- - 
 
 -
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 GREEN LEAVES
 
 GREEN LEAVES 
 
 BY 
 FLORENCE RIPLEY MASTIN 
 
 JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 1918
 
 Thanks are due to Poetry: a Magazine of Verse, Chi 
 cago; The Independent, The Masses, The Liberator, Every 
 body's, The Poetry Journal, Collier's, Leslie's, The 
 New York Times, The Sun, The Tribune, Pearson's, 
 The Survey and The Pictorial Review for permission 
 to republish many of these poems.
 
 COPYRIGHT 19IB. BY 
 JAMES T. WHITE a CO.. NEW YORK
 
 TO ERASMUS HALL, 
 Beloved of many associations.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 INDOORS 
 
 THE TEACHER ............................... 13 
 
 INK POTS ................................... 14 
 
 SCHOOL ROOM SKETCHES 
 
 I. To ANNE, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD ........... 15 
 
 II. AMERICUS .............................. 16 
 
 III. ISIDOR ................................. 17 
 
 IV. MARY ................................. 18 
 
 V. HARRY ................................. 19 
 
 VI. PEARL ................................. 20 
 
 VII. STEPHEN ............................... 21 
 
 VIII. JANET ................................. 22 
 
 IX. MARIE ................................. 23 
 
 X. PETER ................................. 24 
 
 XI. DOROTHY ............................... 25 
 
 XII. BARBARA ............................... 26 
 
 XIII. DOMINIC ............................... 27 
 
 XIV. CONSTANCE .................... ......... 28 
 
 XV. RODERICK ............................... 29 
 
 XVI. LUCRETIA ............................... 30 
 
 XVII. HYMAN ................................ 31 
 
 XVIII. ALICE .................................. 32 
 
 XIX. ROBERT .............. .................... 33 
 
 XX. DAVID ................................. 34 
 
 COMMENCEMENT ................................ 35
 
 OUTDOORS 
 
 THE CALL 38 
 
 A MANHATTAN YARD 39 
 
 THE REPORTER 40 
 
 I WALKED AMONG GRAY TREES 41 
 
 WERE ONE WISH MINE 42 
 
 MOTH MOON 43 
 
 TOUCH 44 
 
 A GIRL'S THOUGHT 45 
 
 THE MAGIC BOWL 46 
 
 MY PATCH OF GREEN 47 
 
 To ONE LOVED 48 
 
 DISCOVERY _ 49 
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN 50 
 
 TWILIGHT WIND 51 
 
 SUMMER NIGHT 52 
 
 RAIN AT NIGHT 53 
 
 THE OLD SHEEP 54 
 
 DREAM FREE 55 
 
 ETCHING 56 
 
 DRYAD 57 
 
 THE DEAF MUTE 58 
 
 THE VACATION 59 
 
 THE CHILD 60 
 
 MOODS 61 
 
 SHADOWS ON BEDFORD HILL 62 
 
 OCTOBER 63 
 
 DUST 64 
 
 Now I HAVE LIVED WITH BEAUTY 65
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 THE SCHOOL-MASTER OF ERASMUS HALL 69 
 
 THE JOURNEYMAN 71 
 
 THE OLD RED SCHOOL 72 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND 73 
 
 MY GRAND-AUNT'S PATCHWORK QUILT 74 
 
 GLAMOUR 76 
 
 To C. H. L. F 77 
 
 To V 78 
 
 POSSESSION 79 
 
 MY OLD NURSE 80 
 
 LAUGHING JOHN 81 
 
 CALIBAN AT THE STADIUM 82 
 
 TORCHES 83 
 
 THE POET 84 
 
 POETRY 85 
 
 IN THE SUBWAY 86 
 
 THE DREAM 87 
 
 To INEZ MILHOLLAND BOISSEVAIN 88 
 
 AN OLDER WOMAN TO A YOUNGER 89 
 
 A YOUNGER WOMAN TO AN OLDER 91 
 
 To A TRAINED NURSE 92 
 
 ON REVISITING BARNARD COLLEGE 93 
 
 To THE HUDSON RIVER 94 
 
 HICKORY FIRE 95 
 
 SAFE 96
 
 BARE BRANCHES 
 
 NIGHT FELL , 99 
 
 THERE'S A LILY FIELD 100 
 
 THE DOCTOR 101 
 
 AT THE MOVIES 102 
 
 THE FOUR 103 
 
 THE NURSE SPEAKS 104 
 
 THE BRETON 105 
 
 OUR MOTHER OF THE TRENCHES 106 
 
 THE SHARP SHOOTER 107 
 
 EUGENE SUREAU, 79 TERRITORIALS 108 
 
 BY THE LANES OF AIR 109 
 
 "THERE Is NOTHING TO REPORT" no 
 
 PATROL in 
 
 THE FUGITIVE 112 
 
 LITTLE WHITE CURTAINS 114 
 
 THE FROGS OF FLANDERS 115 
 
 THE TORCH OF LIBERTY 116 
 
 THE WOMEN SPEAK.. . 118 
 
 10
 
 INDOORS 
 
 11
 
 THE TEACHER 
 
 THEY have passed and gone up the windy hill, 
 And the room is dim and still ; 
 And four o'clock this afternoon 
 Drifts in the pale white moon. 
 Over the floor of dust and stains 
 It makes soft, pearly lanes; 
 
 And I sit in my chair and think, and think, 
 Watching the great room shrink. 
 The ghostly desks are facing me 
 Each one is facing me, 
 
 And I feel, in the winter dusk, the heart 
 Of the old room touch my heart. 
 Outside the pane, a tree sways black, 
 Like a dwarf with a heavy pack 
 A pack of stars from the twilight hill, 
 And the room is very still. 
 The day has emptied my jeweled pack ; 
 It must brim ere they come back, 
 Starry lads and girls who speak, 
 Dreaming, so near my cheek. 
 Ah ! I must steal from the sky each gem, 
 And fashion it bright for them, 
 Else how shall I meet their morning eyes 
 Their eyes that are young and wise? 
 
 13
 
 INK POTS 
 
 FUZZY-HEADED youngsters 
 Dipping into ink, 
 On a shining April day 
 Trying to think ! 
 
 Wouldn't it be better 
 
 To run them like the hounds 
 Up across the crocus fields 
 
 Till the heart bounds? 
 
 Ink pots are for old men 
 
 Blinking in the sun ; 
 Boys and girls are slim and free 
 
 To run, run, run! 
 
 14
 
 SCHOOLROOM SKETCHES 
 
 TO ANNE, SIXTEEN YEARS OLD 
 
 THIN girl in the worn dress, 
 I would bring pear buds, 
 And plait them for you ; 
 I would plait you girdles 
 Of sweet pear buds, 
 Until your mouth smiled. 
 
 I would bring wind flowers 
 For a silken petticoat, 
 And blue-bells 
 For your arms 
 Child, I cannot. 
 
 But here is a poet's book; 
 He has written of flowers. 
 
 15
 
 it 
 
 AMERICUS 
 
 A LITTLE pulse throbbed in his throat 
 When he recited. Homely things, 
 Wee thoughts like grubs, had faerie wings 
 For him. His dark eyes held the sun 
 Mystical. In a room unlit, 
 He was my taper; and the tune 
 Of his voice was like the laugh in June 
 Of a child surprised with loveliness! 
 
 16
 
 III. 
 
 ISIDOR 
 
 corner where he sat 
 A. Was gnomed with naughtiness; 
 His nickname was "The Sprat," 
 His size was even less. 
 
 Poor, wide-eared little lad, 
 So dirty and so bad ; 
 Just once I found your heart, 
 And there were aches in there; 
 Yet still you play your part, 
 Elfish and debonair. 
 
 17
 
 IV. 
 MARY 
 
 MARY, my gray-eyed dreamer, 
 What lies folded in your heart 
 For the years to be? 
 
 One day I see a sheaf 
 
 Of oriole song, 
 
 And then a nodding babe. 
 
