;; Ij
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 GERALD HOWLAND
 
 BY 
 
 BLISS CARMAN 
 
 Five Volumes as follows : 
 From the Book of Myths 
 From the Green Book of the Bards 
 Songs of the Sea Children 
 Songs from a Northern Garden 
 From the Book of Valentines 
 
 Eacb I vol.., cloth . net $i.oo 
 
 Each I vol. y flexible leathery net I.^O 
 
 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 New Englaftd Building 
 Boston, Mass.
 
 Copyright, 1899, by 
 The Cbntory Compaky 
 
 Copyright, 1902, by 
 AiKSLEE Magazine Company 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by 
 The Ridgway- Thayer Company 
 
 Copyright, 1903, igos, by 
 The Ess Ess Publishing Company (Incorporated) 
 
 Copyright, 1904, 1905, by 
 The Associated Sunday Magazine 
 
 Copyright, 1905, by 
 L. C. Page & Company (Incorporated) 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 COLONIAL PRESS 
 
 Electrotyfied and Printed by C. H. Simonds &* Co. 
 
 Boston, U.S.A.
 
 VR 
 
 IM 
 
 f^ 
 
 ri,n 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 Ballad of the Young King's Madness . . i 
 
 Across the Courtyard 20 
 
 A Neighbour's Creed , 32 
 
 To One in Despair 35 
 
 At the Great Release 39 
 
 Morning and Evening 42 
 
 In an Iris Meadow 44 
 
 A Letter from Lesbos 47 
 
 The Players 59 
 
 The Mansion 61 
 
 Who Is the Owner ? 64 
 
 The Fairy Flower 66 
 
 YVANHOE FeRRARA 68 
 
 The Love - chant of King Hacko ... 73 
 
 The Creation of Lilith 77 
 
 In a Far Country 80 
 
 Song of the Four Worlds 83 
 
 Street Song at Night 89 
 
 vii
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 The Least of Love 92 
 
 A Man's Last Word 95 
 
 A Midwinter Memory 99 
 
 An Angel in Plaster 102
 
 BALLAD OF THE YOUNG 
 KING'S MADNESS. 
 
 In a Kingdom long ago, as the story comes to me, 
 
 There lived a sturdy folk by the borders of the 
 sea; 
 
 The snow-tipped mountains behind them guard- 
 ing the East and the North, 
 
 While open to Southward and Westward, were 
 the sea-gates bidding them forth. 
 
 Launching their boats through the breakers, 
 
 casting their nets in the tide. 
 The sea had given them daring, strength and 
 
 endurance and pride; 
 Watching their sheep with the eagles on many a 
 
 lonely hill,
 
 THE YOUNG KINg's MADNESS 
 
 The stars had given them knowledge and insight 
 and ghostly skill ; 
 
 For wisdom comes to the waiting as water comes 
 to a mill, 
 
 From unsluiced sources of silence where the chat- 
 ter of life grows still. 
 
 I. 
 
 Over this sturdy people there ruled without 
 favour or greed 
 
 A man with the arm and heart of the olden 
 kingly breed. 
 
 There was never a sport nor contest, there was 
 never a horse to tame, 
 
 But the King would meet all comers, and was 
 ever first in the game. 
 
 A speaker of truth to all men, he carried his will 
 with a word ; 
 
 And Justice dwelt in his borders, nor ever un- 
 sheathed her sword. 
 
 2
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Likable, open and reckless, he neither bullied nor 
 
 feared, 
 When over the rim of his empire threatening 
 
 danger appeared, 
 But in the face of his council laughed in his 
 
 yellow beard. 
 
 Yet his light-heart ways were a scandal to the 
 
 seemly and the sage, 
 He would turn from the weightiest business to 
 
 rally a love-sick page, 
 Twitting him for a laggard, making him blush 
 
 with a jest. 
 Shaming him for a waster by the good wine 
 
 spilt on his vest. 
 
 Never a band of minstrels passed, but he bade 
 
 them in, 
 Haling the lads by the shoulder, taking the maids 
 
 by the chin ; 
 
 3
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Till the courtyard gleamed with motley, and the 
 palace rang with din. 
 
 Courtiers lived on his bounty, lights-of-love 
 supped at his board. 
 
 Merry the time he gave them, priceless the wine 
 he poured, 
 
 Lavish of all his substance for the gay and care- 
 less horde; 
 
 Till long lips groaning abhorrence had evil things 
 to foretell. 
 
 But always the children loved him, and the 
 women — passing well. 
 
 II. 
 
 So time wore on, and the King awoke one day 
 
 with a start, 
 To hear a strange new whisper of discontent in 
 
 his heart.
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Pleasure he had in plenty, health, and compan- 
 ions, and power; 
 
 Yet what is all this life but a void and empty 
 hour? 
 
 Fair was the golden morning with April over 
 
 the hill. 
 He strolled to the gate of the palace and stood 
 
 there grave and still, 
 Watching the mountain shadows, then shut his 
 
 teeth on his will. 
 " Bring me a horse," he ordered. They saddled 
 
 his favourite bay; 
 And down through the watered valley the young 
 
 King rode away; 
 Down through the flowery orchards, where the 
 
 river babbles and shines, 
 Past ford and smithy and farm, and up where the 
 
 narrowing lines
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Of tillage and pasture vanish in the dusk of the 
 
 purple pines. 
 How speculation and rumour fluttered his folk 
 
 that day! 
 " Who can fathom his fancies? Mad as a hare! " 
 
 said they. 
 
 In a cleft of the solemn mountains, like a thought 
 
 in earth's green heart, 
 Stood a hospice of recluse men, quiet, secluded, 
 
 apart, 
 Having forgotten the world and left distraction 
 
 behind. 
 For care of the troublous want and hunger of the 
 
 mind. 
 
 There as the night was falling, the King on his 
 
 red mare came. 
 And they have welcomed the stranger, asking not 
 
 station nor name. 
 
 6
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Who bides at the house of God needs neither 
 money nor fame. 
 
 Never an eyelid flickered, never a word betrayed 
 
 They knew the habit and bearing accustomed to 
 be obeyed ; 
 
 But after the rule of their order, equal in every- 
 thing. 
 
 With kingly love for a brother the brothers served 
 their King. 
 
 They gave him his seat at table, cell and habit 
 
 and stall. 
 The scanty fare and the hours of prayer, meekly 
 
 he took them all ; 
 Nor ever they found him wanting in duties great 
 
 or small. 
 
 Lowly he sat before them and many a lecture 
 heard, 
 
 7
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Questioned and reasoned and listened, argued, 
 
 proved and conferred, 
 And by many a lonely candle pondered the printed 
 
 word. 
 
 Daily the power of knowledge grew and spread 
 in his face; 
 
 Daily the look of the scholar glowed with a finer 
 trace ; 
 
 Daily the tan-flush faded and ever he grew in 
 grace, 
 
 As understanding within him climbed to her law- 
 ful place. 
 
 So from the man of sinew they made a student 
 
 at last. 
 Thoughtful and grave as he had been brave ; till, 
 
 lo, three }^ears had passed, 
 And the young King yawned one day, stretching 
 
 himself in the sun, 
 8
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 And murmured : " Now let's see what their book- 
 learning has done! 
 
 The arms grow feeble, alack! The foot and eye 
 grow slow; 
 
 Let's put their lore to the test. Good friends, 
 this day I go." 
 
 So said, so done. Mused the Brothers, watching 
 
 him down the hill : 
 " Feeble must be our virtue, if this hope comes to 
 
 ill." 
 They saw him lost in dust; and the sundown's 
 
 dying rose 
 Kindled their lofty hill-crest in its eternal snows. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now well the Kingdom prospered while the 
 
 young King was away, 
 For wise were the heads of his council, leaders 
 
 of men in their day, 
 9
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Stubborn at fronting clamour, strong to govern 
 
 and sway, 
 Of tested honour and flawless tried in the world's 
 
 assay. 
 
