1 
 
 HI 
 
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 J. WILLIAM I. 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN 01 EGO i
 
 K4.94/5-
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS 
 
 BY 
 
 J. WILLIAM LLOYD 
 
 The poets are thus liberating- gods. The ancient 
 British bards had for the title of their order, "Those 
 who are free throughout the world." They are free, 
 and they make free. EMERSON, The Poet. 
 
 The poet has a new thought ; he has a whole new 
 experience to unfold; he will tell us how it was with 
 him, and all men will be the richer in his fortune. 
 
 IBID. 
 
 The poet also resigns himself to his mood. 
 
 IBID. 
 
 AUTHOR S EDITION 
 
 BUFFALO 
 
 THE PETER PAUL BOOK COMPANY 
 1895
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1895, 
 BY J. WILLIAM LLOYD. 
 
 PRINTED AND BOUND BY 
 
 THE PHTER PAUL BOOK COMPANY, 
 
 BUFFALO, N. V.
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 
 THE 
 FREE SPIRIT
 
 FORE WORD 
 
 Songs of my winged-thoughts, of life, nature, love, 
 and liberty ; composed not for the public, but my own 
 pleasure, on the plains, in the forest, in the wake of 
 the plow, on horseback, on the crowded street, by the 
 bedside of death, in the storm, the silence of midnight, 
 and when the face of the God of Morning blushed 
 through the golden tresses of Dawn. 
 
 The fire burned within, the flames sang, and the 
 free winds fanned them to music. 
 
 From the harp of fire, with the wind s touch, came 
 these, and the writing of them was my joy and 
 easement. 
 
 I have no apology. 
 
 Poetry is not to be excused. Like music it is a glory 
 or an offence.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DEDICATION 2 
 
 FORE WORD 5 
 
 PROEM n 
 
 THE WIND-HARP SONG .... 13 
 
 THE WISH OF WOMANHOOD . . . . 17 
 
 IN TOUCH 17 
 
 APHORISM : WOMAN 17 
 
 MY DEAD 18 
 
 THE SOUL SUPREME 20 
 
 CUPID 21 
 
 FREEDOM 21 
 
 I AM GLAD ARE NOT You ? . . . 22 
 
 ONLY A MEMORY 23 
 
 MY LADY GENTLE WONDERFUL . . 24 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY . . . .25 
 
 TRUE LOVE 26 
 
 DEATH S WORD 27 
 
 MOTHER 28 
 
 EMILY DICKENSON ..... 31 
 
 REMEMBER 32 
 
 THE SMELL OF RAIN-WET EARTH . . 33 
 
 THE MOON-SHARK 33 
 
 MOUNT WALT WHITMAN . . . -34 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD .... 36 
 
 AZTEC OF THE AIR 36 
 
 POETRY ....... 37 
 
 THE DAY-BIRTH 38 
 
 THE WHITE SWAN OF WINTER . . 38 
 
 APHORISM : MYSTERY 38
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A WILD TIGER-LILY .... 39 
 
 I LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING . . 40 
 THE WHOOP-CRANE S CLANGOR . . 41 
 
 THE MOCK-BIRD 43 
 
 WOMEN POETS 44 
 
 THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT . . . .45 
 
 APHORISM : LIFE 45 
 
 THE GODS ARE DEAD . . . .46 
 
 CLEOPATRA 47 
 
 STORM-HEART . . . . -49 
 
 BY MOUTHS OF SEA WORMS QUAINTLY 
 
 CARVEN 50 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE . . .51 
 
 A LITTLE RAMBLING RILL ... 52 
 
 No FLAG 5.S 
 
 APHORISM : LOVE OF OTHERS . . 56 
 
 SONNET TO A WHITE LADY .... 57 
 
 DESERT VOICES 58 
 
 AUTUMN 59 
 
 lNGLE-Lo\V 59 
 
 APHORISM : KEY OF PLEASURE . . -59 
 WILD ROSES AND MAIDEN HAIR . . 60 
 NATURE AND I ARE GLAD . . . .61 
 
 REVERIE 62 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOMS 63 
 
 APHORISM : LUCK IN LOVE ... 63 
 
 HAIL, COMRADE ! 64 
 
 "LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD" 67 
 
 MY WOMEN 68 
 
 A WINTER MORNING WALK ... 69 
 A FAIR WOMAN S HAIR . . . .70 
 
 STORM LESSON 71 
 
 APHORISM : GENIUS 72 
 
 MY WITCH FLAMES 73
 
 CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 IN A CEMETERY ...... 74 
 
 APHORISM : PERFECTION IN NATURE . 75 
 
 LOVE WAS RED 75 
 
 HOMELESS 77 
 
 IN A PRISM 77 
 
 EPICUREAN . . . . . . . Si 
 
 SELF 82 
 
 I DRIFTED LIKE A WIND-BLOWN LEAF TO 
 DAY 82 
 
 A FACE SERENE 83 
 
 EVENING ........ 84 
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE .... 85 
 