 18
 
 V. 
 
 HARRY 
 
 HARRY, bless him, is an Irish boy, 
 With starry Irish eyes and flecks of red 
 In either cheek. He wears dark corduroy 
 That's always dusty from his scrimmaging. 
 
 He is a rogue, and does not love his book 
 But, somehow, there is glamour in my thought 
 Of him ; he lights a dull day with his look, 
 And brings me in the smell of leaves and turf.
 
 VI. 
 
 PEARL 
 
 SLOW, black-skinned Pearl, with wide, dull eyes! 
 At first your name, 
 That made the thoughtless laugh, 
 Seemed irony ; 
 Now that I know you 
 Know that misty mind, 
 That spirit vague and blurred 
 You seem well named. 
 
 20
 
 VII. 
 
 STEPHEN 
 
 STEVE, the funny fat boy, 
 Steve, the happy clown! 
 Yes, also this 
 I see it in his brown, 
 Strong, homespun mind 
 Tenacity. 
 And this 
 I see it in his hand 
 Great force and wit. 
 One day he will command ; 
 A builder he, 
 An architect of men. 
 
 21
 
 VIII. 
 
 JANET 
 
 JANET has a perfect mind, 
 Black-lettered, pigeon-holed 
 Ah, very neat indeed ! 
 
 Some day, what proper pie, 
 What flawless jelly she will make! 
 
 22
 
 IX. 
 
 MARIE 
 
 HER smouldering eyes belie her name; 
 She is a Russian Nihilist. 
 I hear strange forests in her voice ; 
 Storm murmurs there and cries go up 
 To an uncandled night. 
 
 Amid the young complacency 
 Of all the rest, she is remote, 
 And darkened as with suffering. 
 
 23
 
 PETER 
 
 SMALL Peter tightly cropped, 
 And blinking pale round eyes, 
 Like a puppy lately rolled in straw 
 Odysseus found you out! 
 
 You are a rover on the wine dark sea, 
 
 A loiterer in Circe's house. 
 
 When will Athene make your hair to curl, 
 
 As the dusky hyacinth, 
 
 And fashion your round form 
 
 Slender and god-like? 
 
 24
 
 XL 
 DOROTHY 
 
 AH! The bright-eyed little wren, 
 Fastidious, picking up seeds of wisdom! 
 Only tender ones and sweet can tempt her; 
 Bitter frost and storm she knows not. 
 If they come, she will die; 
 And yet I would not have her different; 
 A glossy throat is precious; 
 There are nests of down 
 Enough to pleasure her till spring.
 
 m 
 
 BARBARA 
 
 BENDING down apple-boughs, 
 That always stain me with their dusky bark, 
 I love to feel the breathing of pink buds; 
 No other flower of spring 
 Is quite like this, so rugged-sweet. 
 
 That's Barbara, sheathed with earth-strength; 
 And yet intrigued into the quaintest blossoming. 
 
 26
 
 XIII. 
 DOMINIC 
 
 TO be sure, he wore a faded coat, 
 But his eyes were very bright; 
 And he touched his book so happily 
 That my throat got tight. 
 
 Another boy with jaunty curls , 
 
 Came laughingly to me ; 
 "I've a beautiful book of pictures 
 
 At home," said he. 
 
 Dominic listened, and then he said 
 
 "How lucky," very low ; 
 All afternoon he seemed to dream, 
 
 With eyes aglow. 
 
 Next day he made a picture, 
 
 Delicate, vivid, fine; 
 But my little boy with jaunty curls 
 
 Drew not a line. 
 
 27
 
 XIV. 
 CONSTANCE 
 
 LITTLE poplar tree, 
 Dancing in the moon; 
 That is what you're going to be 
 Some June. 
 
 Now you shake your curls ; 
 You will never go 
 Frolicking like other girls, 
 But, I know! 
 
 28
 
 XV. 
 RODERICK 
 
 THE stripling Scot! 
 His cold, proud face had troubled me; 
 What had I known of him? 
 
 Then one day as he stood, grey-eyed, austere, 
 I knew. 
 
 A shining ribbon from a girl's brown hair 
 Had brushed his hand upon the desk; 
 He drew back slightly. 
 
 Cromwell, Cromwell! 
 
 I wonder if in Scotland . . .
 
 XVI. 
 LUCRETIA 
 
 YOUR beauty is as russet fruit, 
 Sun-warmed, fragrant, 
 In a northern room. 
 
 Down in your eyes I hear the young girls sing 
 In Toledo's summer fields; 
 Your step is firm as though it trod the grape, 
 And your dark head is high as though you bore 
 To me a brimming gourd. 
 
 30
 
 XVII. 
 HYMAN 
 
 HE wrote to-day in little sprawling lines: 
 "The Valley of the Many Colored Grass is beautiful, 
 But it is what I call a dead place. 
 I like the city, full of life." 
 
 O child, who never listened at a tulip bell! 
 
 81
 
 XVIII. 
 ALICE 
 
 MY little one, 
 So starched and prim, 
 With many frills, 
 You are as sweet as lettuce; 
 
 I dread to see your crisp bud 
 Withering ; 
 
 I dread still more 
 To see your freshness 
 Green the plate of life.
 
 XIX. 
 ROBERT 
 
 HIS brown hair blurred with light; 
 The sun made it a misty aureole. 
 At the chapel organ 
 With sensitive face uplifted, 
 He played as though he answered 
 High music far away. 
 
 33
 
 XX. 
 DAVID 
 
 DAVID, you failed 
 Yet every face is dim but yours. 
 
 David, you failed 
 
 Yet still I see your hands. 
 
 You will always fail. 
 
 You are too big to succeed 
 
 In the swift years before death. 
 
 34
 
 COMMENCEMENl 
 
 r I ^HE violins are hushed, the organ mute. 
 
 J- Beyond the chapel windows, through the trees, 
 Pale lanterns dance like fireflies, and the flute 
 Of a girl's voice comes flickering on the breeze 
 Soft music played in darkness. Quietly 
 I linger in the shadowy aisles to see 
 Again in dream those faces like a misty crowd 
 Of stars uplifted Youth's Solemnity 
 And vivid Rapture listening. A cloud 
 Is on my eyes ; I cannot see them more 
 My boys and girls are gone from me; the door 
 Has closed ; a night moth flutters dusty wings 
 Against my face, and on the moonlit floor 
 A small black cricket sings and sings. 
 
 And yet, they have not wholly left me here; 
 To-morrow I shall travel everywhere, 
 Upon the land, the sea, in the perilous air, 
 With those who hold me dear. 
 
 This is my pride, my precious, secret boast, 
 That every boy has some time felt my hand 
 Upon him. So one day his clear command, 
 Before an august host, 
 
 35
 
 Will hear my voice. And one who goes in ships 
 Will carry me upon the tropic night, 
 And we shall steer beneath the blossom-white 
 Big stars with laughing lips. 
 
 I shall labor with a gallant girl in pain, 
 Turning to me as in the years ago 
 Over her task ; upon her heart's fierce glow 
 I would be soft as rain. 
 
 I shall walk gently by the side of her 
 Who goes alone, fighting for bitter bread ; 
 She will remember what it was I said ; 
 Perhaps her heart will stir. 
 
 This is my compensation: I am borne 
 
 Forever on their bosoms; 
 
 I cannot stay behind the opening gate. 
 
 God of my children, for them, make me great! 
 
 36
 
 OUTDOORS 
 
 37
 
 THE CALL 
 
 LYING awake at night, 
 I heard across the hill 
 The ghostly whistles; 
 
 And the butternuts, with twisted branches in the moon 
 Have trembled in the wind no more than I 
 At the sweet calling. 
 
 Past the orchard, 
 Past the hillside, 
 And beyond 
 The ghostly whistles.
 