 Yet there was joy at his coming, throngs that 
 
 laughed with delight, 
 Cheers as he passed and waving, children held in 
 
 his sight, 
 Flags hung out at the windows, and bonfires lit 
 
 in the night. 
 Comrades met on the corner, cronies talked in 
 
 the door, 
 " The merry times are returning; we shall have 
 
 revels once more." 
 
 But they reckoned without their host, if they 
 
 thought the glorious days 
 Of the King's wild youth had returned with their 
 
 drinking and masques and plays.
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Sober he sat at council, wisely he judged and 
 
 decreed, 
 Till the frivolous gaped and muttered : "A 
 
 paragon indeed ! " 
 
 Tireless, toiling and thoughtful, steadfast, kingly 
 and tall. 
 
 But lonely he lived, unloving, blameless before 
 them all. 
 
 With never a rose in his bower nor a bosom- 
 friend in his hall. 
 
 And ever his brow grew whiter, his eye more 
 
 hungry bright. 
 For the blessing of peace escaped him, though he 
 
 toiled by day and night. 
 By lamplight and daylight he laboured, till his 
 
 visage grew lean and grim. 
 While his people saw and wondered, and their 
 
 hearts went out to him. 
 II
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 So he strove for a year or more, and never was 
 seen to fail 
 
 In the least or the greatest matter where dili- 
 gence might avail. 
 
 Yet ever he grew more restless, and ever his 
 cheek more pale. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now it chanced on another morning like that 
 
 when he rode away, 
 The King must come to his seaboard, where a 
 
 foreign galleon lay. 
 Black hull and gleaming canvas, with her decks 
 
 in trim array; 
 Long and graceful and speedy as a flying fish 
 
 was she, 
 Showing the scarlet pennon of the gj^psies of the 
 
 sea.
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 There in a dream he stood; watching the surf 
 
 and the sand ; 
 Then all of a sudden he laughed, as the rowers 
 
 rowed to land. 
 " God of my fathers," he cried. " What manner 
 
 of fool am I? 
 A landsman all my life, a sea-king will I die." 
 
 Needs must they humour him then, whispering, 
 
 " Mad once more! " 
 As they heard him speak to the sailors, and saw 
 
 him rowed from the shore. 
 Small room to parley or caution, and smaller use 
 
 to deplore; 
 When a strong man comes to his stronghold, fate 
 
 must yield him the door. 
 
 Lightly he stood in the boat, when the bending 
 rowers rowed ; 
 
 13
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 And the wind and the tide and the sun freshened 
 
 and sparkled and glowed. 
 There lay the sea before him fair as an open road. 
 
 Last they saw of the King was at the helmsman's 
 
 side, 
 Gay in the light of adventure, while the vessel 
 
 swung on the tide. 
 With a song they hove her anchor; the sails 
 
 drew taut and free; 
 And she heeled to the wind and lessened on the 
 
 long blue slope of the sea. 
 
 V. 
 
 The sun came up, the sun went down, the tide 
 drew out and in, 
 
 But never a word that seaport heard from for- 
 eigner or kin, 
 
 Rower, merchant, or sailorman, or the gypsies of 
 the sea, 
 
 14
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Whither their prince had vanished, or what his 
 
 fate might be; 
 Till a thousand suns had circled, and twice a 
 
 thousand tides 
 Had swung the swaying harbour buoys and 
 
 brimmed through the channel guides. 
 
 Then through a winter twilight w^hen the sun 
 
 was a disk of red. 
 The keen-eyed watcher beheld, as he gazed from 
 
 the harbour-head, 
 A moving speck like a seahawk crossing that targe 
 
 of flame; 
 And beating up from the sea-rim the gypsy 
 
 galleon came. 
 
 And why is she decked with pennons, and 
 
 trimmed with cloth of gold? 
 And what are these scarlet trappings the harbour 
 
 folk behold? 
 
 IS
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 What means her glory of banners fluttering on 
 
 the breeze, 
 Brave as the coloured autumn that is the pride 
 
 of the trees? 
 Has she rifled a sea-king's treasure and plundered 
 
 the isles of the seas? 
 
 Slowly she passed the entry, the white sails low- 
 ered and furled, 
 
 And there was our long-lost truant from the 
 other side of the world. 
 
 On the deck he stood, the figure of a man to 
 make men bold, 
 
 A browned and hardy master, as debonair as of 
 old. 
 
 The strength of his hands as aforetime, the 
 scholar's light on his brow, 
 
 But something passing knowledge in his look and 
 bearing now, 
 
 i6
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 The calm of a radiant purpose, the joy of unerr- 
 ing quest, 
 
 The poise of perfected being when the soul attains 
 her best. 
 
 He had ruled with power and pleasure, he had 
 searched and found out lore; 
 
 And now his unfainting spirit had discovered the 
 one thing more. 
 
 But the curious eye forsook him to greet with 
 
 amazed regard 
 Another who stood at the taffrail by the sheet 
 
 of the great main-yard ; 
 Fine as a mast in stature, eager, unflinching, and 
 
 free. 
 With hair like the sun's raw gold and eyes like 
 
 crumbs of the sea; 
 Straight-browed — the imperial bearing of one 
 
 who is born to sway. 
 
 17
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 Deep-bosomed with all the ardour that kindles 
 
 our wondrous clay ; 
 Regent of glad dominions, a sea-trove out of the 
 
 vast 
 Wide welter of life. " A hostage fit for our king 
 
 at last!" 
 
 Threefold is the search for perfection that leads 
 
 through creation's plan — 
 Through immemorial nature and the restless 
 
 heart of man ; 
 Beauty of shape and colour to gladden and profit 
 
 the eye, 
 Truth beyond cavil or question to answer the 
 
 reason why. 
 And the blameless spirit's portion — the joy that 
 
 shall not die. 
 
 The dauntless soul must w^ander to accomplish 
 and attain 
 
 i8
 
 THE YOUNG KING S MADNESS 
 
 This balance of all her powers by the lead of 
 
 love, or remain 
 A stranger to peace forever in sorrow, defeat, and 
 
 pain. 
 
 Flushed with the cheers of welcome, lightly the 
 
 king, all pride. 
 Handed the girl, all beauty, over the vessel's side. 
 Then in a lull of their salvos, to the wondering 
 
 crowd that rings 
 The pierhead, eager to question, " Our queen," 
 
 said the sanest of kings. 
 
 19
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD. 
 
 That is the window over there 
 With the closed shutters and the air 
 Of a deserted place, like those 
 Abandoned homesteads whose repose 
 Haunts us with mystery. Inside 
 Who knows what tragedy may hide ? 
 
 This window has been sealed up so 
 A fortnight now. A month ago 
 Just about dusk you should have seen 
 The vision I saw smile and lean 
 From that same window. Spring's return, 
 When daffodils and jonquils burn 
 Under the azure April day, 
 Is not more lovely nor more gay. 
 20
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 The world — at least, our artist world 
 
 Where tubes are pinched and brushes twirled 
 
 In the long task to reproduce 
 
 God's masterpieces for man's use — 
 
 Knows Jacynth for the loveliest 
 
 Of all its models and the best. 
 
 Why, half the portraits in the town, 
 
 From Mrs. Bigwig, Jr.'s down, 
 
 Have that same perfect taper hand- 
 
 (If you have wit to understand 
 
 A woman's vanity, you know 
 
 Why they should wish to have it so). 
 
 Those same long fingers smooth and round. 
 
 Faultless as petals, and not found 
 
 Twice in a generation. Well, 
 
 They're Jacynth's. But you need not tell 
 
 The trick. In this world art must live 
 
 On what the world's caprice will give.
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 Delightful folly! But far more 
 Delightful beauty we adore 
 And follow humbly day by day, 
 Her difficult, enchanted way. 
 (Dear beauty, still beyond the reach 
 Of paint, or music, or of speech!) 
 We toil and triumph and despair. 
 Then on a morn look up, and there 
 Some girl goes by, or there's a dash 
 Of colour on the clouds — a flash 
 Of inspiration caught between 
 Chinks in the workshop's grey routine. 
 One hint of glory through the murk. 
 And God has criticized our work. 
 
