. Oh, I hope you will decide to pub 
 lish them. 
 
 He. Perhaps I shall ; and then again 
 perhaps I shall not. The pleasure is in 
 the doing. When things are done, 
 they are done, and dead. I lose my in 
 terest in them. It is what I am going 
 to do or am doing that interests 
 me, and beckons and allures me on with 
 smiles. What is done only frowns upon 
 me, and sneers at me, and says : " It is 
 not much of a thing, after all, is it ? " 
 
 She. That it may seem so to you I 
 quite understand. But the case is differ 
 ent for those who read and hear. If 
 you fail to satisfy yourself, you may give 
 pleasure to others, and I think it is a 
 little selfish in you to keep all these 
 
LATER READINGS 219 
 
 poems to yourself. You ought to publish 
 them. 
 
 He. Selfish ! Oh, I like that ! Self 
 ish, indeed ; I should rather say shy or 
 proud, or, still better, modest. You 
 laugh. But really I am modest, and don t 
 like to be slapped in the face, or to ex 
 pose myself to attack. So long as I don t 
 publish, nobody can attack me. If I 
 once publish, then I am the butt for all 
 the critics. I only wish I could flatter 
 myself with even the suspicion that in 
 withholding these verses from the public 
 I am selfish. My doubt is whether it 
 would think them worth reading at all. 
 
 She. You see I do. 
 
 He. Ah, but you are a friend, and the 
 public is not a friend ; and though the 
 saying is that " you should not look a 
 gift horse in the mouth," the critic, and 
 indeed the world in general, always does 
 look, the moment the horse is given. As 
 for the critics, they always know better 
 than the author what he ought to have 
 done and how he ought to have done it. 
 Their province is to find fault with any 
 thing and everything, and show their own 
 superior knowledge and ability. But 
 
220 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 somehow or other, when they try it them 
 selves, they don t always show that su 
 periority. And besides, though I say it 
 with fear and trembling, they are not 
 always so absolutely right as they think 
 themselves. I won t say anything about 
 a certain William Shakespeare, or Shak- 
 spere, or Shaxper, whom the world of 
 contemporaries patted on the head, ac 
 knowledging he was a good fellow, but 
 shaking their heads sadly and patroniz 
 ingly over his works, or accusing him of 
 " beautifying himself with others feath 
 ers " and " thinking himself the only 
 shake scene in the country," and wishing 
 he " had blotted a thousand lines " and 
 followed their advice. At all events, 
 some of his great plays, whatever he 
 thought of them, were never printed or 
 published by him, but only by others and 
 long after his death, he being, as you 
 would say, perhaps, a little too selfish, 
 or, as I should say, too modest 
 
 She. No ! really ! 
 
 He. Undoubtedly; and for those that 
 were printed he seems to have cared very 
 little. At all events, he allowed them to 
 be printed in the most careless, imper- 
 
LATER READINGS 221 
 
 feet, and mutilated form. Such, for in 
 stance, was the case with " Hamlet ; " and 
 as for "Julius Csesar," " Cymbeline," 
 Coriolanus," " Henry VIII.," and 
 " Othello," they were not published until 
 from five to seven years after his death. 
 But, setting aside the " Great Williams," 
 as our French friend called him, look 
 in our own time at the first reception 
 of Wordsworth by the world of critics, 
 and remember the " This will never do " 
 of Gifford on Wordsworth s early vol 
 umes. It managed to do, did n t it, after 
 all ? And then please to remember what 
 the first judgment of the world was of 
 Keats and Shelley, and compare it with 
 to-day s opinion of their poems. Almost 
 one could say that nothing of really great 
 originality and excellence is ever well re 
 ceived by the world at first. An author 
 has to make his public, and to make it 
 slowly. Not that I would, in the faint 
 est way, presume to imagine that there 
 is anything in common between these 
 poor little things of mine and the works 
 of any really original men such as those 
 I have spoken of. Far from it. The 
 best that can be said of them, even by a 
 
222 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 friend, is that they are not so utterly 
 bad as they might have been ; and that is 
 not any great praise, is it ? And then, 
 perhaps, they have a worse fault, of 
 being simply commonplace. And so I 
 am what you are pleased to call selfish 
 in keeping them to myself. 
 
 She. But is it true, as you say, that 
 Shelley was not accepted as a poet at 
 once ? Wordsworth, I know, was not, 
 but Shelley, that is difficult to believe. 
 
 He. Well, then, listen to words of his 
 reviewer in the great " Quarterly Re 
 view." I have them, or some of them, 
 here somewhere, for I was reading this 
 criticism the other day, and it amused me 
 so much that I copied one or two sen 
 tences. Stop a moment, and I will find 
 them. Ah, here they are. The critic in 
 the " Quarterly " says : " The predom 
 inating characteristic of his poetry is its 
 frequent and total want of meaning ; " 
 and he describes his "Prometheus" as 
 "in sober sadness driveling prose run 
 mad." But this is nothing compared 
 with what the critic in the " Literary 
 Gazette" says of the tragedy of the 
 "Cenci," which he speaks of as "the 
 
LATER READINGS 223 
 
 most abominable work of the time ; " and 
 he hopes never again to see a book " so 
 stamped with pollution, impiousness, and 
 infamy." As for the " Prometheus," it 
 is, in his opinion, " little else but abso 
 lute raving, and, were we not assured 
 to the contrary, we should take it for 
 granted that the author was a lunatic, as 
 his principles are ludicrously wicked, and 
 his poetry a melange of nonsense, cock- 
 neyism, poverty, and pedantry;" and 
 further on he speaks of " the stupid 
 trash of this delirious dreamer," and his 
 " tissue of insufferable buffoonery." 
 
 She. I confess I am surprised. I could 
 not have believed this possible. Is this a 
 hoax of yours ? 
 
 He. No, not at all ; it is a plain fact. 
 It is curious to contrast with these ex 
 pressions the modern estimate of Shel 
 ley. William Michael Rossetti, in his 
 memoir of Shelley, says, speaking of the 
 " Prometheus," that in his opinion " there 
 is no poem in English poetry comparable, 
 in the fair sense of that word, to it. The 
 immense scale and boundless scope of the 
 conception, the marble majesty and extra- 
 mundane passions of the personages, the 
 
224 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 radiance of ideal and poetic beauty which 
 saturates every phrase of the subject," 
 etc., " form a combination not to be 
 matched elsewhere, and scarcely to en 
 counter competition." " It is the ideal 
 poem of perpetual and triumphant pro 
 gression." And of the " Cenci " he speaks 
 as "his one unparalleled masterpiece," 
 and as " a splendid performance," which 
 " the soundest and finest minds " are 
 " fully justified in preferring " to the 
 " Prometheus." There is a difference of 
 opinion, is there not ? So you see that 
 the first judgment of the world of critics 
 as to poetry does not always coincide 
 with its last. 
 
 She. Both, perhaps, are wrong ; the 
 one on the side of too little appreciation 
 and the other of too great exaggeration. 
 I don t think I could go so far as Mr. 
 Rossetti in the estimate he places on the 
 " Prometheus " and the Cenci," glori 
 ous as I think some of Shelley s other and 
 smaller poems are. Still, I cannot con 
 ceive how anybody could be so blind and 
 self-willed as those old reviewers whose 
 criticisms you have cited. But since you 
 say that nothing very original ever finds 
 
LATER READINGS 225 
 
 at once its public, or is kindly received, it 
 ought to comfort and flatter you if your 
 verses are even rejected at first. You 
 ought to hope that they would not be 
 well received. At all events, I think you 
 should better try it. 
 
 He. Well, perhaps I will. Still, you 
 see, provided I keep them in my private 
 portfolio I can indulge myself with all 
 sorts of imaginary ideas about them. 
 While the world outside bustles and 
 cries and fights, I sit in my study and 
 enjoy my seclusion from it all, and am 
 protected from all attacks, so long as 
 I do not expose my life and my verses. 
 But if I go out I must be ready to brave 
 the storm and the gale. Here I sit and 
 enjoy the comforts of privacy, and hold 
 commune with the spirits of the past, or 
 sit over the fire with a friend, and keep 
 my temper, and indulge in all sorts of 
 quiet and peaceful occupations or silent 
 musings. And, apropos, let me recall to 
 you those charming lines you wrote some 
 twenty years or more ago. 
 
 She. I must have been very young 
 then to have written any verses, or, at 
 least, any worth reading. 
 
226 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. Oh, when you wrote these verses 
 you were at least twenty years older than 
 you are now, or you imagine yourself 
 to be. But you surely remember that you 
 had a cottage by the seaside, and a hus 
 band and two children, who were perfect 
 angels, of course; don t you remember? 
 
 She. Not exactly ; and, particularly, I 
 don t remember the husband, nor the 
 children, that you say were such angels. 
 
 He. Don t remember ! why, you wrote 
 those verses about them, in which you 
 describe an evening in the cottage dur 
 ing a storm, and you know you gave 
 them to me ! 
 
 She. Well, let me hear them, then. I 
 shall be so glad to make the acquaintance 
 of my husband and children, for I have 
 never seen them, either of them. 
 
 He. Well, this is your poem : 
 
 AT THE FIRESIDE BY THE SEA 
 SIDE. 
 