 A MANHATTAN YARD 
 
 MY small room opens on a city yard, 
 Where never a space for Spring's dance can 
 
 there be, 
 
 For the cold, huddled stones with faces hard 
 Heed not at all the gray wind's minstrelsy; 
 
 And yet, when darkness falls, I feel out there 
 Most certainly an orchard's murmuring, 
 
 A& though small buds, in rain-washed April air, 
 Were lifting up their heads to smell of Spring. 
 
 Perchance long years ago in this bare place 
 An old Dutch garden grew in grave delight. 
 
 And now pale buds and flowers with phantom face 
 Slip back to dream away the wistful night.
 
 THE REPORTER 
 
 IN the March stillness, 
 I heard a woodpecker 
 Up the hill, 
 Near the blue painted sky. 
 
 He had captured all my news; 
 "Tap, tap," went his typewriter. 
 
 40
 
 I 
 
 I WALKED AMONG GRAY TREES 
 
 WALKED among gray trees with Grief. 
 My soul was stark as the shattered leaf ; 
 
 Yea, all things but the cold lipped Frost 
 And Grief that walked with me, seemed lost- 
 Then from a black tree swaying near 
 A robin whistled sweet and clear; 
 
 Lo! as I turned to look at Grief, 
 A shining crown of April leaf 
 
 Upon her brow a magic thing 
 
 She, smiling, said, "My heart is Spring." 
 
 41
 
 WERE ONE WISH MINE 
 
 WERE one wish mine, on April night 
 Of lilac moon and little buds tight 
 In the lane, this would I choose to be, 
 Stripped and free of cloak and shirt 
 A smooth, green blade in ecstasy, 
 Pushing up through the rough, black dirt! 
 
 42
 
 MOTH MOON 
 
 MOTH MOON, a-flutter in the lilac tree, 
 With pollen of the white stars on thy wings. 
 Oh! would I shared thy flight, thy fantasy, 
 The aimless beauty of thy brightenings ! 
 A worker, wed to Purposes and Things, 
 Earth-worn I turn from Day's sufficiency. 
 One lethed hour that duty never brings, 
 Oh ! one dim hour to drift, Moth moon, with thee ! 
 
 43
 
 TOUCH 
 
 THE chilly grain of earth 
 That packs the violet; 
 The feel of a tree's rough shoulder 
 And the silken palms of leaves; 
 The golden-blowing sun upon the hair 
 Strapped tight all winter into velvet cloth- 
 Ah! touch of Spring, my beautiful! 
 
 44
 
 A GIRL'S THOUGHT 
 
 DEAR strong one, 
 Do you not know how easily 
 You can open my locked heart 
 This June night, 
 While the owls call in thick leaved trees? 
 
 45
 
 THE MAGIC BOWL 
 
 AN old brown earthen bowl, 
 Crowded with dead flowers, 
 And cracked with cold, 
 Lies forgotten in the garden. 
 There is no heart tender enough 
 To remember the beauty that it sphered ; 
 There is no hand soft enough 
 To break the frost upon its rim, 
 And tip it to the sun. 
 
 And yet, to-day 
 
 Up through its cracks 
 
 Came spirts of green and golden flames. 
 
 Now all the house will find it, 
 
 And delight in it. 
 
 46
 
 MY PATCH OF GREEN 
 
 ONE narrow little fenced-in plot 
 Below dark roofs is all I've got 
 
 In way of May; 
 
 But here warm buds and little things, 
 That push above the ground bright wings, 
 Make holiday. 
 
 I, in their midst, am happy quite 
 To see my cherry's misty white 
 
 Above me lean; 
 
 To mark the rain upon the twigs, 
 And touch round heads in tiny wigs 
 
 Of fuzzy green. 
 
 Because the city roars so near, 
 
 I hold my patch of green more dear. 
 
 47
 
 TO ONE LOVED 
 
 NOW you have grown so very dear to me, 
 Your touch is precious as new leaves; 
 And your long look takes my thought wavering 
 Off to the green hills . . . 
 Oh! on this day of spring's return, 
 Let us break our way into the budded places! 
 
 48
 
 DISCOVERY 
 
 THE gray path glided before me 
 Through cool, green shadows; 
 Little leaves hung in the soft air 
 Like drowsy moths ; 
 
 A group of dark trees, gravely conferring, 
 Made me conscious of the gaucherie of sound ; 
 Farther on, a slim lilac 
 Drew me down to her on the warm grass. 
 "How sweet is peace!" 
 My serene heart said. 
 
 Then, suddenly, in a curve of the road, 
 
 Red tulips! 
 
 A bright battalion, swaying, 
 
 They marched with fluttering flags, 
 
 And gay fifes playing! 
 
 A swift flame leapt in my heart; 
 
 I burned with passion; 
 
 I was tainted with cruelty; 
 
 I wanted to march in the wind, 
 
 To tear the silence with gay music, 
 
 And to slash the sober green 
 
 Until it sobbed and bled. 
 
 The tulips have found me out. 
 49
 
 THE OLD FASHIONED GARDEN 
 
 YOU round a long green curve of trees, 
 And there it is. A Paisley shawl 
 Has not the pattern or the grace 
 Of this old fashioned place ; 
 Bright groups of budded peonies 
 Exchange fine secrets ; silken gowned 
 Poppies idly sip the sun, 
 And pansies, prim in little mitts 
 And bonnets, whisper bits 
 Of gossip ; through the leafy ground 
 A blackbird walks, and cocks his head, 
 As though he said, "I'm favorite here, 
 And motorists may not come near." 
 
 50
 
 TWILIGHT WIND 
 
 Wind is walking in the garden. 
 -1- He is a pale Mandarin 
 With silken shoes, 
 And a soft coat blowing against the leaves. 
 
 I wish he would open his basket; 
 He has visited many trees to-day, 
 And there is fruit that I would taste. 
 
 61
 
 SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 BUBBLES of dew are on the grass, 
 The park is a basket of dew; 
 Put on your soft and hairy shoes, 
 And your coat of berry-blue. 
 
 I am worn with sun the silken sun 
 That binds my throat. O free, 
 
 Pale lover, tear the hidden leaves, 
 And pluck the dark for me! 
 
 52
 
 R 
 
 RAIN AT NIGHT 
 AIN, rain on the leaves . . . 
 
 As a grinning negro catches crabs 
 
 By lantern-light, 
 
 And, having drawn them from the dark water, 
 
 Places them in a sack, 
 
 Where they gurgle and bubble, 
 
 So Night, squatting over the black bag of earth, 
 Has caught the scuttling raindrops. 
 
 Their low hissing makes me drowsy . . . 
 
 53
 
 THE OLD SHEEP 
 
 THE old sheep came with solemn eyes 
 And dusty, gentle feet; 
 
 "What have you in your pack, old sheep, 
 That is delicate and sweet?" 
 
 "I have a beautiful dream," she said. 
 
 So she poured it out for me 
 A beautiful dream like a crystal light, 
 
 That flows in a cave of the sea. 
 
 There were stars in it, and a dear voice, 
 
 And a green path up a hill ; 
 And the trembling of waters 
 
 Where the dusk is cool and still ; 
 
 And there was a hand I love, 
 
 Gentle upon my face, 
 And whippoorwills were crying 
 
 In a little dim place. 
 
 The old sheep came with solemn eyes 
 Aud dusty, gentle feet . . . 
 
 The old sheep cdme . . the old sheep came . . . 
 
 And what . . and what . . was the old sheep's name? 
 
 Her name . . her name . . . was .... sleep. 
 
 54
 
 DREAM FREE 
 
 THE white stars opened to the night like flowers; 
 June shadowed" through the hills the road ran free. 
 Light-footed, stripped, wind-mad, with ecstasy 
 We raced the riding moon you raced with me. 
 Along the dipping path, dim pearled showers 
 Of roving starlight pattered at our feet. 
 Night long, exultant, did our full hearts beat: 
 And yet to-day quite calmly must we meet! 
 