 So we plod on, and so one day 
 It happened toward the end of May, 
 When the long twilight comes, and when 
 Our northern orchards bloom again — 
 Even our poor old courtyard tree,
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 Knowing the time that bids him be 
 
 One of the hosts that leaf and sing 
 
 In the revival of the spring, 
 
 Dons his green robe of joy. You know 
 
 How idle, then, a man will grow. 
 
 I had been sitting lost in thought 
 
 Of how our best dreams come to naught, 
 
 And we are left mere daubers still 
 
 For want of knowledge, lack of skill — 
 
 So many of us are, I mean ! 
 
 The door was open, and the screen 
 
 And curtains turned back everywhere 
 
 For the first breath of summer air, 
 
 That came in like a wanderer 
 
 From far untroubled lands, to stir 
 
 The prints along the wall, and bring 
 
 Our dreams of greatness back with spring 
 
 Suddenly, I looked up, aware 
 Before I looked, of some one there — 
 23
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 You know how. In the doorway stood 
 A tall girl dressed in black. How good 
 A scrap of actual beauty is, 
 After our unrealities! 
 The copper-coloured hair; the glint 
 Of tea-rose in her throat's warm tint; 
 The magic and surprise that go 
 With level blue-grey eyes; the slow 
 Luxurious charm of poise and line, 
 Half-Oriental, half-divine, 
 And altogether human. Oh, 
 One must have known her then, to know 
 How faultless beauty still transcends 
 The bound where faultless painting ends. 
 But you may gather here and there 
 Faint glimpses and reports of her 
 In the best work of all the men 
 Who painted her as she was then, 
 Splendid and wonderful. To me, 
 For colour and for symmetry, 
 24
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 In her young glory there she seemed 
 The flame-like one of whom they dreamed 
 Who worshipped beauty in old days 
 With singleness of joy and praise; 
 Some great Astarte come to bless 
 This old world with new loveliness; 
 My own ideal come to life, 
 After the failure and the strife, 
 To prove I dreamed not all in vain 
 In poverty beside the Seine. 
 
 There came a sudden leap at heart 
 That made my pulses stop and start, 
 The surge and flood of sense that sweep 
 Over our nature's hidden deep, 
 When we look up and recognize 
 Our vision in an earthly guise. 
 Then reason must resign control 
 To the indubitable soul, 
 
 25
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 Put off despair, arise and dance 
 To the joy-music of romance. 
 
 For one great year she posed for me; 
 Came in and out familiarly, 
 And made the studio her home 
 Almost — not quite ; for always some — 
 What shall I say ? — reserve or pride, 
 Mysterious and aloof, belied 
 By the soft loving languorous mien, 
 Invested her, enthroned serene 
 Above importunings. Who knows. 
 If she had chosen as I chose — 
 Flung heart and head and hand away 
 On the great venture of a day; 
 Poured love and passion and romance 
 In the frail mould of circumstance — 
 Had she but dared be one of two, 
 We might have made the world anew! 
 However much it might have cost, 
 26
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 Who knows what good may have been lost, 
 What passing great reward ? 
 
 One day 
 
 When work was done she turned to say 
 
 Her soft good night, and tripped down-stair 
 
 With rustling skirts and her fine air 
 
 Of breeziness, humming a catch 
 
 From some street-song. I heard the latch 
 
 Click after her, and she was gone. 
 
 Next day I waited. It wore on 
 
 To afternoon, and still no sign 
 
 Of peril near this dream of mine. 
 
 A year went by, and not a word 
 
 Of the lost Jacynth could be heard. 
 
 May came again ; the wind once more 
 Was blowing by the open door, 
 And I saw something over there 
 Across the yard that made me stare. 
 27
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 Strangers had recently arrived 
 On that third floor, and Fate contrived 
 One of her small dramatic scenes 
 Which make us wonder what life means, 
 And whether it is all a play 
 For our diversion by the way. 
 There at the window I caught sight 
 Of a girl's figure. The crisp white 
 Of the fresh gown passed and repassed, 
 Strangely familiar, till at last, 
 Jacynth, of course! Who else? " I cried. 
 And on the instant she espied 
 Me watching her; quick as a flash 
 And smiling, ran, threw up the sash 
 To lean far out. " How do you do, 
 My friend ? " " WTiy, Jacynth, how are you. 
 After this long, long time? " I said. 
 Thank you, quite well." Her pretty head 
 Was tilted up, in every line 
 An old medallion rare and fine. 
 28
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 " Yes, it's a long time, isn't it, 
 Since that first day I came to sit 
 For your great Lilith? Tell me how 
 They hung it at the Fair. And now 
 That we are neighbours once again, 
 Do come to see me." It was plain 
 From the unwonted vanity 
 Of tone, as she ran on to me. 
 Some strange ambition, plan, or hope 
 Had come to give her pride new scope. 
 Somehow she had acquired the chill 
 Of worldliness ; I missed the thrill 
 Of eager radiance she had 
 When we were comrades free and glad. 
 Some volatile and subtle trace 
 Of soul had vanished from her face. 
 Leaving the brilliancy that springs 
 From polished and enamelled things. 
 The beauty of the lamp still shone 
 With lustre, but the flame was gone. 
 29
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 There was so evident in her 
 The smug complacent character 
 Of prosperous security, 
 That when, with just a flick at me, 
 She added, gaily as before, 
 " It isn't Jacynth any more, 
 It's Mrs. " — some one — here was I, 
 Too much astonished to reply. 
 Before she vanished. From that day 
 The rest is blank, think what _vou may. 
 There is her window, as you see, 
 Closed on a teasing mystery. 
 
 I think, as I recall her here. 
 How much life means beyond the mere 
 Safety, convenience, and the pose 
 Respectability bestows ; 
 The beauty of the questing soul 
 In every face, beyond control 
 Is dimmed by wearing any mask 
 30
 
 ACROSS THE COURTYARD 
 
 That dull conformity may ask. 
 How almost no one understands 
 The unworldliness that art demands! 
 How few have courage to retain 
 Through j^ears of doubtful stress and strain 
 The resolute and lonely will 
 To follow beauty, to fulfil 
 The dreams of their prophetic youth 
 And pay the utmost price of truth! 
 How few have nerve enough to keep 
 The trail, and thread the dark and steep 
 By the lone lightning-flash that falls 
 Through sullen m.urky intervals! 
 How many faint of heart must choose 
 The steady lantern for their use, 
 And never, without fear of Fate, 
 Be daring, generous and great! 
 
 Where is she now? What sudden change 
 Clouded our day-dream? Love is strange! 
 31
 
 A NEIGHBOUR'S CREED. 
 
 ^'' Nor knowest thou what argument 
 Thy life to thy tieighbours creed has lent." 
 
 I. 
 
 All day the weary crowds move on 
 Through the grey city's stifling heat, 
 With anxious air, with jaded mien, 
 To strife, to labour, to defeat. 
 
 But I possess my soul in calm. 
 Because I know, unvexed by noise, 
 Somewhere across the city's hum 
 Your splendid spirit keeps its poise. 
 32
 
 A NEIGHBOUR S CREED 
 II. 
 
 Because I see you bright and brave, 
 I say to my despondent heart, 
 "Up, loiterer! Put off this guise 
 Of gloom, and play the sturdier part ! " 
 
 Three things are given man to do: 
 To dare, to labour, and to grow. 
 Not otherwise from earth we came, 
 Nor otherwise our way we go. 
 
 Three things are given man to be: 
 Cheerful, undoubting, and humane. 
 Surviving through the direst fray. 
 Preserving the untarnished strain. 
 
 Three things are given man to know: 
 Beauty and truth and honour. These 
 Are the nine virtues of the soul. 
 Her mystic powers and ecstasies. 
 33
 
 A NEIGHBOUR S CREED 
 
 And when I see you bravely tread 
 That difficult and doubtful way, 
 Up, waverer; wilt thou forsake 
 Thy comrade? " to my soul I say. 
 