 How the wind roars ! 
 
 How the rain pours, 
 Pressing with furious gusts the pane, 
 And lashing against them with streams of 
 rain 
 
 Again, and yet again ! 
 
LATER READINGS 227 
 
 And how black it is outside ! how drear ! 
 
 Ah me ! ah me ! 
 I m so glad with you to be well housed 
 
 here, 
 
 Here, in this peaceful privacy, 
 So peaceful, so free from fear. 
 
 Hark to the tempest, the distant roar 
 Of the thundering breakers along the 
 
 shore ; 
 
 And think of the sailors out at sea, 
 Where the wild sea-horses are flinging 
 
 their manes 
 To the angry blast, and rearing their 
 
 crest, 
 And madly plunging as if possessed 
 
 By the demon of the air, 
 And sweeping the deck, as their poor ship 
 
 strains 
 Like a giant, struggling, staggering, 
 
 fighting, 
 
 As the seas against her beat, 
 Almost I can see them there ! 
 
 Think of them, dear, on this horrible 
 
 night 
 And here, so near, scarcely out of 
 
 sight, 
 
228 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Almost at our very feet, 
 Hark ! on the cliffs with a wild unrest 
 How the surf-waves beat and dash their 
 
 breast, 
 Storming them fiercely with angry 
 
 sleet, 
 
 Or rushing like charges of cavalry, 
 And thundering along the beach ! Ah 
 
 me ! 
 
 For the poor drenched sailors out at sea, 
 How sad it must be ! How sad it must 
 
 be! 
 How fearful it all must be ! 
 
 And for those on shore, crouching down 
 
 to the storm 
 That shakes and roars in the groaning 
 
 trees, 
 Neath the shelter of hedges, or forcing 
 
 their track 
 In the face of the blast, whose wild 
 
 gusts seize 
 And tear their close - wrapped cloaks 
 
 from their back, 
 As stern on their desolate path they 
 
 go, 
 
 Striving and straining, their heads bent 
 low, 
 
LATER READINGS 229 
 
 Longing for home and the fireside 
 
 glowj 
 And the wife and the children that 
 
 there are at play, 
 And the home and the fireside so far 
 
 away ! 
 And the heavens above them so wild and 
 
 black ! 
 While we, well housed and out of the 
 
 storm, 
 Are sitting together, contented and 
 
 warm ; 
 With the bright fire glowing, the lamps 
 
 alight, 
 
 And nothing to trouble us two ; 
 Only in thought going forth to the drear, 
 Wild tempest outside, with a shudder of 
 
 fear 
 
 And a sympathy, silent, but true, 
 For all who, unhoused, on this terrible 
 
 night, 
 
 For their life, for their home, must 
 struggle and fight. 
 
 Let us be grateful, then, to be here, 
 Housed and happy, as we are, dear ! 
 Both, both together, beyond the blast, 
 With nothing to do, and nothing to fear; 
 
230 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 To love and be silent, to hope and to 
 dream, 
 
 Now of the future and now of the past ; 
 
 And stretch out our hands to the fire 
 light s gleam ; 
 
 I with my knitting, and you with your 
 book, 
 
 From which you at intervals lift up your 
 eyes, 
 
 At times with approval, at times with 
 surprise, 
 
 Some passage to read, or to criticise ; 
 
 This one to praise, and that to rebuke, 
 
 Or say that the world was so far more 
 wise 
 
 In the good old days ere its ways it for 
 sook ; 
 
 Or you go to the window, and, shudder 
 ing, look 
 
 Into the darkness that shrouds the skies ; 
 
 Or, pacing the carpet, stride to and fro, 
 
 Picking its patterns for steps as you go, 
 
 Till, tired of pacing our deck, you then 
 
 Come back to your chair and your book 
 again. 
 
 The very tempest that roars outside, 
 And shakes the shutters with rattle and 
 din, 
 
LATER READINGS 231 
 
 Makes it by contrast more cheerful with 
 in, 
 
 As here we sit, so calm and serene, 
 Whatsoever the outer world may betide ; 
 Both the children abed and asleep up 
 stairs, 
 
 Of the storm s wild fury quite unawares, 
 And not even disturbed by a dream, 
 While we, with nought in the world so 
 
 wide 
 
 To plague us, are sitting here side by 
 side. 
 
 But hark ! what was that, that 
 
 scream ? 
 
 Was it theirs was it theirs ? 
 Stop ! listen ! ah no ! t was only the 
 
 wind 
 
 Tearing away at the blind. 
 Thank heaven, it was not their voices. 
 
 No ! no ! 
 But it startled me so ! it startled me so ! 
 
 She. And those are my verses, you 
 say. Well, give them to me. If they 
 were mine, I must have been a delight 
 ful, sympathetic old woman, whatever I 
 am as a young woman. 
 
232 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. There they are; take them. You 
 were a charming old woman then, as you 
 are a charming young woman now. 
 
 She, I make you my humblest bow, 
 or curtsey. But seriously, to return to 
 what we were saying before. This poem 
 is all very well as a picture of home com 
 fort, undisturbed by the wild voices of 
 the outer world. I have nothing to say 
 against it. Your imagined family I 
 mean to say my husband and I were 
 undoubtedly right in congratulating our 
 selves on our comfortable and pleasant 
 fireside out of the storm. But for any 
 writer to withhold his works from the 
 public on such a plea seems to me to 
 argue cowardice as well as selfishness. 
 
 He. As for cowardice, I will not say 
 that you are not right, or, at least, par 
 tially right. The harsh words of the 
 world affect us deeply, however we admit 
 their truth and their justice ; ay ! and 
 more, perhaps, than the kind words of 
 friends gratify us. So long as we keep 
 ourselves to ourselves, we are not ex 
 posed to this. And, after all, what right 
 have any of us to expect better treat 
 ment than we get, to receive what, I 
 
LATER READINGS 233 
 
 concede, we desire, in trembling and 
 doubt perhaps, but still we do desire. 
 Besides, I am not willing to accept the 
 public verdict, or, at least, the first ver 
 dict of the world, as to the value of what 
 we do, and that is all I shall ever know. 
 It may be right, or it may be wrong, but 
 it annoys us none the less when it is 
 wrong. As for selfishness, there I make 
 a stand. Even if I am selfish, who is not 
 in this world, and what is not? Our 
 ambition certainly is, and so is our fear, 
 and so is our love. They who are in love 
 think only of themselves. 
 
 She. Oh, no ! not those who are in 
 love. They look kindly on every person 
 and thing in the world. Love lends a 
 kindly seeing to the eye. 
 
 He. Except for those who interfere 
 with their private and personal satisfac 
 tions. Lovers all hate the world, and 
 only desire to be alone together. 1 am 
 afraid I have been talking a little big, 
 and as if I had a certain spite against 
 the world, arising from disappointment 
 or ill-humor, and as not having received 
 my right appreciation from it. But, if 
 so, I have been utterly false to myself. I 
 
234 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 have everything, as far as this world 
 goes, to be grateful for, and nobody thinks 
 less of his deserts than I do. Bah! but 
 I will not talk about myself any more. 
 What I know and think is simply this, 
 I have no splendid greenhouses and gor 
 geous gardens filled with exotics and won 
 derful flowers. No, no ! 
 
 Mine a but a kitchen garden 
 
 Of herbs, unpretending and low, 
 Where marjoram, borage, and basil, 
 
 And sage, and sweet lavender grow. 
 There is rosemary, too, for remembrance, 
 
 Coriander, mint, dittany, dill ; 
 And with savory, sorrel, thyme, parsley, 
 
 You your Perdita s basket may till. 
 
 But there is not one stately white lily 
 
 To lend its virginal grace, 
 Nor a rose, nor a spicy carnation, 
 
 To charm and enchant the whole 
 
 place. 
 On its wall climbs no delicate jasmine ; 
 
 No sweet honeysuckle is there ; 
 No ! nor even the tulip, with shaking 
 cup, 
 
 Nor camellia, cold arid fair. 
 
LATER READINGS 235 
 
 It is but a humble garden, 
 
 With scarcely a flower to see, 
 Save some pausies for thought, and some 
 
 violets 
 
 Half hidden, that there may be. 
 Kind friends may stoop down and gather 
 
 them, 
 
 If there they should chance to stray, 
 But the world says, They are so com 
 mon, 
 And turns with a sneer away. 
 
 No matter ! however common 
 
 My little garden of herbs, 
 It gives me pleasure to plant them and 
 till them, 
 
 And no one it harms or disturbs. 
 They serve, too, life s daily living 
 
 To season, and flavor to lend. 
 But if they are not to your taste, God 
 help us, 
 
 I ve nothing to say, good friend. 
 
 There, that s the way I feel about the 
 whole matter. 
 
 She. Well, I don t find any fault with 
 it. It is modest, at least, and modesty 
 is a rare thing to meet with nowadays. 
 
236 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Perhaps you don t quite do yourself jus 
 tice, but that is better than bragging. 
 " Fire low," you remember, was Crom 
 well s command to his army. " Trust in 
 God, and fire low." It is good policy, too. 
 
 He. Perhaps, though, the world in such 
 cases is very ready to take you at your 
 own estimation. Pretension too often 
 carries the day over real merit and 
 power. It is not always, indeed it is very 
 seldom, that the best and the strongest 
 are set in the highest places. 
 