 55
 
 A' 
 
 ETCHING 
 
 ND I shall ever see you standing thus, 
 Beneath the dark oak on the rounded dune. 
 The western sun is bright upon your hair, 
 The sun-burned marsh behind you flames and sways; 
 And so it seems that you will flame and sway 
 From out the sunset to the misty sea, 
 And the green dusk will carry you away 
 From me . 
 
 56
 
 DRYAD 
 
 f I ^HE brown sand path is cool ; 
 
 * It flutters across the pale feet of the trees 
 Between ocean and bay; 
 It winds among the little green leaves 
 Into the sunset. 
 
 Your feet flash down the cool, brown path; 
 You are running from the cold sea 
 Into the warm sunset where the bay glistens. 
 Hist! The oak tree 
 
 It is poised in your path with wide arms 
 Against the sunset. 
 You cannot pass it, 
 Green eyes, 
 Green coat, 
 
 You belong in these tree depths; 
 Melt into the warm trunk, Dryad! 
 When the white moon burns the dark leaves, 
 And spatters fire on the ground, 
 I shall come back to caress your breast, 
 And kiss your pale hands . . . 
 
 57
 
 THE DEAF MUTE 
 
 HE walks within the dim, blue dusk 
 When shadows flood the beach; 
 His form is like a withered husk; 
 
 He's deaf and strange of speech. 
 
 The sea is in his gazing eyes, 
 
 Dark shadowed, grey and sweet; 
 
 He walks alone beneath wide skies 
 With silent feet. 
 
 Against the sunset cloud he stands 
 
 Upon the lonely dunes; 
 His caged soul flutters down the sands 
 
 Where the grey sea croons. 
 
 In some blue dusk for him will fall 
 An hour; unknown to men, 
 
 His ear will catch the sea's deep call. 
 How sweet his singing then! 
 
 58
 
 THE VACATION 
 
 THE minister has brought them down 
 To the high peaked little house 
 Hard-eyed Peter, pale Marie, 
 
 And the boy in a new blouse. 
 
 They rocked all day on the back porch ; 
 
 The sea leapt up the dune ; 
 The sand was painted magical 
 
 By the gold-tipped moon; 
 
 And they were dozing in their chairs 
 
 As dark came beautifully 
 With mist of stars and buoy bells 
 
 To the porchless sea. 
 
 59
 
 THE CHILD 
 
 THE twilight of the sea 
 Is austere. 
 
 There is no laughter there 
 Nor any light; 
 There are but shadows 
 And a solemn breathing. 
 
 Yet, upon a grey peaked dune 
 
 I saw a child 
 
 In a pinafore, 
 
 The color of the sun. 
 
 She gazed into the dusk 
 
 And then she clapped her hands. 
 
 I heard her sing. 
 

 
 MOODS 
 
 THE cricket watches from his house of grass 
 As I come in to lie with him and drink 
 The moonlight. There is solemn space to think 
 Upon the shadow where the black pines pass 
 Their fingers in the sea. I do not know 
 If it were sweeter thus in dream to lie, 
 Or, stripped to the taut skin, to lightly run 
 Forgetful, in a russet autumn sun, 
 And laugh as the blue tide climbs up the sky. 
 
 61
 
 SHADOWS ON BEDFORD HILL 
 
 A LITTLE old man passed up with a basket of 
 leeks. 
 
 Among a hundred he passed, 
 Among a hundred I saw him sharply etched. 
 
 And I climbed past the limousines and the lamps, 
 
 The ringing heels on cobbles, 
 
 The stone facades of many buildings 
 
 Against the smoky sunset; 
 
 I climbed with him past these shadowy things. 
 
 Our way was through clear light 
 
 Upon a country hill; 
 
 The branches stirred above our heads; 
 
 All the bright sky was pricked with treetops, 
 
 And up the road, a cottage like a star. 
 
 62
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 THE sunlight falls upon me in red leaves; 
 They cover my bare throat. 
 Oh! to run with the west wind 
 To run free into the dusk, 
 To run burning and free 
 Into the autumn silence ! 
 
 63
 
 DUST 
 
 MY words are dust. 
 I who would build a star, 
 
 I who would touch the heel of the white sun ; 
 Staggering up the inaccessible sky, 
 I look upon the dust. 
 
 The stainless clouds go mounting 
 
 In shining spires; 
 
 And a little heap of dust 
 
 Are my desires. 
 
 Yet, dwelling long upon these peaks 
 Unchained upon the flickering western sky, 
 I have beheld them at the breath of darkness 
 Fade slowly out and die. 
 
 What of my lineage? 
 Arrogant and swift, 
 / I bend above the dust, 
 Untouched of all my grief, 
 Untarnished of the hour, 
 And lo! the leaf 
 The passionate climbing flower! 
 
 64
 
 NOW I HAVE LIVED WITH BEAUTY 
 
 NOW I have lived with Beauty, touched her face, 
 And walked beside her in the swaying wood 
 Above the sea, I know there is no good 
 So precious as her perilous bright grace. 
 Apart from her, within a sombre place, 
 Watching the moon unslip her silver hood, 
 I have discovered currents in my blood 
 That burn and leap like runners in a race ; 
 Yet, for I know that she is calm and wise, 
 I may not see her face again until 
 She shall appoint. And so in the hot light 
 I lie dark-eyed, and watch the butterflies, 
 Like pale winged thoughts of her. I pray she will 
 Remember, and return to me to-night. 
 
 65
 
 REMEMBRANCE 
 
 67
 
 T 
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTER OF ERASMUS HALL 
 (Dr. Walter B. Gunnison, died Dec. 19, 1916.) 
 HE Tower knows stars and thunder ; all the winds 
 
 -*- Are cradled in its turrets, and the storms. 
 In its crevices the little birds of spring 
 Have builded nests, and through the ivy come 
 Sweet twitterings. Below the lofty Hall 
 Are stately trees that murmur ancient tales 
 To the peaked roofs of the old Academy. 
 It is a much-loved spot, where memory, 
 Crowned with green leaves, looks eastward to the dawn. 
 
 On a starlit night of June, it has been said 
 That in the old Dutch buildings lights are seen, 
 And wooden shoes click softly to and fro ; 
 But with the day, the modern city wakes 
 And like a great sea beats upon the doors. 
 
 Men have builded ships that ride the cloud 
 And brave the lightning; there are those like gods 
 Who have sown the darkened earth with starry light, 
 And curbed the invading waters of the sea ; 
 But greater than these great, a man of men, 
 The Schoolmaster! For he has builded Youth. 
 Oh! never can the tempest rend the dreams 
 That he has launched across the mists of space, 
 
 69
 
 Nor the black night engulf the hills of green 
 
 Whereon his flocks are pastured ; all that time 
 
 Has given men will die, but only his, 
 
 The gift of Youth in long procession, 
 
 Can never pass Youth with its eternal dream! 
 
 Our Master of Erasmus Hall so long 
 
 Our Master what have we to render thee 
 
 So precious as the life that thou hast wrought 
 
 For us? Thy daily bread of gentleness 
 
 Has fed our spirits, and the mellow wine 
 
 Of thy long, sweet experience we have drunk. 
 
 All the little leaves along the Quad, 
 
 A-twinkle in the sun, seem but thy eyes, 
 
 So grave and yet so droll and full of light! 
 
 And thy great strength, as quiet as the Tower 
 
 And like it, near the thunder and the stars, 
 
 Is ever shielding us a watchful mind 
 
 That pierces the dark night, and hails the dawn. 
 
 Thy heart is beating in the time-stained walls 
 
 Of the old Academy we love ; and there 
 
 Thy presence will remain, as roses cling 
 
 To an old jar, in a faded, western room 
 
 Where the light is dim. And though the night descend 
 
 Upon the house, the fragrance lingers there. 
 
 70
 
 THE JOURNEYMAN 
 
 To Kate E. Turner, Educator.* 
 
 DWELLERS of the house, behold it fair! 
 The craftsman's mark is on the shining stone; 
 Within the porches lies a golden air 
 Where the sweet sky is blown. 
 