 Then bitterness and sullen fear. 
 Mistrust and anger, are no more. 
 That quick gay step is in the hall; 
 That rallying voice is at the door. 
 
 34
 
 TO ONE IN DESPAIR. 
 
 I. 
 
 O die not yet, great heart ; but deign 
 A little longer to endure 
 This life of passionate fret and strain, 
 Of slender hope and joy unsure! 
 
 Take Contemplation by the sleeve, 
 And ask her, " Is it not worth while 
 To teach my fellows not to grieve, — 
 To lend them courage in a smile? 
 
 " Is it so little to have made 
 The timorous ashamed of fear, — 
 The idle and the false afraid 
 To front existence with a sneer? " 
 35
 
 TO ONE IN DESPAIR 
 
 For those who live within your sway 
 Know not a mortal fear, save one, — 
 That some irreparable day 
 They should awake, and find you gone. 
 
 II. 
 Live on, love on! Let reason swerve; 
 But instinct knows her own great lore, 
 Like some uncharted planet's curve 
 That sweeps in sight, then is no more. 
 
 Live on, love on, without a qualm. 
 Child of immortal charity. 
 In the great certitude and calm 
 Of joy free-born that shall not die. 
 
 III. 
 
 We dream ourselves inheritors 
 Of some unknown and distant good, 
 36
 
 TO ONE IN DESPAIR 
 
 That shall requite us for the faults 
 Of our own lax ineptitude. 
 
 But soon and surely they may come, 
 Whom love makes wise and courage free, 
 Into their heritage of joy, — 
 Their earth-day of eternity. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The thought that I could ever call 
 Your name, and you would not be here, 
 At moments sweeps my soul away 
 In the relentless tide of fear; 
 
 Then from its awful ebb returns 
 The sea of gladness strong and sure. 
 By this I know that love is great ; 
 By this I know I shall endure. 
 
 37
 
 TO ONE IN DESPAIR 
 V. 
 
 When I shall have lain down to sleep, 
 I pray no sound to break my rest. 
 No seraph's trumpet through the night 
 Could touch my weary soul with zest. 
 
 But oh, beyond the reach of thought 
 How I should waken and rejoice. 
 To hear across the drift of time 
 One golden echo of j'our voice! 
 
 38
 
 AT THE GREAT RELEASE. 
 
 When the black horses from the house of Dis 
 Stop at my door and the dread charioteer 
 Knocks at my portal, summoning me to go 
 On the far solitary unknown way 
 Where all the race of men fare and are lost, 
 Fleeting and numerous as the autumnal leaves 
 Before the wind in Lesbos of the Isles; 
 
 Though a chill draught of fear may quell my soul 
 And dim my spirit like a flickering lamp 
 In the great gusty hall of some old king. 
 Only one mordant unassuaged regret. 
 One passionate eternal human grief, 
 39
 
 AT THE GREAT RELEASE 
 
 Would wring my heart with bitterness and tears 
 And set the mask of sorrow on my face. 
 
 Not youth, nor early fame, nor pleasant days, 
 
 Nor flutes, nor roses, nor the taste of wine. 
 
 Nor sweet companions of the idle hour 
 
 Who brought me tender joys, nor the glad sound 
 
 Of children's voices playing in the dusk; 
 
 All these I could forget and bid good-bye 
 
 And pass to my oblivion nor repine. 
 
 Not the green woods that I so dearly love, 
 Nor summer hills in their serenity. 
 Nor the great sea mystic and musical, 
 Nor drone of insects, nor the call of birds. 
 Nor soft spring flowers, nor the wintry stars; 
 To all the lovely earth that was my home 
 Smiling and valiant I could say farewell. 
 
 40
 
 AT THE GREAT RELEASE 
 
 But not, oh, not to one strong little hand, 
 
 To one droll mouth brimming with witty words, 
 
 Nor ever to the unevasive eyes 
 
 Where dwell the light and sweetness of the world 
 
 With all the sapphire sparkle of the sea! 
 
 Ah, Destiny, against whose knees we kneel 
 
 With prayer at evening, spare me this one woe! 
 
 41
 
 MORNING AND EVENING. 
 
 When the morning wind comes up the mountain, 
 Stirring all the beech-groves of the valley, 
 And, before the paling stars have vanished, 
 The first tawny thrush disturbs the twilight 
 With his reed-pipe, eerie calm and golden — 
 The earth-music marvellous and olden — 
 
 Then good fortune enters at my doorway. 
 
 And my heart receives the guest called Gladness; 
 
 For I know it is that day of summer 
 
 When I shall behold your face ere nightfall, 
 
 And this earth, as never yet in story. 
 
 Ledge to hill-crest dyed in purple glory. 
 
 42
 
 MORNING AND EVENING 
 
 When the evening breath draws down the valley, 
 And the clove is full of dark blue shadows 
 Moving on the mountain-wall, just silvered 
 By the large moon lifted o'er the earth-rim. 
 At the moment of transported being, 
 When soul gathers what the eyes are seeing. 
 
 Sense is parted like a melted rain-mist, 
 And our mortal spirits run together. 
 Saying, " O incomparable comrade! " 
 Saying, " O my lover, how good love is! " 
 Then the twilight falls; the hill-wind hushes; 
 Note by note once more the cool-voiced thrushes. 
 
 43
 
 IN AN IRIS MEADOW. 
 
 Once I found you in an iris meadow 
 
 Down between the seashore and the river, 
 
 Playing on a golden willow whistle 
 
 You had fashioned from a bough in springtime, — 
 
 Piping such a wild melodious music, 
 
 Full of sunshine, sadness and sweet longing. 
 
 As the heart of earth must have invented. 
 
 When the wind first breathed above her bosom. 
 
 And above the sea-rim, silver-lighted. 
 
 Pure and glad and innocent and tender. 
 
 The first melting planets glowed in splendour. 
 
 There it was I loved you as a lover. 
 Then it was I lost the world forever. 
 44
 
 IN AN IRIS MEADOW 
 
 For your slender fingers on the notches 
 Set free more than that mere earthly cadence, — 
 Loosed the piercing stops of mortal passion, — 
 Touched your wood-mate with the spell of 
 
 wonder, 
 And the godhead in the man awakened. 
 Virgin spirit with unsullied senses. 
 There was earth for him all new-created, 
 In a moment when the music's rapture 
 Bade soul take what never thought.could capture: 
 
 Just the sheer glad bliss of being human, 
 Just the large content beyond all reason, 
 Just the love of flowers, hills and rivers, 
 Shadowy forests and lone lovely bird-songs 
 When the morning brightens in the sea-wind; 
 And beyond all these the fleeting vision 
 Of the shining soul that dwelt within you, 
 (Magic fragrance of the meadow blossom) 
 All the dear fond madness of the lover. 
 45
 
 IN AN IRIS MEADOW 
 
 These, all these the ancient wood-god taught me 
 From the theme you piped and the wind brought 
 me. 
 
 Was it strange that I should stop the playing? 
 
 Was it strange that I should touch the blossom? 
 
 Must ( a man's w^ay ! ) see whence came the music, 
 
 Must with childish marvel count the petals? 
 
 O but sweet were your uncounted kisses ! 
 
 Wild and dear those first impulsive fondlings, 
 
 When 3'our great eyes swept me, then went sea- 
 ward, 
 
 Too o'ercharged to bear the strain of yearning, 
 
 And the little head must seek this shoulder! 
 
 Then we heard once more the wood-god's meas- 
 ure. 
 
 And strange gladness filled the world's great 
 leisure. 
 
 46
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS. 
 
 More beloved than ever yet was mortal ! 
 Oh, but doubt not, lover, I do love thee! 
 When he wrote these words, bitter and lonely 
 Was that tender heart in wintry Lesbos. 
 Kindly gods but speed my journey thither, 
 (How the wind burns from the scorching desert, 
 Through the scarlet beds of scentless blossom!) 
 And make fortunate that swift home-coming! 
 For I fret in this Egj'ptian exile, 
 Too long parted, sickening for the home-wind 
 And the first white gleam of Mitylene. 
 