 She. Still, I think everybody finds his 
 true level at last. 
 
 He. Do you? Happy and trustful 
 you ! I don t agree with you ; at least, 
 I should n t if I dared to disagree. 
 
 She. I suppose there is a good deal to 
 be said on both sides, as there always is. 
 
 He. It is good policy, you just said, to 
 be modest. I hate the word " policy," 
 and the thing. Honesty may, as it is 
 said, be the best policy, but there is 
 something degrading in being honest for 
 the sake of policy. Let us be brave to 
 say and to be what we really and truly 
 are and think, and not compromise our 
 conscience by lies and pretenses, however 
 
LATER READINGS 237 
 
 politic, for it is a lie to pretend to be 
 what you know you are not. Policy and 
 Expediency, who are twin-brothers, are 
 both of them surreptitious claimants, who 
 are seeking falsely to acquire the rights 
 and property of Honor and Honesty, that 
 do not really belong to them. 
 
 She. I fear, if those are your principles 
 of conduct and speech, that you will not 
 get on very far with the world. 
 
 He. Perhaps I shall not. I did not 
 say that I should. 
 
 She. May I look at that manuscript 
 book of yours again ? Are these first 
 drafts of poems, or have you copied them 
 out? 
 
 He. Some of them I have taken the 
 trouble to copy out, but for the most part 
 they are just as I wrote them, with all 
 their faults. 
 
 She. But in some of them there are 
 scarcely any erasures or corrections. 
 
 He. I dare say there is a lot of rub 
 bish. 
 
 She. Do you correct and elaborate 
 much ? 
 
 He. Look for yourself, and you 11 see. 
 Everything depends upon the mood I am 
 
238 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 in, and whether I am in a free vein. 
 Then things come to me very rapidly ; 
 and when this is the case I generally do 
 my best poor as it is at first, and 
 I only make what I have done colder by 
 correction. When the mood is gone, the 
 words and thoughts that fit to it go too. 
 One can t, or at least I can not, under 
 stand how one can write a poem of 
 "malice prepense," as we say in the 
 law. Thought and feeling should be 
 molten to flow into the mould of a poem, 
 not hammered and filed into shape. I 
 speak for myself only, not for others. I 
 know many poets polish, and change, and 
 elaborate with great fastidiousness. I 
 doubt whether they always, by so doing, 
 better their poems, if they are real 
 poems. But on this, as well as on all 
 other subjects, there is much to be said 
 on both sides. Mere facility is apt to 
 degenerate into careless and slovenly 
 garrulity, and too much labor and fas 
 tidiousness into hardness and coldness. 
 Out of the fullness of the heart the 
 mouth speaketh. The height of the 
 fountain s jet depends on the force and 
 fullness of the upper spring. When the 
 
LATER READINGS 239 
 
 spirit is alive and earnest it finds its true 
 expression with ease ; but one cannot 
 pump up enthusiasm or studiously hunt 
 out its true and natural language. That 
 comes by instinct, not by study. 
 
 She. I should like to see Shakespeare s 
 manuscript. 
 
 He. Should you ? How strange ! 
 
 She. I mean, to see whether he cor 
 rected much. 
 
 He. Ben Jonson says he did n t, and 
 he reproves him for it, and says he would 
 he had blotted a thousand lines, and that 
 he went on with too great facility. I 
 can easily believe Ben blotted a great 
 many in his own work, but 
 
 She. Oh, no matter about Ben Jon- 
 son. Let him go, for the present. Here 
 is a blank page, no, not quite blank, 
 there is a pressed leaf on it, and there is 
 a name and a date. May I read the 
 poem there, that seems to refer to it ? 
 Is it very private ? 
 
 He. Read it if you wish. I don t re 
 member anything about it. 
 
 She. Oh, poets, poets, what a singular 
 lot you are ! Well, I shall read your 
 poem, since you give me leave, and I 
 
240 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 shall read it aloud, and you then can tell 
 me what you think of it, if you have 
 really forgotten it. 
 
 He. How can I help thinking it the 
 most beautiful of poems if you read it ? 
 
 She. Don t be foolish. Listen ! 
 
 A leaf, a name, a date, 
 
 Are all that now remain 
 Of that glad month, that golden time, 
 
 That ne er will come again. 
 Ah, God ! how all goes by, 
 
 Youth, love, joy, everything 
 That once gave glory to our life 
 
 In its fresh days of spring. 
 
 A faded autumn leaf ! 
 
 But at its touch arise 
 What odors wafted from the past 
 
 Of happy memories. 
 Thine eyes again I see, 
 
 Thy lips again I press, 
 Those eyes that looked such love to 
 mine, 
 
 Those lips that breathed to bless. 
 
 The torrent s murmuring voice 
 Goes babbling through the glen ; 
 
LATER READINGS 241 
 
 We lie beside it on the grass, 
 
 Far from the eyes of men. 
 Our hearts keep fluttering round 
 
 One sweet, delicious theme, 
 And the happy, childish days go by, 
 
 Like music in a dream. 
 
 The blue jay shrills afar, 
 
 And, flashing through the trees, 
 The oriole, like a gleam of fire, 
 
 Rustles and vanishes. 
 Across the tender sky 
 
 White cloudlets drift and sail, 
 And o er the glowing woods is drawn 
 
 A soft autumnal veil. 
 
 Your voice, your tones I hear, 
 
 The very words you said, 
 And on my breast I feel again 
 
 The weight of your dear head. 
 Upon the running stream 
 
 That hurries past, we throw 
 The wild flowers blooming at our feet, 
 
 And idly watch them go. 
 
 Nothing comes back again, 
 
 Each moment hurries on, 
 Gives us a kiss, gives us a stab, 
 
 Greets us, and then is gone. 
 
242 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Nothing is ours to keep, 
 
 And nothing e er returns, 
 Though all the soul, with outstretched 
 prayers, 
 
 Again to grasp it yearns. 
 
 Alas ! of all that then 
 
 Was glad, and pure, as brief, 
 What now remains ? This faded flower, 
 
 This dead autumnal leaf ; 
 A name, thy name, a date, 
 
 The date of that dear day, 
 And all the rest, like some sweet song, 
 
 To silence passed away. 
 
 Ah, no ! It has not gone, 
 
 It lives within my heart, 
 An odor sweet that haunts my thoughts, 
 
 Preserved by love s fond art. 
 And oft a touch, a tone, 
 
 A whisper of the breeze, 
 A passing scene, brings back again 
 
 The vanished memories. 
 
 Yes, for a moment brings 
 
 The past, and then again 
 In the dim vast it vanishes, 
 
 To leave a thrill of pain. 
 
LATER READINGS 243 
 
 Fate, with relentless whip, 
 
 Lashes the present by, 
 The future tempts us but to cheat, 
 
 The past is one long sigh. 
 
 She. There, what do you think of it ? 
 
 He. Ah me ! ah me ! ah me I 
 
 She. Why, there are tears in your eyes. 
 Forgive me ! 
 
 He. Oh, I am a fool, I know. But 
 that day was one which I passed with my 
 sister in the woods at B., when we were 
 both young, and both happy, and both 
 trusting. She was half of my life to me. 
 She entered into all my hopes, cheered 
 me in all my ambitions, gave me always 
 the wisest and tenderest sympathy and 
 counsel. She was what only a sister can ! 
 be, and if there be anything good in me I 
 owe it to her. No one to me can ever fill 
 the gap that she left. But excuse me. 
 I did not mean to talk about myself, and 
 do you know that sometimes you your 
 self recall the memory of her ? Not that 
 you look like her. No ; but I never 
 wrote anything that I did not read to her, 
 and she thought everything I wrote was 
 remarkable. Dear creature ! She had 
 
244 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 scarcely the heart to think anything of 
 mine bad, or to depress me by any se 
 vere criticism. And somehow, though 
 you are not in the least like her, and cer 
 tainly do not exaggerate my merits, the 
 mere fact that I read to you these poor 
 things, and that you are willing to hear 
 them, recalls faintly the old days and 
 the old readings. I don t think I could 
 quite make up my mind to read these 
 verses to any man. Men are so cold, 
 and so critical and unsympathetic. Po 
 etry to them, for the most part, is so out 
 side of their life, so to speak. As for 
 authors, they are so fixed in their own 
 notions as to what any work should be, 
 that they incline generally rather to criti 
 cise than to sympathize, and to think 
 anything could be done better in some 
 other way. But women always listen 
 with sympathy at least, and are more 
 ready to exaggerate the merits than to 
 weigh the faults and defects of what is 
 read to them. 
 
 She. It is, in itself, an implied compli 
 ment to any woman when an author, and 
 particularly a poet, reads his poems to 
 her j let me thank you, as I do most sin- 
 
LATER READINGS 245 
 
 cerely and heartily, for showing this kind 
 ness to me. 
 
 He. On the contrary, it is you who 
 have done me the kindness to listen to 
 them so sympathetically. For, you know, 
 it is a kindness. An author better un 
 derstands his own work when he reads 
 it aloud to another. He feels where 
 it comes short, where it fails in convey 
 ing the impression he desired. He is 
 able better to criticise it for himself. It 
 assumes a comparatively new form and 
 character to him. 
 