 BALLAD OF THE GREEN, GREEN SEA . . 92 
 
 THE LATTER DAYS 94 
 
 ONE HAPPY HOUR . . . . -94 
 
 CHOCOLATE 95 
 
 You STOOD 95 
 
 APHORISM : POETRY 96 
 
 A LARGER LIFE ...... 96 
 
 GREATNESS ...... 97 
 
 CRANFORD WATER 98 
 
 APHORISM : LOVE 98 
 
 PLACE ME AGAIN, I PRAY, GREAT FATE ! 98 
 A SOUVENIR VILLANELLE . . . -99 
 THE VALLEY OF SILENCE .... 100 
 THE LITTLE BROWN OWL . . . 100 
 
 TRIOLET 101 
 
 OF AUTUMN WINE 102 
 
 THE DISINHERITED , 103 
 
 LOVE is A RIDDLE 104 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE BEACH .... 105 
 AN IDYL OF THE HILLS .... 105 
 SUNSET ON HOPATCONG .... 106 
 APHORISM : RECONCILIATION . 106
 
 x CO.VTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FIREFLIES 107 
 
 THE LODGE 108 
 
 SCARLET TANAGER 108 
 
 I DREAM IN THE AMBER AUTUMN . . 109 
 
 ANEW no 
 
 To LIFT ONE S HEAD no 
 
 APHORISM: HEALTH . . . . in 
 
 A TKOPIC HOPE 112 
 
 A MEMORY SWEKT 119 
 
 A KNIFE OF AGATE 120 
 
 So WE CARE NOT 121 
 
 THE MELODY 122 
 
 THERE ARE LOVES AND LOVES . . 123 
 
 TWENTY KISSES 123 
 
 MY SOUTH 124 
 
 APHORISM: JOY OF THE MOMENT . . 125 
 
 BLACK ROBIN .125 
 
 A DREAM OF DREE 126 
 
 THE SYLVAN SINGERS . . . .127 
 
 THE WORLD 130 
 
 SOUL AND SOIL 131 
 
 ONE MORE SONG 131
 
 PROEM 
 
 Give me a fending thought, a subtle state, a vivid word ! 
 
 Let me within the veil and let me learn ! 
 
 With every sun that burneth to its hills of sleep I burn, 
 
 With every leaping lightning flash I yearn ; 
 
 Let all this beatify be with me and grow 
 
 Until the open sesame of secret joy I know, 
 
 Until I tremble with the deep surprise, and stirred, 
 
 Can pipe full-throated music like a bird ! 
 
 Ah, "would that 1 might be a singer, too ! 
 That this half-kindled music in my soul 
 Might burn melodiously athwart the scroll 
 Of human memories, in fadeless view ! 
 Touching to joy the lutes of life anew, 
 Re-echoed long where kindred spirits meet, 
 Where high endeavors mock at toil-worn feet, 
 And restless natures noble aims pursue ! 
 
 I would my song could kiss with lover s lips ! 
 
 Could weave all charms whereby mens thoughts are drawn, 
 
 And speak to shaken hearts a guiding wcrd ! 
 
 My lay could paint the sea with wind-sped ships, 
 
 Paint waiting skies with herald fires of dawn, 
 
 And breathe a bugle note to souls unstirred !
 
 THE WIND-HARP SONG. 
 
 I SING a wind-harp song, 
 Dreamily musical, 
 Strange and faint and clear ; 
 Beneath the steady stars, 
 Thro the dim, sweet night, 
 Floating, 
 Mystically floating. 
 
 List ! 
 O listen ! 
 
 The petaled stars are blooming, 
 
 In the skies, serenely lifting ; 
 
 Their light in the weird woods faintly falling 
 
 The dark woods, dim and damp, 
 
 Where the fern leaves droop, 
 
 And all the trees stand waiting, 
 
 Silent, alive, waiting 
 
 Till you have gone 
 
 And they may whisper and shiver 
 
 And move at will. 
 
 But now they watch, 
 With their many eyes, attentive, 
 Gravely silent and waiting, 
 Knowing much and remembering.
 