 Blessed words to brave the stormy sea-way! 
 In this stifling city's sultry languor 
 47
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 I must now with joy and tears and longing, 
 Now the hundredth time at least re-read them : 
 
 // is the bitter season of the year; 
 The mournful-piping sea-wind is abroad 
 With driving snow and battle in the air. 
 Shaking the stubborn roof tree gust by gust; 
 And under the frost-grey skies without a sun 
 Cold desolation wraps the wintry world. 
 
 And I, my Gorgo, keep the fireside here. 
 Chill-hearted, brooding, visited by doubt. 
 Wondering how Demeter or wise Pan 
 Will work the resurrection of the spring. 
 Serene and punctual at the appointed time, 
 With the warm sun, the swallows at the eaves. 
 The slant of rain upon the purple hill. 
 The flame-like crocus by the garden wall. 
 The light, the hope, the gladness all returned 
 With maidens singing the Adonis song! 
 48
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 But ah, more doubtful sad and full of fear 
 There comes to me, disconsolate and lone. 
 The thought of thee, my Gorgo, lovelier 
 Than any premonition of the spring. 
 
 I seem to see that radiant smile once more. 
 The heaven-blue eyes, the crocus-golden hair. 
 The rose-pink beauty passionate and tall. 
 Dear beyond words and daring with desire. 
 For which thy lover luould fling life away 
 And traffic the last legacy of time. 
 
 Ah, Gorgo, too long absent, well I know 
 The sun will shine again and spring cofne back 
 Her ancient glorious golden-flowered way. 
 And gladness visit the green earth once more. 
 But where in all that wonder wilt thou be. 
 The very soul and spirit of the spring^ 
 
 49
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 // the high gods in that triu?nphant time 
 Have calendared no day for thee to come 
 Light-hearted to this doorway as of old. 
 Unmoved I shall behold their pomps go by, — 
 The painted seasons in their pageantry. 
 The silvery processions of the moon. 
 And all the infinite ardours unsubdued. 
 Pass with the wind replenishing the earth. 
 
 Incredulous forever I must live. 
 And, once thy lover, ivithout joy behold 
 The gradual uncounted years go by. 
 Sharing the bitterness of all things made. 
 
 Ah, not thus ! My hot tears sweet and tender, 
 And the storm within this heaving bosom, 
 Could he see, would tell him what the truth is, - 
 How the heart of Gorgo breaks to reach him, 
 And her arms are weak with empty waiting 
 Through this long monotony of summer. 
 50
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 Gentle spirit, grieve not so, for love's sake! 
 How he raves beyond the touch of reason : 
 
 O heart of minej be hardier for ills. 
 
 Since thou hast shared the sorrows of the gods 
 
 And been partaker of their destiny. 
 
 Have I not known the bitterness that sighed 
 
 In mournful grief upon the river marge. 
 
 And once obscured the lonely shining sun. 
 
 When Syrinx and when Daphne fled awayf 
 
 Not otherivise in sorrow did I fare 
 
 Whom Gorgo, loveliest of mortals, loved. 
 
 And whose own folly that same Gorgo lost. 
 
 O lovers, hear me! Be not lax in love. 
 Nor let the loved one from you for a day. 
 For time that is the enemy of love. 
 And change that is the constant foe of man, 
 But wait the turn of opportunity 
 To fret the delicate fabric of our life 
 SI
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 With doubt and slow forgetfulness and grief. 
 Till he who was a lover once goes forth 
 A friendless soul to front the joyless years, 
 A brooding uncompanioned ivanderer 
 Beneath the silent and fnajestic stars. 
 
 Now what folly waits on brooding passion! 
 
 Truly not in solitude do mortals 
 
 Reach the height and nobleness of heroes. 
 
 Can it be so swiftly fades remembrance? 
 
 Oh, my fond heart prompt him! This is better: 
 
 The red flower of the fire is on the hearth. 
 The white flower of the foam is on the sea. 
 The golden marshes and the taivny dunes 
 Are gleaming white with snow and flushed with 
 
 rose 
 Where the pure level wintry sunlight falls. 
 In the rose-garden, crimsoning each bough 
 Against the purple boulders in the wall, 
 52
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 Shine the rose-berries careless of the cold. 
 While down along the margin of the sea. 
 Just where the grey beach melts to greener grey. 
 With mounting wavering combing plunge and 
 
 charge. 
 The towering breakers crumble in to shore. 
 
 Now from that quiet picture of the eye. 
 Hark to the trampling thunder and long boom, 
 The lone unscansioned and mysterious rote 
 Whose cadence marked the building of the world. 
 The old reverberant music of the sea! 
 
 Ah, to what ghostly piping of strange flutes 
 Strays in lost loveliness Persephone, 
 Heavy at heart, with trouble in her eyes. 
 From her deep-bosomed rnother far away. 
 In the pale garden of Aidoneus now? 
 And oh, what delicate piping holds thee, too. 
 My Kore of the beauteous golden head?
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 What voice, what luring laughter bid thee stay 
 So long from thine own lover and so farf 
 IVho touches ivith soft ivords thy tender heart. 
 In some bright foreign city far from here. 
 My unforgotten Gorgo beautiful? 
 
 Doubting still? O bitterest of absence 
 That the moth of doubt should mar the texture 
 And fine tissue of the spirit's garment, 
 The one garb of beauty which the soul wears, - 
 Love, the frailest, costliest of fabrics! 
 Ah, doubt not! O lover, lover, lover. 
 Who first taught the childlike heart of mortals 
 This most false and evil worldly wisdom? 
 Blighting as a frost on budded aloes. 
 How it blackens love, the golden blossom! 
 Would that I could cherish him this instant, 
 And dissolve that aching wintry passion 
 In the warmth of this impatient bosom! 
 By what cruel fate must I be banished 
 54
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 From his lonely bed? In lovely Lesbos 
 All my heart is, with its passionate longing. 
 O too piteous is the lot of women : 
 
 In the long night I lie awake for hours 
 Or sleep the sleep of dreamers ivithout rest. 
 For in my soul there is discouragement. 
 And cold remorse lays hands upon my heart. 
 Now thou art gone, the grey world has no joy. 
 But bleak and bitter is the wind of life. 
 Cutting this timid traveller to the bone. 
 
 Not all the gods can ever give me peace. 
 Nor their forgiveness make me glad again. 
 For I have sinned against my own great soul 
 And cherished far too little thy great love. 
 Brave was thy spirit, glad and beautiful. 
 Nor ever faltered nor was faint of heart 
 In the fair splendid path of thy desire. 
 Even as I speak there comes a touch of shame, 
 55
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 Like a friend's hand upon my shoulder laidj 
 To think such moody and unmanly words 
 Could ever pass the mouth thy mouth has pressed. 
 
 Remembrance ivakes. I hear the long far call 
 To fortitude and courage in the night 
 From my companions of the mighty past, 
 All the heroic lovers of the world. 
 
 Hast thou not had a sudden thought of me, 
 
 \] nanxious , gay and tender tvith desire, 
 
 O thou beloved more than all mortal things? 
 
 For in my heart there was a sudden sense 
 
 Just now zvith presage of returning joy. 
 
 As when the wood-flowers ivaken to the sun 
 
 And all their lovely ardours rearise. 
 
 Or when the sinking tide from utmost ebb 
 
 With one long sob sum?nons his might once more. 
 
 56
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 Out of this winter will put forth one day 
 
 The incommunicable germ of spring. 
 
 The magic fervour that makes all things new. 
 
 When all the golden season will be glad 
 
 With soft south winds and birds and woodland 
 
 flowers 
 And the shrill marshy music of the frogs. 
 Piping a chorus to their father Pan. 
 Then thou and I shall walk the earth once more 
 Delirious with each other as of old. 
 And the soft ??iadness lead us far away 
 By meadowy roads and through the lilac hills 
 To our own province in the lands of love, — 
 My new-found Gorgo, heart-throb of the spring. 
 