 She. I had no idea that I was doing 
 you a favor. I thought it was all the 
 other way. 
 
 He. Well, then, we are both contented, 
 are we not ? 
 
 She. I am, at least ; and if you are, 
 you will please prove it by reading an 
 other poem. There is one, indicating the 
 different ways in which nature affects 
 different minds, that you promised yes 
 terday to bring and to read to me. Have 
 you brought it ? 
 
 He. Yes, I have ; but now that I look 
 at it, I am afraid it is too long. 
 
 She. Well, I will be the judge of that. 
 Come, read it, please. 
 
246 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. First, let me read you a shorter 
 one, that I see here. 
 
 She. Very well, if you like ; but I am 
 not going to let you off from the other, 
 afterwards. 
 
 He. This is a little poem to Leshia. 
 
 She. And who is Lesbia ? 
 
 He. You will see. 
 
 Ah ! lovely Lesbia, through whose eyes 
 
 so blue 
 A laughing light looks forth, whose 
 
 pouting lips 
 
 Are red as roses moist with morning dew, 
 What shall preserve these charms 
 from Time s eclipse ? 
 
 Must coming years intrench that perfect 
 
 brow 
 With cruel lines, these blooming 
 
 cheeks invade, 
 Where quick the warm blush mounts and 
 
 mantles now, 
 
 And o er thy glowing beauty cast a 
 shade ? 
 
 Can nothing save thee from the spoil of 
 
 time? 
 Nothing avert the silent siege of fate ? 
 
LATER READINGS 247 
 
 Nothing preserve thee in thy perfect 
 
 prime 
 
 As now thou art, and keep and conse 
 crate ? 
 
 Nothing but Art and Art, how vain it is 
 For all its vaunt that can preserve 
 
 alone 
 
 Youth s shadowy semblance ere it van 
 ishes 
 
 When youth itself and all its charms 
 are flown. 
 
 Surer is death ! If in thy beauty rare, 
 Thy radiant youth, stern death should 
 
 summon thee, 
 Thou wouldst remain forever young and 
 
 fair, 
 
 Unharmed by time, embalmed in mem 
 ory. 
 
 Ah, then, no change, no faltering steps 
 
 like ours 
 Adown the steeps of life, Death s 
 
 silent bride 
 Thou shouldst be crowned with youth s 
 
 perpetual flowers, 
 And sorrow from thy pathway step 
 
248 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Still, lovely Lesbia, smile, while smile 
 
 you may ; 
 Accept life s bounteous gifts while 
 
 youth divine 
 
 Scatters its roses on your laughing way, 
 And take as tribute one poor poet s 
 line. 
 
 You 11 read it now with half a smile and 
 
 sneer, 
 And lightly laugh, and shake your 
 
 graceful head ; 
 Well ! wait ! and read it after many a 
 
 year, 
 
 When you and I are old or I am 
 dead. 
 
 Perchance it may recall a distant day, 
 
 A happy hour denied to after years ; 
 Perchance, and then, but wipe them 
 
 quick away 
 
 If in your eyes should brim unbidden 
 tears. 
 
 What is the use of sorrow or regret ? 
 Will they avail to give us back the 
 past? 
 
LATER READINGS 249 
 
 Onward the tides of time unebbing set, 
 Till on the shores of death our wrecks 
 are cast. 
 
 Then let us live and love while yet we 
 
 may, 
 Nor cloud the present with the future s 
 
 dread, 
 But grateful take the gift for which we 
 
 pray, 
 
 Content to have each day our daily 
 bread. 
 
 She. Give this poem to me, and I will 
 keep it and read it when I am old and 
 gray, and wear a cap, and totter about on 
 pleasant summer mornings in the flower 
 garden ; and smile and sigh over the 
 past, and chatter over the old times when 
 I was young ; and fall asleep now and 
 then in my easy chair in the long winter 
 evenings, as I sit over the fire watching 
 idly the flames that shoot up and die 
 away ; and dreaming, and moralizing, 
 and comparing the meanness of to-day 
 with the nobler spirit of the past. And 
 in some such mood I shall say to my 
 maid Annie, " Bring me that little book 
 
250 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 bound in vellum and gold, with a gold 
 clasp, that is in my chamber ; " for in that, 
 among other precious relics and memen 
 tos of the past, I shall put this poem 
 carefully away. And she will bring it, 
 and with a little suffusion in the eyes, 
 that obliges me to take off my spectacles 
 and wipe them dry, I shall read this 
 poem, and, dropping the book in my lap, 
 say : " Ah, me ! those were happy days. 
 Those were happy mornings under the 
 trees," and wonder if any one now is 
 listening, as I did then, to poems read by 
 a young poet while the nightingales and 
 the purling brook are singing an accom 
 paniment to him as he reads. 
 
 He. Yes ; and perhaps you will read 
 them when life has not gone on so far, 
 though youth has fled, and you have be 
 come sterner and more critical, and the 
 romance of life is over. And then you 
 will say : " Dear me ! dear me ! what a 
 romantic young thing I was ! It was 
 only youth that made these poems seem 
 worth the listening to. I should not be 
 able to stand them now, even with the 
 best of will." That is far more probable. 
 
 She. Well, we will wait and see. 
 
LATER READINGS 251 
 
 He. I shall have taken the long jour 
 ney before that time, so that I shall not 
 be able to see ; and besides, even if I 
 were there, you would not acknowledge 
 the truth. You would be too kind an old 
 lady, as you are too generous a young 
 one. You would have something pleasant 
 to say, even if it went a little against 
 your conscience. 
 
 She. Yes, I hope I should. Truth 
 with a capital T is a hard, unsympathetic 
 kind of creature, who is always reprov 
 ing and rebuking and setting us right, 
 and is so formal and noble and stately 
 in her high ruff. I think I probably 
 should dodge her, as you say, if I could, 
 or get her out of the room. But time is 
 going, so a truce to all this forecasting. 
 I m waiting for the poem. 
 
 He. One moment, just as a comment 
 on what we were saying, a sort of pre 
 liminary overture on an old violoncello 
 before the play begins : 
 
 Nought is given to keep and to own : 
 Life and time, love and youth hurry 
 
 by; 
 
 Ere we say they are ours they are flown ; 
 And memory is but a sigh, 
 
252 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 A sigh for a phantom that s fled, 
 
 For a dream that we clung to and lost, 
 
 But a funeral rite for the dead 
 
 Of which nothing remains but the 
 ghost. 
 
 Our sorrows as well as our joys 
 
 Grow dimmer as time fleets away, 
 And over old pains, cares, annoys, 
 
 Faint graces of memory play. 
 What we mourned for with bitterest tears, 
 
 What with anguish we wept for a 
 
 while, 
 Time softens, till after long years 
 
 Almost on its face is a smile. 
 
 She. Thank you ; it is very pretty, but 
 very sad. 
 
 He. Oh, don t call it pretty. If there 
 is anything I hate, it is that word 
 "pretty." It is such a condescending 
 and unmeaning word. It is like flinging 
 a stone at a poem to call it pretty. 
 
 She. I take it back ! I never said so ! 
 
 He. Thank you, that will do. 
 
 She. There were two poems I saw 
 when you gave me your book to look 
 at, that were both entitled " Good-by." 
 What are they ? 
 
LATER READINGS 253 
 
 He. Little nothings. Not worth read 
 ing. 
 
 She. Let me judge of that, please. 
 What are they ? 
 
 He. Oh, I have no objection to read 
 ing them if you wish, but I assure you 
 
 She. Oh ! Don t assure me ; read 
 them. 
 
 He. To hear is to obey. This is one of 
 them. 
 
 Well, well ! This is the very last, last 
 day 
 
 We shall be here ; 
 And I shall be so glad to get away. 
 
 Shall you not, dear ? 
 
 Yes no perhaps ! t is always hard 
 to say 
 
 That word Good-by. 
 No place is wholly sad, or wholly gay. 
 With half a sigh 
 
 We leave the dreariest place. However 
 gray, 
 
 Dark, tempest-tossed, 
 Some gleams of softening light illume 
 alway 
 
 The past and lost. 
 
254 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 And the mere words, smile, speak 
 them as we may, 
 
 " This is the last," 
 Across the darkest and the brightest day 
 
 A cloud will cast. 
 
 A consecrating hand time seems to lay 
 
 On all it gave. 
 
 Griefs fade, and tender lights of memory 
 play 
 
 Even o er the grave. 
 
 She. Yes ; there is some truth in that. 
 Even over the dreariest and most com 
 monplace of days and experiences that 
 are gone there lingers a certain light, 
 perhaps of amusement, if of nothing else, 
 that softens in memory all the harshness 
 of fact and reality. We at least can 
 laugh at what is past, however annoying 
 and disagreeable it might have been at 
 the time. But now for the other poem, 
 which I suppose is on the same lines, 
 with a little variation, perhaps. 
 
 He. Not precisely. It is a different 
 kind of Good-by. 
 
 She. Well, read it, please. 
 
 He. To hear is to obey. 
 
LATER READINGS 255 
 
 This is the last time we shall walk to 
 gether ; 
 So it all ends ! 
 Still, if love binds us not with its strong 
 
 tether, 
 We may at least be friends. 
 