 A cloth of light is honor in the hall, 
 
 And lustrous truth and loyalty are made 
 
 As chrysoprase upon the dusky wall, 
 With patient craft inlaid. 
 
 Serenity is on the foreheads here, 
 
 Set like a star ; and faith and gentleness. 
 
 The virtue of a gallant heart is near, 
 That shall forever bless. 
 
 A Journeyman, with cunning craft to do, 
 We speed her, building in another place 
 
 With art as fine as this as proud and true, 
 And touched with a quaint grace. 
 
 The loftiest house is building ever. See ! 
 
 Upon the sun the misty turrets climb, 
 Beautiful and strong immortally 
 
 Above the dark of time. 
 
 * Written when Miss Turner left the Vice Principalship 
 of Erasmus Hall to become Principal of Bay Ridge High 
 School, November, 1917. 
 
 71
 
 THE OLD RED SCHOOL 
 
 I CAME upon it yesterday at noon, 
 The old red school, how very small it seemed ! 
 A score of years ago, I had not dreamed 
 I'd ever want to go to school in June. 
 
 Slow wading the green tangle of the yard 
 That yard that used to show no blade of grass 
 I saw a shadowy crowd before me pass, 
 A merry lot with bare legs brown and hard. 
 
 They pushed and jostled through the black, old door 1 
 The rusty hinges creaked ; I heard the bell, 
 And then the master's voice I knew so well 
 How loud my steps across the dusty floor! 
 
 "Dreaming again!" The master's hand came down 
 Upon my collar. What a hand he had! 
 I never thought that clutch could make me glad, 
 I who had scowled beneath his kindly frown! 
 
 And there was Joe, a-carving out his name 
 Upon his desk behind his spelling book! 
 Joe who is dead, yet here I saw him crook 
 His arm, and cut his boyish way to fame! 
 
 Outside the broken panes the bees hummed low. 
 A long recess how swift its passage then! 
 I brushed the cobwebs from a shrunken pen, 
 And crossed the clover fields, alone and slow.
 
 AN OLD FRIEND 
 
 YOU know how April throws her shawl of green 
 Upon a withered hedge ; and as you look, 
 She shakes the sky into the ancient brook, 
 And pours the sunlight where the frost has been? 
 So does your spirit, though your shoulders lean 
 Beneath the winter years. The greyest nook 
 Of heart you find, and warm it, and the stock 
 Of faded days you gild with tender sheen. 
 
 And yet, to see you sitting in your chair, 
 
 One would not think of you as the young spring, 
 
 So very small and still you are, and white; 
 
 But suddenly you smile at me, and there 
 
 Is April ! In your eyes the wistful light 
 
 Of beauty; on your lips a blossoming. 
 
 73
 
 MY GRAND AUNT'S PATCHWORK QUILT 
 
 SEDATE and silent little quilt of mine, 
 What wonder that I dream at thy caress? 
 Soft forms sway phantom-like in curve and line ; 
 Thy flower bright patches shimmer into dress. 
 
 Within this bit of silk as blue as May, 
 A little girl in hoops is curtsying low ; 
 
 Her lover dons that velvet on the day 
 
 When all the blossoms of the Springtide blow. 
 
 Such snowy satin sheathes a lily maid 
 As fair as one in Astolat who died ; 
 
 And, mischief in jade green, some lad is paid 
 Who steals a kiss while sitting by thy side ! 
 
 stern old maid, in sober, Sabbath brown 
 
 Of silk magnificent that stands alone ! 
 
 1 see thee look askance upon the gown, 
 
 Peach colored, in the pew beside thine own ! 
 
 And now, behold ! within that sapphire square, 
 As dusky as the blue of summer night, 
 
 Beribboned masters pledging to their fair, 
 
 In foaming tankards till the dawn is white! 
 
 74
 
 Hark how the music of the minuet 
 
 Calls from the dim brocade each shadowy face ! 
 It seems as though they all were living yet, 
 
 Pale lovers swaying slow with stately grace. 
 
 Dear little grand aunt in the silver grey, 
 
 Unconscious of thy patchwork wizardry! 
 
 Thy placid hands have summoned Yesterday, 
 
 Down pansy 'broidered paths of dreams to me. 
 
 75
 
 GLAMOUR 
 
 AND I will take monotony, 
 The choking given by the wise 
 Even the lash of ugliness, 
 For the rare hour; 
 Your indolent grace, 
 The glow of candles, 
 In a high blue room; 
 Your laughter, 
 The low wind, 
 With scent of pointed bud . . . 
 
 And the arras of the mind shakes 
 And the breath comes sharp. 
 
 76
 
 TO C. H. L. F. 
 
 THE candle flutters on the wall, 
 And all the shadows leap at me; 
 Strange, surging voices fall and fall 
 Then mist, and coldness like the sea. 
 
 O mist, so grey ! Not yet ; for lo ! 
 Her eyes upon me hold the light. 
 Cold sea! not yet; for suddenly 
 Her hand upon my heart is warm! 
 
 77
 
 TO V 
 
 AND once you were as twilight. 
 I gathered your shadows as a wreath, 
 And found the moonlight in them ; 
 
 And running by the sea, 
 
 I glimpsed you with dark holly in your hair, 
 
 The color of the autumn tide, 
 
 Bitter and restless. 
 
 There was always dusk upon you 
 Dusk with the light of the wild plum, 
 Or the sunset light. 
 
 Now the shadows are gone. 
 
 Ah! the voluptuous, , 
 
 The brazen day! 
 
 78
 
 POSSESSION 
 
 heart, you dwell forevermore so close to me, 
 That I but raise my eyes to see you stand 
 Here In the room when dusk is near. 
 I need but stretch my hand 
 To hold you, dear. 
 
 It does not matter, now, if you must go from me 
 Along the sunset road's unending space. 
 Although I, too, must travel far 
 Upon the night, your face 
 Will be my star. 
 
 79
 
 MY OLD NURSE 
 
 WITHIN my dream last night I saw her stand 
 Trimming the lamp for evening use. I knew 
 In the pale light that dear, familiar hand 
 So well a knotted hand, yet soft as dew. 
 And then she turned and gently looked at me. 
 Her broad white apron spread like a calm wing 
 Across my dream. I heard the chestnut tree 
 Outside the window, murmuring of spring. 
 "Come, dear, it's time to go to bed," she smiled. 
 The moonlight strayed to her along the floor, 
 And crowned her hair; then I, a little child, 
 Went softly out with her, and closed the door. 
 Sobbing I woke. Within the winter night 
 I lay and watched the lonely room grow light.
 
 LAUGHING JOHN 
 
 THE sight of buttercups will bring him back; 
 For often on a day of windy gold, 
 Deep in the lush grass, I had heard him call 
 A slinking man of laughter, with a step 
 That grinded violets, and hands that made 
 Strange pictures on the sky. 
 
 Upon that call 
 
 I snapped the heads of buttercups, running 
 Until I slammed the kitchen door, and heard 
 His laughter fade as smoke across the hill. 
 
 81
 
 CALIBAN AT THE STADIUM 
 
 audience itself is Caliban. 
 * Monstrous and murmuring beneath the stars, 
 It sees slim Beauty pass, and Poetry, 
 And hears the thrilling voice of Song. So crouched, 
 Profoundly moved yet inarticulate, 
 Earth-bred, yet troubled with the sense of God, 
 In the starlit dusk, it roars and crawls away. 
 
 O Prospero, magician of the Light, 
 Hold with thy subtle spell this man of sense! 
 Keep him from the dark cave of Setebos, 
 And mould his mighty spirit to thy will! 
 
 82
 
 w 
 
 THE TORCHES 
 
 HERE was Shakespeare when the dream came 
 First upon him? 
 
 Was it in a Stratford alley 
 Patched with moonlight, 
 
 That the tousled lad went reeling 
 Through the shadows, 
 
 Staring at the brown earth's pallor, 
 
 Hearing laughter from the doorways 
 Faint and die? 
 