 Heart of me! Ah, Cyprian deal gently! 
 Soon, Oh soon, restore me to my lover, 
 That I may repair this outworn habit. 
 And reclothe him with thy golden glory, 
 Scarlet circumstance and purple splendour, — 
 57
 
 A LETTER FROM LESBOS 
 
 State and air and pride of the immortals, 
 Which these mortal men, by our devising 
 And thy favour, wear — with fleeting rapture ! 
 Fiercer blow, thou fervour of the desert! 
 Northward, northward, you hot winds of Nilus, 
 More consuming than a smelter's furnace! 
 You who do the will of alien I sis. 
 To this heart you cannot be unfriendly, 
 If I once may loose the sail for Lesbos, 
 And along the green and foaming sea-track 
 Scud before you, light as any swallow 
 Flashing down the long blue slope of springtime. 
 O ye home-gods, free me to my lover!
 
 THE PLAYERS. 
 
 We are the players of a play 
 
 As old as earth, 
 
 Between the wings of night and day, 
 
 With tears and mirth. 
 
 There is no record of the land 
 From whence it came. 
 No legend of the plaj^wright's hand, 
 No bruited fame 
 
 Of those who for the piece were cast 
 On that first night, 
 When God drew up His curtain vast 
 And there was light. 
 59
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 Before our eyes as we come on, 
 From age to age, 
 
 Flare up the footlights of the dawn 
 On this round stage. 
 
 In front, unknown, beyond the glare 
 Vague shadows loom; 
 And sounds like muttering winds are there 
 Foreboding doom. 
 
 Yet wistfully we keep the boards; 
 And as we mend 
 The blundering forgotten words, 
 Hope to the end 
 
 To hear the storm-beat of applause 
 Fill our desire 
 
 When the dark Prompter gives us pause, 
 And we retire. 
 
 60
 
 THE MANSION. 
 
 I thought it chill and lonesome, 
 And too far from the road 
 For an ideal dwelling, 
 When here I first abode. 
 
 But yesterday a lodger 
 Smiled as she passed my door, 
 With mien of gay contentment 
 That lured me to explore. 
 
 Unerringly she leads me, 
 Compassionate and wise, 
 Soul of immortal beauty 
 Wearing the mortal guise. 
 6i
 
 THE MANSION 
 
 She knows from sill to attic 
 
 The great house through and through, 
 
 Its treasures of the ages, 
 
 Surprises ever new. 
 
 From room to room I follow, 
 Entranced with each in turn, 
 Enchanted by each wonder 
 She bids my look discern. 
 
 She names them: here is First-love, 
 A chamber by the sea ; 
 Here in a flood of noonday 
 Is spacious Charity. 
 
 Here is a cell. Devotion ; 
 And lonely Courage here, 
 Where child-deserted windows 
 Look on the Northern year; 
 
 62
 
 THE MANSION 
 
 Friendship and Faith and Gladness, 
 Fragrant of air and bloom, 
 Where one might spend a lifetime 
 Secure from fear of gloom. 
 
 And often as we wander, 
 I fancy we have neared 
 The Master of the Mansion, 
 Who has not yet appeared. 
 
 63
 
 WHO IS THE OWNER? 
 
 Who owns this house, my lord or I? 
 He in whose name the title runs, 
 Or I, who keep it swept and clean 
 And open to the winds and suns? 
 
 He who is absent year by year, 
 On some far pleasure of his own, 
 Or I who spend on it so much 
 Of willing flesh and aching bone? 
 
 What if it prove a fable, all 
 This rumour of a legal lord. 
 And we should find ourselves in truth 
 Owners and masters of the board! 
 64
 
 WHO IS THE OWNER? 
 
 What if this earth should just belong 
 To those who tend it, you and me ! 
 What if for once we should refuse 
 His rental to this absentee? 
 
 O friends, no landlord in the world 
 Could love the place as well as I ! 
 Love is the owner of the house, 
 The only lord of destiny. 
 
 65
 
 THE FAIRY FLOWER. 
 
 There's a fairy flower that grows 
 In a corner of my heart, 
 And the fragrance that it spills 
 Is the sorcery of art. 
 
 I may give it little care, 
 Neither water it nor prune, 
 Yet it suddenly will blow 
 Glorious beneath the moon. 
 
 I may tend it night and day, 
 Taking thought to make it bloom ; 
 Yet my efforts all will fail 
 To avert the touch of doom. 
 66
 
 THE FAIRY FLOWER 
 
 When it dies, my little flower, 
 You may take my life as well ; 
 Though I live a hundred years, 
 I shall have no more to tell. 
 
 67
 
 YVANHOE FERRARA. 
 
 Teach me, of little worth, O Fame, 
 The golden word that shall proclaim 
 Yvanhoe Ferrara's name. 
 
 I would that I might rest me now, 
 As once I rested long ago, 
 
 In the dim purple summer night, 
 On scented linen cool and white, 
 
 Lulled by the murmur of the sea 
 And thy soft breath, Yvanhoe. 
 
 What cared we for the world or time, 
 Though like a far-off fitful chime, 
 68
 
 YVANHOE FERRARA 
 
 We heard the mournful anchored bell 
 Above the sunken reef foretell 
 
 That time should pass and pleasure be 
 No more for us, Yvanhoe! 
 
 We saw the crimson sun go down 
 Across the harbour and the town, 
 
 Dyeing the roofs and spars with gold ; 
 But all his magic, ages old, 
 
 Was not so wonderful to me 
 As thy gold hair, Yvanhoe. 
 
 Between the window and the road 
 The tall red poppies burned and glowed ; 
 
 They moved and flickered like a flame, 
 As the low sea-wind went and came; 
 69
 
 YVANHOE FERRARA 
 
 But redder and more warm than they, 
 Was thy red mouth, Yvanhoe. 
 
 I think the stars above the hill 
 Upon the brink of time stood still; 
 
 And the great breath of life that blows 
 The coal-bright sun, the flame-bright rose. 
 
 Entered the room and kindled thee 
 As in a forge, Yvanhoe — 
 
 Prospered the ruddy fire, and fanned 
 Thy beauty to a rosy brand. 
 
 Till all the odorous purple dark 
 Reeled, and thy soul became a spark 
 
 In the great draught of Destiny 
 Which men call love, Yvanhoe. 
 70
 
 YVANHOE FERRARA 
 
 The untold ardour of the earth 
 
 That knows no sorrow, fear nor dearth, 
 
 Before the pent-up moment passed, 
 Was glad of all its will at last — 
 
 And more, if such a thing could be — 
 In thy long kiss, Yvanhoe. 
 
 For years my life was bright and glad. 
 Because of the great joy we had ; 
 
 Until I heard the wind repeat 
 Thy name behind me in the street. 
 
 Like a lost lyric of the sea, 
 " Yvanhoe, Yvanhoe." 
 
 But now the day has no desire; 
 The scarlet poppies have no fire ; 
 71
 
 YVANHOE FERRARA 
 
 There is no magic in the sun 
 Nor anything he shines upon; 
 
 Only the muttering of the sea, 
 Since thou art dead, Yvanhoe. 
 
 ISlow God on high, be ?nine the blame, 
 If time destroy or men defame 
 Yvanhoe Ferrara's name. 
 
 72
 
 THE LOVE-CHANT OF KING 
 HACKO 
 
 In the time of red October, 
 In the hills of the pointed fir, 
 In the days of the slanted sunlight 
 That ripens cone and burr, 
 God gave me a splendid woman — 
 A mate for a lord of lands — 
 And put the madness on me. 
 And left her there in my hands. 
 
 In the roving woodland season, 
 When the afternoons are still 
 And the sound of lowing cattle 
 Comes up to the purple hill, 
 73
 
 LOVE-CHANT OF KING HACKO 
 
 God would speak to His creatures, 
 Flower and beast and bird, 
 And lays the silence upon them 
 To hearken to His word. 
 