 Ah ! so you say ! but after the sweet 
 
 hoping 
 
 Of what might be, 
 Friendship sounds cold, so cold ! In 
 
 heaven s wide coping 
 Love s light is gone for me. 
 
 Its glory gone, that once with radiant 
 
 splendor 
 
 Before me shone ; 
 With only twilight friendship, sad, 
 
 though tender, 
 To light life s journey on. 
 
 No ! I will say no more. T is all past 
 
 saying. 
 
 Here it all ends ! 
 You know too well what on my heart is 
 
 weighing, 
 So let us part, mere friends. 
 
256 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Yes, it is difficult to put up with 
 second best in all cases, but specially in 
 love, where not to be first is to be nowhere. 
 So I imagine, at least ; I never tried it. 
 Undoubtedly you have, as you speak so 
 feelingly about it. 
 
 He. If you suppose all these verses of 
 mine are founded upon personal experi 
 ences, permit me to say that you are mis 
 taken. But one may fall in love with 
 imaginary as well as real persons, and 
 the loss is about the same. 
 
 She. Are not many real persons purely 
 imaginary ? In fact, are not all to a cer 
 tain extent in this category, particu 
 larly when one is what we call in love ? 
 What do we really know of anybody 
 else ; nay, I might ask, even of our 
 selves ? Of those who are nearest and 
 dearest how little we know ! Each is 
 alone in his or her intimate individuality. 
 However closely we may seem to be 
 united, even in our affections and in our 
 sympathies and feelings, still there is an 
 impassable gulf between us. We talk 
 of being one, but we are always two. 
 
 He. That is what I have tried to say, 
 but, I confess, not very successfully, in 
 these lines : 
 
LATER READINGS 257 
 
 Close at your side, 
 And yet as distant, dearest, each from 
 
 each 
 
 As if some ocean, desolate and wide, 
 Parted our souls ; o er which no subtlest 
 
 speech, 
 No tenderest tone, look, thought, of love 
 
 can reach, 
 And that abyss between us overstride. 
 
 So near, so dear, 
 
 And yet so far apart ! Each so alone 
 In its deep inner life, thought, hope, 
 
 pain, fear, 
 
 Each to the other soul so dimly known. 
 Each, starlike, bounded by a silent zone, 
 And powerless to o erstep its own fixed 
 sphere. 
 
 Ah, to be one, 
 
 Both merged in one, not ever, ever two ! 
 One only ; not in earthly sense 
 
 alone, 
 But soul to soul incorporate through and 
 
 through ; 
 One throbbing pulse of life in me and 
 
 you, 
 
 One pulse of death, when this brief life 
 is done. 
 
258 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 She. Well, I don t think I could go so 
 far as that last verse would go, for it 
 would be only losing one s self, after all, 
 and the bliss of loving, I should think, 
 would be the reciprocation of the two, 
 of the I and thou and the thou and I, 
 and not the loss of all individuality. 
 While there are two there is the charm 
 of accord, the two tones blending into 
 harmonies of hope, love, joy, and fear ; 
 otherwise there would be no chance of 
 concord. 
 
 He. And none of discord, and that is 
 something you will admit, though of very 
 rare occurrence, between husband and 
 wife, at least, if not between lovers. 
 
 She. Well, I suppose you know. I 
 give it up. I am so very ignorant of all 
 such matters. Still, I prefer to be my 
 self, and I don t know what sort of an 
 unsatisfactory mixture I should make if 
 I were identified with any other being. 
 Ah, no ! no unison for me ! Concord and 
 harmony of different tones is far better, 
 and for myself, I d rather be a single 
 note. But you see I am not a poet, and 
 not wildly in love. 
 
 He. I dare say it is all very extrava- 
 
LATER READINGS 259 
 
 gant, but persons are so very, very ex 
 travagant when they are in love ! You 
 must not take what they say to the let 
 ter. They are always dying for this and 
 for that impossible thing. They never 
 saw or felt anything half so perfect and 
 so divine as everything is. When it 
 comes to analyzing their extravagant 
 expressions, and submitting them to the 
 touchstone of reality, they cannot stand 
 the test ; but to them there never was 
 so perfect a moonlight night, nor so 
 glorious a summer day, as every day and 
 every night is, or so they say. They live 
 in a dream, and a dream is generally 
 very far removed from all the realities of 
 life. In a dream we say and we do the 
 most wonderful things, all of which seem 
 to us natural, but which are in fact mere 
 inconsecutive nonsense, for the most part 
 at least. But dreams are dreams, for all 
 that. 
 
 She. Sometimes I think that the world 
 is only a dream, and we wake up when 
 we die, as we do from our other dreams 
 here. However, don t let us go into that 
 question. Let us draw back our feet at 
 once from it. And to change the sub- 
 
260 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 ject, let me ask you if you have ever 
 painted this delightful spot. If you 
 have not, you ought to. You might put 
 your two lovers here. 
 
 He. Will you give me a sitting for one 
 of them ? 
 
 She. I ? I think so ! How absurd ! 
 But, jesting apart, have you ever painted 
 this spot, with its mossy rocks and boul 
 ders, through which the clear running 
 stream finds its murmurous way, spread 
 ing out into clear brown pools of trans 
 parent water now and then, in which the 
 overhanging trees and the blue sky be 
 yond are so softly mirrored ? I should 
 think you might make a charming pic 
 ture of it. You have painted it, have n t 
 you ? 
 
 He. Yes and no. I have tried, but I 
 have not succeeded. How could I suc 
 ceed in rendering beyond the facts the 
 somewhat that haunts it like a spirit ? 
 Even the best representation of it on can 
 vas must necessarily lack so much that 
 the eye cannot see, but that reaches all 
 the other senses, the odors, the sounds, 
 the whispering of the lightly lifting 
 breeze among the trees, the murmur of 
 
LATER READINGS 261 
 
 the brook, the singing of the birds; these 
 make up an essential part of the whole, 
 and how can the deftest brush express 
 them ? The soul feels more than the 
 eye sees. And besides, see how the 
 whole place has changed in the hour 
 that we have been here. It is still the 
 same in a certain sense, and yet certainly 
 different, in all the elements of light and 
 shade and color and sentiment, with in 
 finite and ever shifting details, at every 
 moment having a different character, and 
 representing a different mood and feel 
 ing. 
 
 She. I hear a great deal lately about 
 the necessity of absolutely following na 
 ture in art ; but what is nature ? Is not 
 the ugly as natural as the beautiful ? 
 
 He. Ay, that is the great question, 
 What is nature ? and what are we to im 
 itate ? Nature is as much a sentiment 
 and a feeling as a congregation of facts. 
 In the latter sense it has the same relation 
 to art that a dictionary and a grammar 
 have to poetry, or sounds to music. The 
 great object for the artist is, as it seems 
 to me, to select and subordinate the out 
 ward world that he sees to some idea, or 
 
262 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 sentiment, or feeling, not servilely to 
 copy it. No literal reproduction of life 
 or nature, however accurate, results in 
 art. The spirit, the mind, the soul, must 
 come in to give them life and truth. We 
 must, of course, be grammatical ; but 
 after all, grammar is not poetry, however 
 correctly the words are arranged. There 
 is something infinitely beyond all this. 
 And, by the way, here are two poems 
 which touch upon this question. 
 
 She. Read them. 
 
 He. 
 Paint me the murmur of the brook, 
 
 That through the forest flows, 
 The sealike whisperings of the pines, 
 
 The perfume of the rose, 
 The tender tone, the finished song, 
 
 That held our hearts awhile, 
 And then but not till then perhaps 
 
 You 11 paint me Livia s smile. 
 
 Ah, no ! The auroral gleam that plays 
 
 Across her happy face, 
 The beaming eye, the quivering lips, 
 
 The lights that o er it race, 
 The joy, the innocent surprise 
 
 That springs from out the heart 
 
f UNIVERS 
 
 LATER READINGS 263 
 
 And flushes o er her radiant face, 
 Defy the snare of Art. 
 
 No ! Nature mocks the artist s skill ; 
 
 Her breathing life and charm 
 Flee from his grasp, and only leave 
 
 Her cold and lifeless form. 
 Shy Beauty s ever varying shapes 
 
 Art vainly strives to seize. 
 She lures us on, but at our touch 
 
 She smiles and vanishes. 
 
 She vanishes, but leaves behind 
 
 A promise in the air, 
 A sweet excitement, a fond hope, 
 
 That charms away despair. 
 She lures the artist in his dreams, 
 
 She will not set him free, 
 And in her bondage sweet he owns 
 
 Life s best felicity. 
 
 She. Yes; t is only one thing that can 
 be taken at one time in art. But life 
 and nature and beauty have infinite vari 
 ations and allurements, following each 
 other swiftly as the waves of the sea, and 
 never the same for more than a moment. 
 Which to take, that must be the question, 
 since to take all is impossible. 
 
264 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. Ah, yes ; that is the question. 
 
 She. Now for the other poem. 
 