 Was it in an April meadow 
 
 Stained with beauty 
 When he lay upon the blossoms, 
 
 Graceless, truant, 
 
 That the pushing life possessed him 
 And he rose with face uplifted 
 
 Strangely smiling? 
 
 Was it in a street in London, 
 
 Grey with winter, 
 When he saw a mist of faces 
 
 Pass before him, 
 
 That he felt with sudden burning 
 Torches of their coming flicker 
 
 In his brain? 
 
 83
 
 THE POET 
 
 THOUGHT broods as a dove 
 In the secret brain. But one 
 With a gesture that men love, 
 Uplifts it to the sun. 
 He breathes upon the folded wings, 
 And lo! it stirs it sings! 
 
 84
 
 POETRY 
 
 RHYTHM of the blood, 
 And its secret pain, 
 The tumult of dim tides 
 Behind the brain; 
 
 Passion that lifts to peace 
 As the voice of birds 
 In rainy April sky; 
 Oh this in words! 
 
 85
 
 IN THE SUBWAY 
 
 THE pale-lipped workers do not move me so, 
 As these complacent seekers after joy. 
 They never come to grips with anything; 
 Their soft hands have not touched the rough of life 
 That brings raw blood to the surface ; they have felt 
 No stabbing lust for beauty or bold sin. 
 Warm furred and decent, smiling so dreamlessly, 
 They hurt my heart; their eyes, so unafraid, 
 Fill me with terror. God ! they know it not, 
 But they are wistful earth's most wistful ones! 
 The thin, dark workers, burned as though with fire, 
 Swaying in pallid sleep, and pinched with want, 
 Are not so pitiful, so stark as these.
 
 THE DREAM 
 
 IS it not strange that in this costly silk, 
 As exquisite as a flower, I should be sad? 
 Upon my breast is lace like moonlit haze 
 Of blossoms. See ! the folds as white as milk 
 Across my shoulders, and my gems ablaze. 
 
 Last night I dreamed . . . And now I know . . . 
 
 They came 
 
 A ghostly crowd of girls with eyes too bright 
 And wistful. Ah ! I could not hide my tears ! 
 One child, as vivid as a slender flame, 
 Was fashioning June roses with her shears; 
 Their crimson petals left her young lips white. 
 
 Another little one with hands as pale, 
 As the soft, misty lace her touch caressed, 
 Wove all her star-like loves and fantasies 
 Into its web until its beauty frail 
 Was part of her; but yet, with aged knees 
 This little one crept homeward dimly drest. 
 
 Ah, God ! A third with hair as bright as corn, 
 Who flashed her slender needle in a dream, 
 Looked up at me. Her eyes were dark with pain. 
 Then I awoke, and it was sunny morn ; 
 But in the dawn there was for me no gleam 
 And I can never wear the dress again. 
 
 87
 
 TO INEZ MILHOLLAND BOISSEVAIN 
 
 HERE, here, are autumn flowers, and these were 
 sweet 
 
 To you the colors of the happy earth. 
 And here are songs and loves woven of mirth 
 You wore as a bright robe; and yet your feet 
 Were used to linger on a darkened street. 
 You bent your radiant head before the birth 
 Of woe ; and souls, counted of little worth, 
 You championed where Want and Sorrow meet. 
 
 Yet, from your sweet and valiant summoning 
 To joy and service, one clear bugle call 
 Will echo leap from peak to shining peak 
 Of the years to be, and on dull ears shall fall 
 With sudden glamour. Womanhood shall seek 
 And find. Justice shall be a mighty thing! 
 
 88
 
 AN OLDER WOMAN TO A YOUNGER 
 
 To Dr. Anna Howard Shaw 
 
 GIVE pause ere we begin the fight again. 
 My child, my child, you take it so to heart! 
 Look in my eyes. I am not daunted, I 
 Who have seen darkness climb the golden peaks 
 Of precious dreams, and felt the creeping frost 
 Among the blossoms of my heart. I know 
 That morning always breaks; that April, too, 
 Has never failed, and so I smile and wait. 
 Meanwhile, you child, with bitter, stormy eyes, 
 Remember that the fight is best of all ! 
 As in the spring, when nature's fettered hosts, 
 The upward reaching ones, conspire to rend 
 The iron bands of winter on the earth, 
 And in a blessed union drink of life 
 Within each other till they throb as one, 
 And break from gloom, bright, winged victories, 
 So for us, fighting, is the battle sweet; 
 And wholesome are its bitter, black defeats. 
 Our groping hands are touching other hands 
 That hold us in the darkness, and our hearts 
 Are quickened by the pulsing of the hearts, 
 That we have grown to love so near to us. 
 My darling, if you could but hear with me 
 Our silent legions marching up the dawn !
 
 Unfurl your yellow banner, child, and go! 
 Ah ! yes, it's sunset now and autumn, too ; 
 But what a stirring march we have toward spring! 
 
 November, 1915 
 
 90
 
 A YOUNGER WOMAN TO AN OLDER 
 
 To Dr. Anna Howard Shaw 
 
 17 
 
 SO Victory at last! 
 Over the top our yellow banners go; 
 Glamour is in the golden air; 
 A great joy shakes our pulses. 
 Yet, the sunset holds the richness. 
 We, the young, may never know 
 The dauntless will that held the falling sky, 
 The faith that marked the invisible climbing stars, 
 The love that never broke the handclasp. 
 Ah! The bitter glory 
 We, the young, may never know ; 
 We of the joyful heart may never know. 
 
 November, 1917.
 
 TO A TRAINED NURSE 
 
 I SAW a dogwood tree, last Spring, 
 In a dark valley. 
 It was an austere day of mist, 
 And the gray hedges were sobbing. 
 But, bending down in the twilight, 
 The dogwood showed a coif of white ; 
 Gleaming and tender, 
 
 It touched with compassionate sweet hands 
 The wan, sleeping wood. 
 
 So, in this dim room, 
 You bend down to my youth, 
 Lying with shadowed eyes, 
 Fettered in the frost of pain. 
 
 Like a proud tree 
 
 That wrings the sap of strength 
 
 From black days, 
 
 You stand in the twilight 
 
 And bend down to me. 
 
 Your coif is a white blossom, 
 
 Your hand is a blossom, 
 
 And your breast . . .
 
 ON REVISITING BARNARD COLLEGE 
 
 SUNSET is in the porch, 
 And through the hall 
 The dusk is blown 
 Like a faint breath. 
 
 I see my hands 
 Remote, in shadow ; 
 I feel my heart 
 As a remembered pain. 
 
 Up the grey stairs 
 The twilight climbs. 
 
 In a dream 
 
 The twilight climbs 
 
 To the classrooms 
 
 Of forgotten faces, 
 
 To the studies 
 
 Where the books are folded, 
 
 To the chapel 
 
 Of the silent voices. 
 
 In a dream 
 
 The twilight climbs. 
 
 93
 
 TO THE HUDSON RIVER 
 
 RIVER of dawn that saw the sun go down, 
 The gulls drift, 
 And the hills are russet-gray! 
 No more the gray sail that I loved to shift 
 Upon the wind; 
 A bitter wind has carried it away. 
 
 94
 
 D 
 
 HICKORY FIRE 
 
 O you know a fire of hickory? 
 Do you love its whispering? 
 
 As I sit and watch it, face between my hands, 
 
 The city room has slipped away and I'm at home. 
 
 The shadowy chairs are drawn within a circle . . . 
 
 Yes, they all are here; 
 
 Even the old dog nods in his warm place. 
 
 Hark ! The ancient tree 
 
 That leans against the roof, is muttering. 
 
 I think it knew the hickory we're burning now. 
 
 Now? Ah! What fires like this will do! 
 
 95
 
 SAFE 
 To R. R. M. 
 
 THERE is a chamber in my heart 
 Close curtained from the years, 
 Where the lonely days go crying 
 To blind me with their tears. 
 