 In the time of the scarlet maple, 
 When the blue Indian haze 
 Walks through the wooded valley 
 And sleeps by the mountain ways, 
 She stood like a beech in the forest, 
 Where the wash of sunlight lies, 
 With her wonderful beech-red hair 
 And her wondering beech-grey eyes. 
 
 In the time of the apple harvest, 
 When the fruit is gold on the bough, 
 She stood in the moted sunshine. 
 The orchards remember how — 
 Loving, untrammelled and generous. 
 Ardent and supple and tall, 
 74
 
 LOVE-CHANT OF KING HACKO 
 
 Quick to the breath of the spirit 
 As a shadow that moves on a wall. 
 
 In a yellow and crimson valley, 
 At the time of the turning leaf, 
 When warm are the tawny fern-beds, 
 And the cricket's life is brief, 
 I saw the dark blood mantle 
 And prosper under the tan, 
 Then I knew the power God lent me 
 To use, when He made me man. 
 
 The world, all being and beauty 
 From meadow to mountain-line, 
 Awaiting the touch of rapture 
 For a meaning and a sign ; 
 A woman's voice said, " Hacko," 
 Then I knew and could understand 
 How love is a greater province 
 Than dominion of sea or land. 
 75
 
 LOVE-CHANT OF KING HACKO 
 
 In the month of golden hillsides, 
 When moons are frosty white, 
 And the returning Hunter 
 Looms on the marge of night, 
 Relieving his brother Arcturus, 
 Belted, majestic and slow, 
 To patrol the Arctic watch-fires 
 And sentry the lands of snow, 
 
 A core of fire was kindled 
 
 On a hearthstone wide and deep. 
 
 Where the great arms of the mountains 
 
 Put Folly-of-mind to sleep; 
 
 We came without guide or knowledge, 
 
 Silver, array or store, 
 
 Through the land of purple twilight 
 
 To the lodge of the Open Door. 
 
 76
 
 THE CREATION OF L I L I T H. 
 
 This happened in the Garden 
 Ages on ages since, 
 When noontide made a pleasant shade 
 Of ilex, pear and quince. 
 
 The Gardener sat and pondered 
 Some beauty rarer still 
 Than any he had wrought of earth 
 And fashioned to his will. 
 
 "Now who will be her body?" 
 " I," said the splendid rose, 
 " Colour, fire and fragrance, 
 In imperial repose." 
 77
 
 THE CREATION OF LILITH 
 
 " Who will be her two eyes? " 
 " I," said the flag of blue, 
 " Sky and sea all shadowy 
 Drench me wholly through." 
 
 " Who will be her bright mouth? " 
 " I," the carnation said, 
 " With my old Eastern ardour 
 And my Persian red." 
 
 " Who will be, among you, 
 The glory of her hair? " 
 His glance went reaching through the noon ; 
 The marigold was there. 
 
 " Who will be her laughter. 
 Her love-word and her sigh?" 
 Among the whispering tree-tops 
 A breath of wind said, " I." 
 
 78
 
 THE CREATION OF LILITH 
 
 " And whence will come her spirit? " 
 Answer there was none. 
 The Gardener breathed upon her mouth, 
 And lo, there had been done 
 
 The miracle of beauty 
 Outmarvelling the flowers; 
 While the great blue dial 
 Recorded the slow hours. 
 
 79
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY. 
 
 In a land that is little traversed, 
 Beyond the news of the town, 
 There lies a delectable Kingdom 
 Where the crimson sun goes down, 
 
 The province of fruitlands and flowers 
 And colour and sea-sounds and love. 
 If you were queen of that country, 
 And I were the king thereof, 
 
 We should tread upon scarlet poppies, 
 And be glad the long day through. 
 Where the bluest skies in the world 
 Rest upon hills of blue. 
 80
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY 
 
 We should wander the slopes of the mountains 
 With the wind and the nomad bee, 
 And watch the white sails on the sea-rim 
 Come up from the curving sea. 
 
 We should watch from the sides of the valleys 
 
 The caravans of the rain, 
 
 In trappings of purple and silver. 
 
 Go by on the far-off plain. 
 
 And they all should be freighted with treasure, 
 The vision that gladdens the eye, 
 The beauty that betters the spirit 
 To sustain it by and by. 
 
 We should hear the larks' fine field-notes 
 
 Breaking in bubbly swells, 
 
 As if from their rocking steeples 
 
 The lilies were ringing their bells; 
 
 8i
 
 IN A FAR COUNTRY 
 
 We should hear invisible fingers 
 Play on the strings of the pines 
 The broken measure whose motive 
 Only a lover divines; 
 
 The music of Earth, the enchantress, 
 The cadence that dwells in the heart 
 Against the time of oblivion. 
 To bid it remember and start. 
 
 And nothing should make us unhappy, 
 And no one should make us afraid. 
 For we should be royal lovers 
 In the land where this plot is laid. 
 
 And with night on the almond orchards 
 We should lie where warm winds creep, 
 Under the starry tent-cloth 
 Hearing the footfall of Sleep. 
 
 82
 
 SONG O F THE FOUR 
 WORLDS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Is it northward, little friend? 
 
 And she whispered, " What is there? " 
 
 There are people who are loyal to the glory of 
 
 their past. 
 Who held by heart's tradition, and will hold it 
 
 to the last; 
 Who would not sell in shame 
 The honour of their name. 
 Though the world were in the balance and a 
 
 sword thereon were cast. 
 83
 
 SONG OF THE FOUR WORLDS 
 
 Oh, there the ice is breaking, the brooks are 
 
 running free, 
 A robin calls at twilight from a tall spruce-tree, 
 And the light canoes go down 
 Past portage, camp and town. 
 By the rivers that make murmur in the lands 
 
 along the sea. 
 
 And she said, " It is not there, 
 Though I love you, love you dear; 
 I cannot bind my little heart with loves of yes- 
 ter year." 
 
 II. 
 
 Is it southward, little friend? 
 " Lover, what is there? " 
 
 There are men of many nations who were sick 
 of strife and gain, 
 
 84
 
 SONG OF THE FOUR WORLDS 
 
 And only ask forgetfulness of all the old world's 
 
 pain. 
 There Life sets down her measure 
 For Time to fill at leisure 
 With loveliness and plenty in the islands of the 
 
 main. 
 
 Oh, there the palms are rustling, the oranges are 
 
 bright; 
 In all the little harbour towns the coral streets 
 
 are white ; 
 The scarlet flowers fall 
 By the creamy convent wall, 
 And the Southern Cross gets up from sea to 
 
 steer the purple night. 
 
 And she said, " It is not there, 
 Though I love you, love you dear; 
 I should weary of the beauty that is changeless 
 all the year." 
 
 85
 
 SONG OF THE FOUR WORLDS 
 III. 
 
 Is it eastward, little friend? 
 
 And she whispered, " What is there? " 
 
 There are rivers good for healing, there are 
 
 temples in the hills. 
 There men forsake desire and put by their earthly 
 
 wills ; 
 And there the old earth breeds 
 Her mystic mighty creeds 
 For the lifting of all burdens and the loosing 
 
 of all ills. 
 
 Oh, the tents are in the valley where the shadows 
 
 sleep at noon. 
 Where the pack-train halts at twilight and the 
 
 spicy bales are strewn. 
 Where the long brown road goes by 
 To the cut against the sky. 
 And is lost within the circle of the silent, rosy 
 
 moon. 
 
 86
 
 SONG OF THE FOUR WORLDS 
 
 And she said, " It is not there, 
 Though I love you, love you dear ; 
 For my faith is w^arm and living, not unearthly, 
 old and sere." 
 
 rv. 
 
 Is it westward, little friend? 
 " Lover, what is there? " 
 
 There are men and women who are sovereigns 
 of their fate, 
 
 Who look Despair between the eyes and know 
 that they are great; 
 
 Who will not halt nor quail 
 
 On the eager endless trail, 
 
 Till Destiny makes way for them and Love un- 
 bars the gate. 
 
 Oh, there the purple lilies are blowing in the sun. 
 And the meadow larks are singing — a thousand, 
 if there's one! 
 