 He. Well, this I call "Many Men, 
 Many Minds." Nature is what we are ; 
 we only see ourselves reflected in it. No. 
 First I will read you a few lines express 
 ing this thought on the part of the artist : 
 
 I have done my best ; but nothing seems 
 
 worth the doing, 
 Once it is done ; 
 And success is a phantom that ever 
 
 eludes our pursuing 
 And tempts us forever on. 
 
 The joy is alone in the earnest seeking 
 
 and striving 
 For what before us lies. 
 "Tis only illusions that make life seem 
 
 worth living, 
 Not life s realities. 
 
 Tis the spirit that lends its charm to 
 
 living and being, 
 What we give alone we find, 
 T is what we are that lends to the eye its 
 
 seeing, 
 The eye of itself is blind. 
 
LATER READINGS 265 
 
 She. True, true, very true. Now for 
 that other poem. 
 
 He. Well, you shall have it, if you in 
 sist. But I am afraid it is rather long 
 for to-day. 
 
 She. No matter, read it. 
 
 He. Well, it must be the last for to 
 day, the very last. I scarcely have it in 
 my heart, really and honestly, to read it 
 to you. But none the less, here it is. If 
 you will have it, you will ! It is called, 
 as I told you, 
 
 MANY MEN -MANY MINDS. 
 
 A glorious day ! June at its best ; a 
 
 smile 
 On all creation, the pure heavens so 
 
 blue, 
 So calm above ; the fresh-washed leaves 
 
 and grass 
 Twinkling in light ; the delicate, soft 
 
 breeze, 
 
 Lifting at intervals, and crisping o er 
 The gleaming river, as it loitering glides 
 Through whitening willows, all things 
 
 at their best. 
 
266 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 A day to wander without aim, and take 
 What, unasked,. Nature yields to happy 
 chance. 
 
 So thought the poet whom I chanced to 
 meet 
 
 Under the canopy of murmurous leaves. 
 
 Stretched on the grass, beneath their 
 shade, he lay, 
 
 Dreaming, and idly gazing now above. 
 
 Now down into the soft reflected world 
 
 That in the watery mirror quivering 
 hung. 
 
 "What are you pondering now, my 
 dreaming friend," 
 
 I asked as I approached. With a half- 
 smile, 
 
 Turning to me, he answered : "Ponder 
 ing? 
 
 Nothing. Yes, absolutely nothing. T is 
 enough 
 
 On such a day to feel and not to think. 
 
 To feel, to dream, surrendered to the 
 spell 
 
 Of all this infinite beauty, and to live, 
 
 Unquestioning, as live the trees and flow 
 ers, 
 
LATER READINGS 267 
 
 Absorbed in nature, glad for what it 
 
 gives. 
 Not toiling, spinning out a web of 
 
 thought, 
 
 But, with the mind asleep, into the soul 
 Taking those dim reflections from above 
 That only come when, tranced in peace, 
 
 we lie 
 Unconscious, and let Nature have her 
 
 will. 
 From thoughtless hours thus spent our 
 
 very thoughts 
 
 Returning have a radiance, color, light, 
 Transfiguring life itself to poesy. 
 So, in such hours, I no vain questions 
 
 ask, 
 
 Nor trouble the deep flow of time where 
 in 
 
 My spirit swims, not rooted like a rock, 
 To make a trouble there; but, drifting on, 
 Whither, who knows ? nor ask me to 
 
 what end. 
 
 Suffices me to be at one with all, 
 Though some may call it utter idleness." 
 
 That is one way to look at life, I 
 
 thought, 
 A poet s way, and then I wandered on. 
 
268 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Along the meadows, pondering his words, 
 
 I passed a peasant. Through the fields 
 he ploughed 
 
 With slow, dull steps, goading his labor 
 ing steers, 
 
 And shouting to them as he urged them 
 on. 
 
 At times he paused to wipe from off his 
 brow 
 
 The beaded sweat ; then to his work 
 again 
 
 Sternly he bent himself. Approaching 
 him, 
 
 "A lovely day," I said. "Ay, if it 
 holds," 
 
 He answered, looking up, and questioning 
 
 The open sky. " T will bring good 
 crops to serve 
 
 Our master s needs, at least ; and as for 
 us 
 
 Who do the laborer s work, what mat 
 ters it 
 
 Sun, rain, wet, dry ; t is all alike to us ; 
 
 Our wages are the same ; that s the 
 chief thing. 
 
 And for the rest, if this good weather 
 holds, 
 
 It promises, at least, that we shall have 
 
LATER READINGS 269 
 
 A bounteous harvest. But why hope for 
 
 that? 
 
 Was any season the world ever saw 
 Good for the farmer ? There s a curse 
 
 on it ; 
 
 That s what I say ; that s my experience. 
 Pray as we will, sir, Nature always spites 
 Our wishes and our hopes. But I must 
 
 work, 
 I have no time to talk, your servant, 
 
 sir ! " 
 
 Still further on I met a merchant friend, 
 Fresh from the city, overworn with care, 
 Pale, anxious, looking down upon the 
 
 ground, 
 
 And heedless of the canticles the birds 
 Were singing in the branches, and the 
 
 lark s 
 Long trill of song streaming along the 
 
 sky. 
 Nothing to him had summer s bounteous 
 
 gifts 
 
 Nor all its light and joy and life to say. 
 " Ah ! " he exclaimed, as I drew near, 
 
 " What news ? 
 My papers have not come to-day. Have 
 
 yours ? 
 
270 A POUT S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Yes ? What are the quotations ? How 
 
 are stocks ? 
 
 Ah ! You cau t tell me. I was pondering, 
 As you came up, whether to buy at once 
 In the South westerns, or to wait a 
 
 while. 
 They re going up, I think. What do 
 
 you say ? 
 You shake your head. They interest you 
 
 not. 
 Ah, well, you see, I have to think of 
 
 them. 
 
 Poor Jones, he s gone at last ; a fortu 
 nate man, 
 Rich, very rich. You knew him, did you 
 
 not? 
 Have you heard what he left ? " 
 
 " Yes ! Everything ! 
 Of all he spent his worried life to gain, 
 Nothing he took with him to where he s 
 
 gone ; 
 Not even an obolus for Charon s toll." 
 
 " God bless me," cried my friend ; 
 
 " that s an odd view. 
 Well, well ! This world is made of 
 
 many minds." 
 
LATER READINGS 271 
 
 I pondered, as I left him, both his hands 
 Plunged in his pockets, jingling there his 
 
 coins, 
 Glad to be rid of him. 
 
 Still further on, 
 
 Under the shadow of a noble oak, 
 
 I met an artist. At his side I paused, 
 
 And craved his leave to overlook his 
 work. 
 
 " I am ashamed of what I do," he said ; 
 
 "This beauty baffles me. These dis 
 tances, 
 
 These wondrous tints and hazes and half- 
 forms, 
 
 This unity as of one single chord 
 
 Through all the myriad shapes and 
 sounds and hues, 
 
 This strength, and this refinement, mock 
 our powers. 
 
 Strive as we will, t is vain. The lark s 
 far song 
 
 Gives color to the sky. And how paint 
 that? 
 
 These passionate lifts and breathings of 
 the air, 
 
 These murmurous whispering voices in 
 the leaves, 
 
272 A POUT S PORTFOLIO 
 
 These quivering shadows, this faint, dim 
 
 perfume 
 That haunts the air, this brook s low, 
 
 purling voice 
 Talking along the pebbles, how paint 
 
 these ? 
 Yet they are part and essence of the 
 
 scene. 
 Ah, that, you see, no human hand can 
 
 do. 
 
 The crude material facts alone we seize. 
 The unseen presence that pervades it 
 
 all, 
 The soul that through all nature beats 
 
 and thrills 
 And dimly calls us, that, ah, that we 
 
 lose, 
 For even our best of paintings all are 
 
 dumb. 
 
 "Say Spring, for instance. Spring, 
 
 that little word 
 Means more, far more, than any brush 
 
 can paint. 
 The poets have their will with words, but 
 
 we 
 Are chained to facts, and the fine soul 
 
LATER READINGS 273 
 
 And who can catch and keep it ? though, 
 
 indeed, 
 Some happy spirits do, I know not how. 
 
 " Still, to pursue our Art, faltering to chase 
 
 The ideal phantom that forever flies, 
 
 Is joy enough. What matters what we 
 achieve, 
 
 The joy is in the chase. Though Nature 
 taunts, 
 
 She smiles on us at times, because we 
 love, 
 
 Along our pathway scatters myriad flow 
 ers, 
 
 And sings to us a sweet perpetual song." 
 
 Saying "Farewell," I in the distance saw 
 Nelly and Bob playing beside the banks 
 Of the smooth river, running to and 
 
 fro, 
 Laughing and chattering in their childish 
 
 glee, 
 And busy at their work, which was all 
 
 play. 
 " What are you doing here ? " I cried to 
 
 them. 
 " Sailing our ships," they cried. " Look 
 
 there ! that s Bob s, 
 
274 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 And that is mine ahead. You take one, 
 
 too! 
 Here this is yours ! " And so I took a 
 
 chip, 
 
 And we all sailed together, and our chips 
 Were argosies of price that sailed and 
 
 sailed 
 
 To Indromina, up the wondrous shores 
 Of Andrapandra, till we reached at last 
 A strange, mysterious land of spice and 
 
 flowers, 
 And giant palms, and trees weighed 
 
 down with fruit 
 Delicious beyond telling ; where we 
 
 spread 
 Our table in the shade of perfumed 
 
 groves, 
 And ate and drank sweet and fictitious 
 
 food. 
 