 You are always waiting, darling, 
 Within that secret place, 
 
 And the mist of the world's crying 
 Passes by your face ; 
 
 And the dreams of the world, dying, 
 
 Can never hurt you now, 
 Beautiful forever, 
 
 With a dream on your brow. 
 
 96
 
 BARE BRANCHES 
 
 97
 
 NIGHT FELL 
 
 NIGHT fell one year ago, like this. 
 He had been writing steadily. 
 Among these dusky walls of books, 
 How bright he looked, intense as flame! 
 Suddenly he paused, 
 The firelight in his hair, 
 And said, "The time has come to go." 
 I took his hand ; 
 We watched the logs burn out; 
 The apple boughs fingered the window; 
 Down the cool, spring night 
 A slim, white moon leaned to the hill. 
 To-night the trees are budded white, 
 And the same pale moon slips through the dusk. 
 O little buds, tap-tapping on the pane, 
 
 white moon, 
 
 1 wonder if he sleeps in woods 
 Where there are leaves? 
 
 Or if he lies in some black trench, 
 
 His hands, his kind hands, kindling flame that kills? 
 
 Or if, or if ... 
 
 He is here now, to bid me last good-night? 
 
 99
 
 THERE'S A LILY FIELD 
 
 THERE'S a lily field in France to-night. 
 In the icy rain, 
 At its frozen heart, they buried a lad 
 
 With a crimson stain 
 On his lips. He gave France all he had ; 
 
 He was brave and gay. 
 
 Dear lilies of France, how bright, how bright, 
 Will you bud this May! 
 
 Translated into French by Nathan Haskell Dole and 
 set to music by Louise Souther. 
 
 100
 
 THE DOCTOR 
 
 THE boy lay stripped of beauty, 
 Gathering shadows with his hands. 
 He did not see the candles blazing; 
 He was not held by their golden bands. 
 
 Love had lain upon his breast, 
 Imperious; he had not stirred. 
 Poetry had whispered him; 
 But his dim temples had not heard. 
 
 Shadows were drifting down as leaves, 
 As clouds of leaves . . . for him . . . 
 A bell . . . rang . . . like a faint star 
 In ... the sky . . . broken . . . and dim . 
 
 Beating against his throat, the sweet 
 Breath came. The cold and falling sky 
 Climbed slowly, arching into sleep ; 
 The starry candles clustered high. 
 
 The Doctor paused upon the blood 
 Flowing in the delicate veins, 
 And slowly smiled as one who hears 
 Spring tremble in the dark lanes. 
 
 The Doctor's hands were strange hands, 
 Chiselled coldly out of pain ; 
 And yet, they bore the bright torch 
 Of beauty to the clouded brain. 
 101
 
 AT THE MOVIES 
 
 THEY swing across the screen in brave array, 
 Long British columns grinding the dark grass. 
 Twelve months ago they marched into the gray 
 Of battle; yet again behold them pass! 
 
 One lifts his dusty cap; his hair is bright; 
 
 I meet his eyes, eager and young and bold. 
 The picture quivers into ghostly white; 
 
 Then I remember, and my heart grows cold ! 
 
 102
 
 THE FOUR 
 
 FOUR went with singing, and the drouth 
 Of war is bitter to the mouth. 
 But even so, they sang the one 
 With blown hair like the copper sun, 
 The one who had the downy lip, 
 One with the jaunty belted hip, 
 And one who whistled like a bird, 
 Too light for the slow spoken word. 
 
 Night fell upon the Yankee camp, 
 And suddenly the surgeon's lamp 
 Flashed on the thickly shadowed place 
 Where four men lay with upturned face. 
 
 "Lone star, burning in the sedge 
 Of the southern river's edge . . ." 
 
 "And the pines the moonlight shake 
 On the darkened northern lake . . ." 
 
 "Where the sunset mountains stand 
 High above the purple land . . ." 
 
 "City of spires upon the sea 
 Fronting the dawn . . ." 
 
 The voices fainted . . . and were gone, 
 10?
 
 THE NURSE SPEAKS 
 
 I'VE seen some brave men die, but none like him. 
 I don't know why I went to him so much; 
 He didn't call or groan. 
 
 Perhaps it was his youth. His hands were young, 
 And fluttered all night long like pale, white moths, 
 Like pale, white moths that have been burned in flame. 
 Poor lad ! his head was torn. 
 
 I bathed his hair and even in the night I saw its gold. 
 Never a letter did he have on him; 
 He never spoke a name that I could hear ; 
 But just those hands would flutter all night long. 
 
 "Oh! I'm dog tired to-night. 
 
 Jess, pour some tea, 
 
 And then, a nap 
 
 Before my Turco wakes . . ." 
 
 Then last night when I went, his hands were still. 
 He raised his eyes, and said right clear to me: 
 "I hear the sea!" 
 
 Imagine hearing that in this red place ! 
 And then he stared. 
 
 He stared at my white cap. His eyes were bright. 
 "Dear love," he said, "the hawthorn's budded white!" 
 Yes, Jess, that was the end of him, poor lad, 
 And never a name or letter to be had. 
 
 104
 
 T 
 
 THE BRETON 
 
 1O-NIGHT I hear the drowsy call of frogs 
 And the lip-lipping of the tide 
 
 Up the salt creek; 
 
 And I can hear the distant, barking dogs 
 
 Across the starlit countryside . . . 
 
 I died last week, 
 
 Or so they tell me now, 
 
 Fighting for France inland. 
 
 I can't remember how. 
 
 I've forgotten the whole story. 
 
 All I want's my little dory 
 
 Hauled up on the sand. 
 
 105
 
 OUR MOTHER OF THE TRENCHES 
 
 A LITTLE mouse stole out in the dark, 
 And peering amid the straw, 
 Quoth he, "Was never so dim a churcfe," 
 And this he saw: 
 
 In a tunnel of dirt where the rain dripped through, 
 
 The Virgin carved of pine, 
 Smiled in a candle's shriveled flame 
 
 A smile divine. 
 
 A grey bat fluttered down from his perch 
 
 Of crumbling leaves. "No word 
 Of priest is here, nor bell," quoth he. 
 
 But this he heard: 
 
 He heard the Beast that roared above 
 
 In the pitiful barren wood ; 
 And then a stumbling fall, a cry, 
 
 And the drip of blood. 
 
 A worshipper crouched by the darkening shrine 
 
 Of the Virgin smiling there. 
 The mouse looked up and the bat looked down 
 
 To hear his prayer. 
 
 The Beast roared on in the wood above, 
 
 The candle light was gone ; 
 And still before Our Mother knelt 
 
 The worshipper wan. 
 
 106
 
 THE SHARPSHOOTER 
 
 IT'S not so bad to kill in the dusk 
 Of a growling winter day. 
 When a man is tired, and stiff as a husk, 
 
 It seems a merciful way 
 To end it all, perhaps. From my tree 
 
 Where I watch the road below, 
 I send pale peace an eternity 
 
 Of peace in the pitiless snow. 
 
 "But spring! Ah! what about spring?" I think, 
 
 When the little leaves are green, 
 And buds hold dew for the birds to drink, 
 
 Then, when I have to lean 
 Against white blossoms, and blaze away 
 
 At a lad with the sun on his hair, 
 And red in his cheek from the kiss of May, 
 
 God! but it won't seem fair! 
 
 107
 
 Y 
 
 EUGENE SUREAU, 79th TERRITORIALS 
 
 (After reading "THE NAME" in the Atlantic) 
 OU write that he is dead, Eugene Sureau . . . 
 
 From the time they brought him in, 
 His straight young body shrapnel-torn, 
 Until he died smiling at your white tenderness, 
 You wondered what he was. 
 Still warm within his shroud, 
 The purple cross upon his breast, 
 He wrung your heart. 
 There, in the darkened ward, you cried, 
 "Who was Eugene Sureau?" 
 Do you remember the laughing boy 
 Who used to cut you hazel wands? 
 He wore round caps and corduroy, 
 And his hair was rumpled and curly brown. 
 