 87
 
 SONG OF THE FOUR WORLDS 
 
 And the long blue hills arise 
 To the wondrous dreamy skies, 
 For the twisted azure columns of the rain to rest 
 upon. 
 
 And she said, " It is not there, 
 For I love you, love you dear. 
 Oh, shut the door on Sorrow, for the Four 
 Great Worlds are here ! " 
 
 88
 
 STREET SONG AT NIGHT. 
 
 There's many a quiet seaport that waits the 
 
 daring sail ; 
 There's many a lonely farer by many a doubtful 
 
 trail 
 And what should be their star 
 To lead them safe and far, — 
 What guide to take them o'er the crest, what 
 
 pilot past the bar, — 
 Save Love, the great adventurer who will not 
 
 turn nor quail? 
 
 As a voyager might remember how the face of 
 
 earth was changed, — 
 All the dreary grey of winter forgotten and 
 
 estranged, — 
 
 89
 
 STREET SONG AT NIGHT 
 
 When he rode the tempest through 
 
 And steered into the blue 
 
 Of a tranquil tropic morning diaphanous and 
 new, 
 
 With palms upon the sea-rim where the flying- 
 fishes ranged; 
 
 As a lover in old story on a night of wind and 
 
 rain 
 Might have stood beneath a window, till a lamp 
 
 should light the pane 
 And a lady lean one arm 
 On the glowing square and warm, — 
 A girlish golden figure in a frame of dark and 
 
 storm, — 
 To look the longest moment ere he turned to 
 
 life again, 
 
 Then set a stubborn shoulder to wind and sleet 
 and snow, 
 
 90
 
 STREET SONG AT NIGHT 
 
 With the weather foul above him and the pave- 
 ment foul below; 
 
 So it happened in my case ; 
 
 When I saw her, every trace 
 
 Of doubt and fear and languor to the pulse of 
 joy gave place, 
 
 And the world was great and goodly as he 
 planned it long ago. 
 
 There's a shipman who goes sailing where the 
 
 sea is round and high; 
 There's a lover who goes piping where winds of 
 
 morning cry; 
 And the lilt beneath his heart 
 Was timed to stop and start, 
 Till no more ships go sailing and the green hills 
 
 fall apart. 
 O, friends, that minstrel-lover, that mariner am I. 
 
 91
 
 THE LEAST OF LOVE. 
 
 Only let one fair frail woman 
 Mourn for me when I am dead, — 
 World, withhold your best of praises! 
 There are better things instead. 
 
 Shall the little fame concern me, 
 Or the triumph of the years. 
 When I keep the mighty silence, 
 Through the falling of her tears? 
 
 I shall heed not, though 'twere April 
 And my field-larks all returned, 
 When her lips upon these eyelids 
 One last poppied kiss have burned. 
 92
 
 THE LEAST OF LOVE 
 
 Painted hills shall not allure me, 
 Mirrored in the painted stream; 
 Having loved them, I shall leave them, 
 Busy with the vaster dream. 
 
 Only let one dear dark woman 
 Mourn for me when I am dead, 
 I shall be content with beauty 
 And the dust above my head. 
 
 Yet when I shall make the journey 
 From these earthly dear abodes, 
 I have four things to remember 
 At the Crossing of the Roads. 
 
 How her hand was like a tea-rose; 
 And her low voice like the South; 
 Her soft eyes were tarns of sable ; 
 A red poppy was her mouth. 
 
 93
 
 THE LEAST OF LOVE 
 
 Only let one sweet frail woman 
 Mourn for me when I am dead, — 
 Gently for her gentlest lover, — 
 More than all will have been said. 
 
 Be my requiem the rain-wind ; 
 And my immortality 
 But the lifetime of one heartache 
 By the unremembering sea! 
 
 94
 
 A MAN'S LAST WORD. 
 
 Death said to me, 
 " Three things I ask of thee ; 
 And thy reply 
 Shall make thee or undo thee presently." 
 
 I said, " Say on, 
 
 Lord Death, thy will be done. 
 
 One answers now. 
 
 To bribe and fear indifferent as thou." 
 
 He said, " Behold, 
 My power is from of old. 
 The drunken sea 
 
 Is but a henchman and a serf to me. 
 95
 
 A MAN S LAST WORD 
 
 " Hunger and war 
 My tireless sleuth-hounds are. 
 Before my nod 
 The quailing nations have no help but God. 
 
 " What hast thou found, 
 In one life's little round, 
 Stronger than these?" 
 I said, " One little hand-touch of Marie's." 
 
 He said, " Again: 
 
 Of all brave sights to men — 
 
 The glittering rain, 
 
 A towering city in an autumn plain, 
 
 " An eagle's flight, 
 A beacon-fire at night. 
 The harvest moon, 
 The burnish of a marching host at noon - 
 
 96
 
 A MAN S LAST WORD 
 
 " What hast thou seen 
 In one life's small demesne, 
 Fairer than these? " 
 I said, " That supple body of Marie's." 
 
 He said, " Once more: 
 
 Of all men labour for. 
 
 Battle and yearn. 
 
 And spend their blessed days without return 
 
 " Leisure or wealth. 
 Or power or sun-tanned health, 
 A bruited name, 
 Or the sad solace of a little fame — 
 
 " What hast thou known, 
 In one life's narrow zone. 
 Dearer tharr these? " 
 I said, " One little love-kiss of Marie's." 
 
 97
 
 MAN S LAST WORD 
 
 And then Death said, 
 " To-day among the dead 
 Thou shalt go down, 
 And with the wise receive thy just renown. 
 
 98
 
 A MIDWINTER MEMORY. 
 
 Now the snow is on the roof, 
 Now the wind is in the flue, 
 Beauty, keep no more aloof. 
 Make my winter dreaming true, 
 Give my fancy proof. 
 
 How the year runs back to June, 
 
 To the day I saw you first ! 
 
 In the sultry afternoon 
 
 There the mountains lay immersed 
 
 In a summer swoon. 
 
 In the orchard with your book, 
 I can see you now as then — 
 99
 
 L MIDWINTER MEMORY 
 
 That serene and smiling look, 
 Far away and back again, 
 While my spirit shook. 
 
 Now the frost is on the pane, 
 And the winter on the sea, 
 Gold across the iron strain. 
 Thought of you comes back to me, 
 Like a lost refrain. 
 
 What a voice it was I heard ! 
 All your j's were soft as d's, 
 Like the nest-notes of a bird, 
 And your fingers clasped your knees, 
 As you smiled each word. 
 
 Well I knew you for the one 
 Sought so long and never found. 
 In this country of the sun,
 
 A MIDWINTER MEMORY 
 
 All these burning summers round. 
 There, the search was done! 
 
 Now the dark is at the door; 
 Now the snow is on the sill ; 
 And for all I may deplore, 
 Time must have his ancient will — 
 Mar one lover more. 
 
 lOI
 
 AN ANGEL IN PLASTER. 
 
 Dear smiling little snub-nosed baby face 
 With angel wings, 
 
 Be thou the guardian of this house, and grace 
 Its sublunary things. 
 
 Look laughing down, O blessed babe, and lend 
 That guileless charm. 
 That beaming joy, to sweeten and defend 
 Our dwelling from all harm. 
 
 Bid sorrow shun the threshold of this door, 
 And memory 
 
 Cease in this place forever to deplore 
 What has been — and must be. 
 
 102
 
 AN ANGEL IN PLASTER 
 
 Come sun or storm, come merriment or tears, 
 No care can fret 
 
 Thy radiant spirit, nor the heavy years 
 Invade it w^ith regret. 
 
 Surely thou art a traveller from a land 
 That know^s no grief! 
 
 The life of men thou canst not understand — 
 So turbulent, so brief. 
 
 Yet thou must tarry here, thou darling one, 
 To smile and bring 
 
 Thoughts of the world's fair youth, a fadeless sun 
 And a perpetual spring. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 103
 
 '«i^>^^ 
 
 
 
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