 And by and by dark tribes of kindly men 
 And long-haired women, beautiful to see, 
 Came gathering round us, bearing in their 
 
 hands 
 Pearls, rubies, diamonds, emeralds ; and 
 
 they talked 
 An Eastern tongue that no man ever 
 
 heard, 
 
 And sang and played on wondrous instru 
 ments. 
 
LATER READINGS 275 
 
 " And you," they cried to Bob, " shall be 
 
 our king, 
 And you be queen " (to Nelly) ; and to 
 
 me, 
 " You shall be grand Panjandrum of us 
 
 all ! " 
 And then the air was rent with clash and 
 
 clang 
 Of golden trumpets, cymbals, bells, and 
 
 gongs, 
 And shouts of "Glory to our king and 
 
 queen !" 
 
 Alas ! t was but the luncheon gong that 
 
 rang, 
 And all our wondrous world vanished to 
 
 air. 
 
 Such voyages we made with those small 
 chips 
 
 To unknown realms far up the land of 
 dreams ; 
 
 Such precious stones we found, beyond 
 all price, 
 
 Lying around us at our very feet, 
 
 That unto purblind eyes seemed pebbles 
 vile, 
 
 While through the magic world of make- 
 believe, 
 
276 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 Made real with imaginative life, 
 I roamed an hour, almost a child 
 again. 
 
 Poet and artist he alone can be, 
 
 So dreamed I as I wandered on alone, 
 
 Who, in the fullness of his powers, can 
 
 keep 
 The spell that Nature to the child has 
 
 given, 
 
 And through imagination can transmute 
 The actual world around of common 
 place 
 
 To an ideal world in simple play. 
 For what is real in this world of ours 
 Save what the inward spirit lends to it ? 
 All things around us are but what they 
 
 seem, 
 
 And take their life and color from our 
 selves. 
 
 While work is only toil, it has the curse 
 Of Adam on it, and the ideal gates 
 That ope to Paradise are shut and 
 
 barred. 
 When joy and love go with it, with a 
 
 smile 
 The angel waves aside his flaming sword, 
 
LATER READINGS 277 
 
 Flings the gates wide, and cries, " Come 
 
 in ! Come in ! 
 For you have learned the secret of the 
 
 child." 
 
 And here ended the second day s read 
 ing in that delightful glen. But he gave 
 her another poem to read by herself, 
 for it was too long to read aloud. What 
 she thought of it I do not know, and 
 therefore I cannot truly say. Not that 
 I would presume, in the face of so 
 many instances to the contrary, to insist 
 that it is necessary to know before you 
 say anything. 
 
 However, whatever the poem was, you 
 can judge for yourself, for here it is : 
 
 A PASSING CLOUD. 
 
 He. What is it, dear ? 
 She. We are alone, at last ! 
 
 Why did they stay so long ? I am so 
 
 tired 
 I know not what I ve said this last half 
 
 hour. 
 
 He. Yes ; and I too am glad to be 
 alone. 
 
278 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 I ve had enough, more than enough, 
 
 in fact. 
 She. What were you saying all that 
 
 long, long time 
 
 You sat in the far corner with Adele, 
 Hidden behind the oleanders there, 
 Beyond the reach of ears, almost of 
 
 eyes ? 
 
 He. But not of yours, at least. 
 
 She. No ! not of mine, 
 
 For I was curious, very. What on earth 
 
 Could you be saying to her all that time ? 
 
 He. Saying ? Mere nothings. I can 
 
 scarce recall 
 What we were saying. Compliments, of 
 
 course ; 
 One has to give them to your sex, you 
 
 know, 
 When they are pretty, or they think 
 
 they are. 
 They all are fond of bonbons. 
 
 She. By her face 
 
 I saw you lavished compliments enough, 
 And more than that, or so at least it 
 
 looked. 
 
 He. What do you mean ? 
 She. You know as well as I. 
 
 He. I? I know nothing. What I said 
 to her 
 
LATER READINGS 279 
 
 I scarce remember, what one says to 
 
 all. 
 She. Oh, no ! Your memory s not so 
 
 short as that. 
 Think ! Think ! She blushed at first, 
 
 and looked so pleased ; 
 And then the talk of both grew serious 
 And more than serious. Tell me what 
 
 she said. 
 He. Oh, at the last, you mean. 
 
 Guess ! , 
 
 She. Guess, indeed ! 
 
 How can I guess ? 
 
 He. Suppose it was of you ? 
 
 She. Oh, Alfred! What a 
 He. On my faith it was. 
 
 At first I praised her dress ; then she 
 
 praised yours, 
 And said how well you looked, how good 
 
 you were, 
 And how she loved you. Then a story 
 
 long 
 About old times she told, when you were 
 
 girls, 
 Years, years ago. 
 
 She. And was that really all ? 
 
 He. Yes ; really all. 
 
 She. And you ? What did you say ? 
 
280 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. I ? Say ? If I remember right, I 
 
 said 
 Yes ! Certainly ! Of course ! Just like 
 
 her ! Yes ! 
 She always was so ! Charming, wasn t 
 
 it? 
 
 And many another phrase as eloquent. 
 She. Ah ! now you re laughing at me. 
 He. On my word 
 
 I m telling you the plain, unvarnished 
 
 truth. 
 What could I say but give rny heart s 
 
 consent 
 To all the charming things she said of 
 
 you? 
 
 I might have been a little shy, perhaps, 
 For praises of one s wife are half the 
 
 same 
 As praises of one s self, since both are 
 
 one; 
 Or ought to be, at least 
 
 She. Yes, ought to be ! 
 
 But are they ? 
 
 He. Very rarely, I confess. 
 
 She. We are exceptions, then, if we 
 
 are one. 
 I hope we are exceptions. 
 
 He. And I know 
 
 We are so, dearest 
 
LATER READINGS 281 
 
 She. Dearest ! Ah, you say 
 
 Dearest, and what a world that word 
 
 contains ! 
 
 But am I really dearest ? Tell me now, 
 Frankly, without concealment or dis 
 guise, 
 
 If still you love me as you loved me once. 
 I know not how I shall bear it if you say 
 You do not, and of course you 11 say you 
 
 do, 
 Whether you do or not. 
 
 He. Then where s the use 
 
 Of asking me ? 
 
 She. Because I must, must know, 
 
 And I shall know it by your voice, face, 
 
 tone, 
 Whatever you may say. Oh ! look at 
 
 me, 
 
 And say, as once you said, a year ago, 
 A little year, With all my heart and 
 
 soul 
 I love you. 
 
 He. Why, of course, of course, I do ! 
 She. Of course ? And why of course ? 
 
 Is that the way 
 To say you love me ? Ah ! t is as I 
 
 feared. 
 I see it all. 
 
282 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. What do you see or fear ? 
 
 What have I said or done that thus 
 
 point-blank 
 
 You ask me if I love you ? Have I not 
 Told you a hundred times, as now again 
 I tell you, that I love you ? 
 
 She. Yes ; but not 
 
 As now you say it. 
 
 He. Ay ; but ne er before 
 
 As now have you demanded in such tone 
 My love. Is it an accusation now ? 
 She. An accusation ? 
 He. Yes ; for it implies 
 
 Something or said, or done, or left un 
 done, 
 Some fault, or some neglect, I know not 
 
 what, 
 
 Of which I have been guilty. What is it ? 
 She. I do not know. I only see and 
 
 feel 
 There is a difference. No ! You cannot 
 
 say 
 As once you said, " I love you." That 
 
 is why 
 
 I ask you if you love me really 
 He. That is a question one should 
 
 never ask, 
 For one should know it without asking it. 
 
LATER READINGS 283 
 
 She. Well ! Still I ask it, for I fear ! 
 
 I fear ! 
 He. You are too foolish, dearest. You 
 
 must know 
 I love you. 
 
 She. No ! It will not do. You see 
 It will not do. You could not say it thus 
 If you did really love me. 
 
 He. Nor could you 
 
 Ask such a question and in such a way. 
 For there is nothing numbs, and hurts, 
 
 and kills, 
 
 Or, let us say, that brushes off the bloom 
 Of tender, delicate love, like the rude 
 
 touch 
 
 Of such suspicion. Love should not sus 
 pect, 
 But should believe, trust, feel beyond all 
 
 doubt, 
 Beyond all question. Doubt divides and 
 
 chills. 
 When confidence departs, love spreads its 
 
 wings, 
 
 As if at least it purposed to take flight, 
 Whether it flies or not. 
 
 She. And if one sees 
 
 Love lift and shake its wings, one should 
 
 not cry, 
 Ah ! Are you going ? 
 
284 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 He. Never ! If it goes, 
 
 It goes. Such questions are not to be 
 
 asked. 
 
 She. What should we do, then ? 
 He. As Cordelia did, 
 
 " Love and be silent." If it goes, it goes. 
 
 What can prevail to stay it from its 
 flight ? 
 
 Questions ? Recriminations ? Jealous 
 ies? 
 