 14 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 When you have gone, 
 
 Then will they beckon and whisper, 
 
 Stealthily, stealthily, 
 
 Murmuring sagas olden. 
 
 Old, old things they remember, 
 
 Of the burnt-out years, 
 
 Which, past-ward, 
 
 Like smoke-puffs, dim, are drifting ; 
 
 In fine ineffable whispers, 
 
 Each to each, they utter 
 
 Stories of battle and murder ; 
 
 Beasts and birds and their hunting ; 
 
 (The dead bones, buried beneath, 
 
 Their roots are sluggishly sucking); 
 
 Black nights and sobbing tempests ; 
 
 The weeping of rain ; 
 
 Long lights and shadows of mornings ; 
 
 And sultry, slumberous noons. 
 
 In the still nights 
 
 The owl, 
 
 Soundless from tree to tree 
 
 Flitting, 
 
 Hears it all, and ponders, 
 
 Till his eyes grow great with wonder, 
 
 On his head the feathers rise, 
 
 Solemnly ponders, 
 
 Filled with wonder and wierdness and laughter. 
 
 The winds, 
 
 Whistling, 
 
 Singing, 
 
 From far away winging,
 
 THE WIND-HARP SONG. 15 
 
 Tell their tales of Thence and Thither, 
 And Yonder Lands, 
 Over the Sun-fall Hills, 
 The Sun-rise Sea. 
 
 And the dusky winds, 
 
 Trailing thro the black, vague 
 
 Negative 
 
 Of Night ; 
 
 Winds woven from spirits, flitting ; 
 
 The breath of panthers ; 
 
 Of murdered men smitten down in the darkness ; 
 
 Of lovers sighing "closer ! closer ! " 
 
 In warm bowers under the moon, 
 
 Secretly pressing flesh against flesh ; 
 
 Zephyrs from waving wings of vampires, 
 
 Kissing, pricking, drinking the warm blood ; 
 
 Air currents, rippling tremulous 
 
 From myriad motions 
 
 Of multitudinous creatures 
 
 Running, leaping, crawling, flying, 
 
 Citizens of the void, mysterious, 
 
 Situate between the pulses of life called Day ; 
 
 Steams ; 
 
 Malaries from the marshes ; 
 
 Dreams ; 
 
 Tell also all the wisdom, 
 
 All the romance of their substance. 
 
 And the stars 
 
 Fling down 
 
 Ineffable music, 
 
 Tinkling like jewels, 
 
 From all their aerial dancing.
 
 16 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 And the moon 
 
 Burns a white and singing flame ; 
 
 Singing of mystery, 
 
 Madness, 
 
 Love, 
 
 The burning of beautiful eyes 
 
 Uplifted, 
 
 And the slow, electric sliding of hands, 
 
 Tremulous, 
 
 Thrilling, 
 
 Caressive. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Notes of the wind-harp song 
 In the star-ray, 
 The fish-scale glitter, 
 The rainbow over the fountain, 
 The black shadow, 
 The moon s mystery, 
 The wind s whisper, 
 The brazen note of the great crane ; 
 The fine voices 
 Of growing grasses, 
 Armorous flowers, 
 Motherly fruit, 
 Seed laughter ; 
 
 Banks, 
 
 Bees, 
 
 Bird music, 
 
 Clouds, 
 
 Distance .... 
 
 Sleep.
 
 IN TOUCH. 
 
 THE WISH OF WOMANHOOD. 
 
 THIS is the secret wish, \ 
 
 The prayer of womanhood : 
 " Give me a friend who reads my heart ! 
 Let me be understood ! " 
 
 IN TOUCH. 
 
 " I "RUE natures are in touch 
 1 With all things beautiful- 
 The earth and sea and sky, 
 Winds, 
 Wildlings, 
 And each other. 
 
 Their loneliness is such 
 
 As solitude relieves, 
 
 Art, 
 
 Or the rare, sweet reprieves 
 
 Of souls, akin, 
 
 Close met. 
 
 Every woman is an undiscovered country.
 
 iS WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 MY DEAD. 
 
 AND you are dead, my beautiful, beloved, 
 My inmost love, my sweet, dark, gentle friend; 
 No more the light from your brown eyes, so soft, 
 Shall be the radiance of my humble home ; 
 No more your voice shall welcome back from toil ; 
 No more your soft, brown, clinging tress shall frame 
 With glinting, silken charm your sweetest face ; 
 No more that head upon my breast shall lie, 
 With fragrant breath perfuming all my beard 
 Soul-beautiful, I would have died for thee ! 
 