 Have you forgotten the lad who dreamed 
 All day with grave blue eyes, apart 
 From the rest of you? So strong he seemed, 
 So sure to do fine things some day. 
 And there was one who loved to ride, 
 And challenged you under the open sky, 
 As you laughed, free galloping side by side, 
 To race him over the bright world's rim. 
 There were others you can't forget them 
 Young, with a dream. And lo ! 
 These were all Eugene Sureau. 
 108
 
 BY THE LANES OF AIR 
 
 MY lover to battle is gone to-day 
 By the misty lanes of air. 
 I smiled as my lover flashed away, 
 Climbing the cloudy stair. 
 
 But now I weep for I cannot know 
 The land where he lightly runs. 
 
 The clouds are his forests peaked with snow, 
 His leaves are the whirling suns. 
 
 If only a little frog could sing 
 
 In his ear from a meadow pool; 
 
 If only a swallow on the wing 
 
 Could pass in the evening cool! 
 
 I cannot come to him riding far, 
 Like an eagle against the blue ; 
 
 And yet, when rises the sunset star 
 And the day of war is through, 
 
 In the west where the sky is barred with red, 
 And the blue with stars is strown, 
 
 That banner of light shall be the bed 
 Forever beside my own! 
 
 109
 
 "THERE IS NOTHING TO REPORT" 
 
 News Item : "An Austro-Hungarian patrol attacked 
 by surprise a Russian advance post south of Karpilovka 
 and annihilated its occupants. 
 
 "The official statement said: 'The night was calm. 
 There is nothing to report' " 
 
 itr \ ^HE night was calm. There is nothing to report." 
 
 * Nothing for Vienna's haughty court; 
 But the pastures where the pale stars go, 
 Like little, straying sheep, they know, they know. 
 All the budded lanes of heaven break 
 Into a gentle singing for their sake, 
 For those who swiftly in the bitter night 
 Took the dark leap from all of earth's delight. 
 
 Crumpled like grey leaves the outpost lie 
 
 Forever where they fell beneath that sky 
 
 Of calm. One face is young, a poet's face, 
 
 Serenely lifted to the hush of space. 
 
 With bright head pillowed on his listless arm, 
 
 He dreamed like this when came the night alarm. 
 
 Somewhere in a frost stained cottage now 
 
 A woman's hands will grope for that white brow ; 
 
 And God, who lights the candles of the earth, 
 
 Alone will know one darkened taper's worth. 
 
 110
 
 PATROL 
 
 IN the pale moonlight the road is white 
 As my cheek, the open road that he took. 
 God ! If it were May with a dusky nook 
 Of leaves for him, and his horse to hide! 
 But all night long he must ride and ride, 
 With his breast agleam and his helmet bright 
 In the white moonlight, the white moonlight! 
 
 Ill
 
 THE FUGITIVE 
 
 THE crab tree like an ugly dwarf 
 Was sprawling in the moon, 
 But Oh! its knotted arms were full 
 With the sweet leaves of June! 
 
 Beside the moonlit lane there lay 
 
 A little house of stone ; 
 Close to the sprawling tree it lay, 
 
 Darkened and alone. 
 
 No one had thought, to see it lie 
 So darkened there, and still, 
 
 That it would startle suddenly 
 At hoof-beats on the hill 
 
 At the sound of hoof-beats coming thick 
 As hailstones in June rain, 
 
 Filtering through the trees, and then 
 Muffled along the lane. 
 
 The little house winked fearfully 
 
 A shining, furtive eye 
 That closed again, and slept beneath 
 
 The quiet curve of sky. 
 
 112
 
 And there was silence as clear and soft 
 As the dew on the hushed grass; 
 
 What was the shape that wavered there 
 In the lane? Did a shadow pass 
 
 Out of the door of the darkened house, 
 When the moon plunged into cloud ? 
 
 The horses' hoofs beat on the stone; 
 Their ringing was long and loud. 
 
 But the little stone house slept dark and still; 
 
 Not even a fagot's glow 
 Lay on the hearth, when the riders searched 
 
 The chimney black and low 
 
 The chimney and the empty rooms, 
 With their squatting empty chairs ; 
 
 Only the phantom shadows fled 
 Up the echoing, crazy stairs. 
 
 The riders cursed and rode away. 
 
 The crab tree saw the light 
 Of the low moon on their crests and spurs 
 
 For it had keen eyes that night. 
 
 The crab tree like an ugly dwarf 
 
 Was sprawling in the moon, 
 But Oh! its knotted arms were full 
 
 With the sweet leaves of June! 
 
 113
 
 LITTLE WHITE CURTAINS 
 
 LITTLE white, curtains that stirred soft wings, 
 The night he came 
 That night of stars and a blossom moon, 
 Now, though the June wind sings and sings 
 
 Just the same, 
 Little white curtains, your wings are still, 
 
 For he cannot come; 
 The guns are booming beyond the hill, 
 
 But he is dumb, 
 This night of stars and a blossom moon. 
 
 114
 
 THE FROGS OF FLANDERS 
 
 ""|\/T OTHER, the bud of moon is torn 
 
 -LV.1. Upon the broken tree; 
 But the marsh frogs are making 
 Song for me." 
 
 "The frogs are making April song 
 
 For Flanders, son, 
 In the sight of torches, 
 
 The sound of gun. 
 
 "The marsh frogs watch the ruined sun 
 
 With placid eye. 
 Placid they watch at night 
 
 The bitter sky. 
 
 "They make spring song for Flanders, 
 
 Knowing, knowing, 
 That under frozen valleys 
 
 A flame is going. 
 
 "A flame, a flame is going 
 
 Through the grasses' veins, 
 Firing the reeds' tapers 
 
 Up the dim sea lanes. 
 
 "There is no Hun can banish 
 
 This beautiful green thing, 
 And so the frogs of Flanders 
 
 Sing and sing." 
 
 115
 
 THE TORCH OF LIBERTY 
 
 THE lily fields of France are grey, 
 And in the bitter rain 
 The fettered ghosts of Belgium pray 
 
 In sorrow and in pain. 
 They pray in sorrow and in pain, 
 
 And with them Poland cries 
 For golden candle-light again, 
 In blackened fields and skies. 
 
 The English coast is still and dark, 
 
 But suddenly is borne 
 Above the spires of London hark! 
 
 An English bugle horn. 
 Above the London spires, a horn ! 
 
 Across the sea it thrills 
 A Sister Nation's heart at morn 
 
 Upon a thousand hills! 
 
 O Ye, contemptuous, who dare 
 
 To shackle sea and land, 
 While a dishonored sword ye bear. 
 
 Behold, a mighty hand ! 
 From out the west a mighty hand 
 
 To smite all tyranny; 
 For one king only shall command, 
 
 The King, Democracy! 
 
 116
 
 Within the east the Torch is lit, 
 
 And challenging their fears, 
 The Russian people carry it 
 
 With singing and with tears. 
 With us, they carry it in tears, 
 
 The precious Torch of fire, 
 Bright with the heat of bitter years 
 
 And ultimate desire. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 America! America! 
 
 The star-crowned and the free, 
 Thy Torch shall flame around the world, 
 
 The Torch of Liberty! 
 
 117
 
 THE WOMEN SPEAK 
 
 THE stars are slipping down in golden shoals, 
 The birds are crying in the early light; 
 Among the hills of home the russet knolls 
 Are pricking into green upon the sight. 
 Our hearts are freshly green ; again we hold 
 The vigor of the year. Upon our brows 
 The ageless dreams are stamped like stars of gold 
 With which the precious, early day endows 
 The sky. Oh! not in vain that we are tall 
 And resolute with eyes as clear as spring; 
 The secret flame that hears the April call 
 Leaps in us at our country's summoning; 
 And though the whirlwind ride upon the land, 
 We will not falter we will firmly stand !
 
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