 She. How can I help being jealous? 
 Yes, in truth 
 
 I am jealous, jealous of the very air. 
 
 I would have all of you, the very all, 
 
 Not part and share with others, even 
 though 
 
 The best you gave me. All ! I have 
 given all, 
 
 I would have all. T is different with you. 
 
 All men are different, I suppose, from us. 
 
 You have so many second-bests ; but we 
 
 Have but one best, and that lost, all is 
 
 lost. 
 He. So I suppose the lover, if, in truth, 
 
 He really loves, all friendship should ab 
 jure, 
 
 Being second-bests ; should flee society 
 
 To worship only at one single shrine. 
 
 
 
LATER READINGS 285 
 
 She. I think you men have all of you 
 
 half-hearts. 
 He. When we give half, then we have 
 
 given all. 
 What can you ask for more ? 
 
 She, I ask no more. 
 
 Forgive me, I will try to be content. 
 Only I thought No matter what I 
 
 thought ; 
 
 You would not understand me, if indeed 
 I understand myself. Count all unsaid 
 That I have spoken. I was foolish, 
 
 wrong ; 
 But when one fears to lose what is one s 
 
 life, 
 
 Tis hard to be wise, prudent, and, in 
 deed, 
 Even sensible, at all times. T is my 
 
 love 
 That makes me jealous. Let us say no 
 
 more. 
 Go back and flirt with any and with 
 
 all, 
 
 And I will strive to trust you utterly. 
 But smile now. Say that you forgive 
 
 me ! No ! 
 Not with that face, that tone, in that cold 
 
 way! 
 
286 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 Oh, I m so sorry, dearest, so ashamed ; 
 But still I could not help it ; could not 
 
 live 
 While even a breath of doubt was on my 
 
 faith. 
 Let us forget it all. 
 
 He. I wish I could. 
 
 T is easy enough to say, I will forget. 
 To do so is not always in our power, 
 Even with the best of will, but to for 
 give, 
 
 Ah, that is really easy ; and, besides, 
 What is there to forgive ? Nothing at 
 
 all. 
 
 I m sorry that you doubted me, but still 
 J T was in your nature, and you spoke it 
 
 out, 
 And that was honest, true, and frank, 
 
 like you ; 
 
 Better than keeping it hid out of sight 
 To breed and poison all your secret 
 
 thoughts. 
 So let us think no more of it. 
 
 How sweet 
 
 These roses smell ! and in the opal sky 
 There s not a cloud. Yes, one, a pale, 
 
 thin rack 
 That even now is melting into air. 
 
LATER READINGS 287 
 
 She. Ah, you were always, always gen 
 erous. 
 
 Will you go with me in the garden now ? 
 The moon is at its full. On such a night, 
 Twas June, as you remember, and the 
 
 air 
 Was faint with perfume, thrilling to the 
 
 bursts 
 
 Of hidden nightingales that, all unseen, 
 Poured forth their pulsing passion to the 
 
 night ; 
 When Ah ! you know what happened 
 
 then, that hour 
 
 Of overwhelming feeling that entranced 
 The world around us, bearing us away 
 Above the real to ideal realms, 
 Beyond all telling, with a torrent s 
 
 force, 
 Sweeping us on, on, on, to where, to 
 
 what, 
 We knew not, thought not, cared not. 
 
 Silently, 
 Reft of all will, we gave ourselves to 
 
 fate, 
 And fate was love, and you were all in 
 
 all 
 To me, as I to you. That night of 
 
 nights, 
 
288 A POETS PORTFOLIO 
 
 That hour of hours, while life and sense 
 
 remain, 
 Come what come may, we never shall 
 
 forget. 
 He. Let us, then, live it over now once 
 
 more. 
 She. Say what you said then. Do as 
 
 then you did ! 
 Be mine again as then you were ; no 
 
 thought 
 Within your heart but me, no wish for 
 
 more 
 Than I could give, did give ; for what I 
 
 gave 
 Was my whole heart, that nevermore in 
 
 life 
 I can take back. Tis yours, forever 
 
 yours. 
 Never in life ? No ! Never even in 
 
 death. 
 For what were heaven without you, my 
 
 own love ! 
 And oh, forgive me ! In your heart you 
 
 know 
 T is my deep love that wants, and longs, 
 
 and craves, 
 And must have all, oh, more than I 
 
 deserve, 
 
LATER READINGS 289 
 
 So much more that is nothing ; that, 
 
 indeed, 
 
 Is simply nothing. What I want is all ; 
 I cannot share you. In your love I live ; 
 It is the very air my soul must breathe, 
 Or else I die. 
 
 He. Who could resist you, dear ? 
 
 Not I, indeed ! my own beloved wife. 
 She. Then you do love me ? 
 He. Ah, too well you know 
 
 I love you, and how deeply you may 
 
 guess 
 From what you feel yourself ; but then 
 
 you see 
 
 I cannot say it, cannot pour it forth 
 In words, in tones, like yours. 
 
 She. You did that night. 
 
 Ah, then your very soul was on your lips. 
 You took me as an angel takes a spirit, 
 And bore me up to heaven. 
 
 He. One cannot live 
 
 Always at heights like that. The truest 
 
 love 
 With time grows calmer, stiller, not less 
 
 deep. 
 
 She. Colder, perhaps. 
 He. No ; if an angel came 
 
 To serve us, live with us, we could not 
 bow 
 
290 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 In endless adoration ; that at last 
 Would spoil all earthly living. We 
 
 should joy 
 With heartfelt gladness and content to 
 
 see 
 Her happy smile, her gentle charm, her 
 
 grace, 
 Her perfeetness, and feel that it was 
 
 ours. 
 
 We should o erlookthe angel in the wife, 
 And for the comfort, help, and cheer she 
 
 lent, 
 Give voiceless blessing, that we could 
 
 not speak ; 
 
 But if beyond the simple human ways 
 She claimed an attitude of constant 
 
 prayer 
 
 And humble adoration, that at last 
 Would tire out love, and simply ruin 
 
 life. 
 She. And is it this you think I crave of 
 
 you? 
 He. Of course not. What I mean is, 
 
 in this life 
 We must not ask too much, nor make 
 
 ourselves 
 The gauge of others, even of those we 
 
 love, 
 
LATER READINGS 291 
 
 Thinking what we ourselves would say 
 
 or do, 
 If left by them unsaid, undone, would 
 
 mean 
 
 All it would mean in us. Much is un 
 said, 
 
 However deeply felt ; much left undone 
 Through simple carelessness. Some 
 
 must express 
 
 All that they feel, and even go beyond 
 Into excess, perhaps ; while others hide 
 Out of pure shyness what lies deep with 
 in, 
 
 Hiding it as a miser hoards his gold. 
 She. And so you think that I am one 
 
 of those 
 
 Who overstate, exaggerate, while you 
 Keep silence, understate, and hide your 
 
 thoughts ? 
 
 He. Something like that I offer as ex 
 cuse 
 
 For my shortcomings. You ve a kind 
 lier power 
 
 Of pouring all your heart out into words. 
 She. Words ? Only words ? 
 He. No, no ! Not only words. 
 
 Tis real all to you. Your eager love 
 Springs like a fountain up into the sun, 
 
292 A POET S PORTFOLIO 
 
 And frankly showers its blessing and de 
 light ; 
 
 Mine, like a runnel coursing under 
 ground, 
 
 Steals out of sight, not caring to be seen. 
 
 "Tis my fault, tis my nature. Yours, 
 you see, 
 
 Is gladder, brighter, better every way. 
 
 Even now, you see, I cannot say to you 
 
 What lies within my heart, strive as I 
 may. 
 
 But trust me when I say, with all my 
 heart 
 
 I love you. 
 
 She. Oh, my dearest, first, and best, 
 
 My only love, forgive me. I indeed 
 
 Aiu such a fool ; but oh, I love you so 
 
 I cannot share a tittle of your heart 
 
 With any other, scarcely in the way 
 
 Even of friendship, saving for a man. 
 He. Well ! We are friends now, are 
 
 we not ? 
 She. What? Friends? 
 
 That is too cold a word ; too bleak a 
 word ; 
 
 That is the stalk, and not the flower of 
 love. 
 
 I want the perfect flower. 
 
LATER READINGS 293 
 
 He. You shall have both. 
 
 Hark ! There s the nightingale again. 
 
 He knows ! 
 
 To him great nature gave the power to say 
 I love you, with that utterance full and 
 
 rich 
 
 And passionate as none else have save you. 
 I can but caw and twitter at the best. 
 She. You are the dearest, truest, best 
 
 on earth ! 
 He. Far from it ; but no matter. I at 
 
 least 
 Am true to you. But, dear, t is growing 
 
 late, 
 
 And you are tired. Shall we now go in ? 
 She. Tired ? Oh, no ! Go in ? Oh, 
 
 no, not yet ! 
 
 I only wish this night would last forever! 
 Oh, I m so sorry, so ashamed ; and yet 
 So glad, oh, so unutterably glad ! 
 Tell me again you love me, and again, 
 Again, again, a hundred thousand times ; 
 And bid time stop and listen while you 
 
 say it ; 
 And let the stars, trees, flowers, all earth, 
 
 all heaven, 
 Keep record of those dear and blessed 
 
 words ! 
 
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