 No more ! I mind we often talked of death, 
 How that our final change was like a sleep 
 In which we dreamed ourselves away, away, 
 Into the stream that sparkled in the sun, 
 Into the breeze that whispered in the pine, 
 The bud, the blade, the inconstant flower, 
 The mobile cloud that dappled heaven s dome, 
 The lightning s flame that split the leafy oak, 
 The soft blue haze that hid in sylvan shades, 
 Away, away, till we were wholly gone ; 
 Forming new life within a hundred lives ; 
 Held fast within the circles infinite ; 
 Unconscious, oft, that we had lived before ; 
 Ofttimes unknowing we were living still ; 
 Absorbed into the members of the Whole 
 Nirvana. 
 
 Ah! It was not wise to weep, 
 We said, in this short life so strangely sweet,
 
 MY DEAD. 19 
 
 (I have not wept) or make a moan at death 
 
 (I have not moaned), but calmly, healthfully, 
 
 With conscious joy, we each should pluck the blooms 
 
 Within our reach ; and calmly, restfully, 
 
 Each one, when tired, should fall on sleep in peace, 
 
 Without regret or fear, as knowing well 
 
 The worth and worthlessness of life. 
 
 O sweet, 
 
 O wise, without regret or fear you slept ; 
 And I looked camly on your dying face, 
 And I looked calmly in your open grave ; 
 Calmly I go to reap the fruits of life, 
 Within the precious hours I keep awake, 
 This brief, swift-changing time that I am wan, 
 Until I too shall sleep. 
 
 O love, O sweet, 
 
 Perchance within our dreams to meet ! mayhap 
 To kiss and flow together in the stream, 
 To laugh and murmur neath the mossy stone, 
 To drift and eddy in the placid pool, 
 Our eyes in bubbles smiling side by side ; 
 Mayhap to rise, sun-lifted, in the steam, 
 To float above the green, beneath the blue, 
 To fall in dancing drops upon the corn, 
 To flash in forking flames athwart the night, 
 Or call, or whisper, in the whirling wind ; 
 
 It may be I shall swell the piping throat 
 That sings beside some sylvan nest, while you 
 May warm the breast that warms the spotted eggs ; 
 Just as I sang, erstwhile, in wildwood home, 
 When you, at eve, were with our nesting babes 
 Ah well ! Farewell ! My lips repeat our lore :
 
 20 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Be brave, be wise, be happy this is life 
 You taught in death, I live to teach it true ; 
 Soul-beautiful ! beloved ! I would have died 
 For thee ! I would have lived for thee. 
 
 THE SOUL SUPREME. 
 
 1SING of a vision far, 
 Of a thought on high things set, 
 Of a sight serene, 
 And a purpose clean, 
 A pleasure in all things, great and small, 
 Loves and loss and the fates that fall, 
 
 Power to hold or forget. 
 ( The fountains are clear as spar. } 
 
 Of the happy-wise, sing I, 
 Consciously, ever to add ; 
 With their search sublime 
 Thro space and time, 
 Their solemn delight in all things true, 
 Their child-like joy in all things new, 
 
 Simple and sweet and glad. 
 ( Cloud/ess and blue the sky. ) 
 
 The Overlook my theme, 
 And the life in the Lifted Land ; 
 Where the nights have balm, 
 And the days are calm, 
 The passions serve, and the charms obey, 
 And the brain is sane that holdeth sway, 
 
 Gentle and firm the hand. 
 (Is it but a dream ?)
 
 FREEDOM. 21 
 
 I sing of the soul supreme, 
 Of a spirit erect and free, 
 Too far above 
 To be harmed by love, 
 Or fear, or hate, or gain, or loss, 
 Or to stake its joy on a gambler s toss, 
 
 Hold self-empery. 
 (How the white peaks gleam. ] 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 O CUPID is a honey-bee, 
 So it seems to me, 
 With a secret sting 
 And much honey : 
 
 In rosy hours, 
 Ravisher of flowers 
 In dainty bowers : 
 
 Musical of wing, 
 Builder of fair homes, 
 Yet roams 
 With dalliance, he. 
 
 FREEDOM. 
 
 "REEDOM is this to me 
 The Remedy.
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 I AM GLAD ARE NOT YOU? 
 
 WHEN all is done, and there are none to love 
 me, 
 
 When all is done, and flowers bloom above me, 
 When all is done, and all men shall forget me, 
 When all is done, and naught of fate can fret me 
 
 All the East will flush as fairly as it now does, in 
 
 the mornings ; 
 All the birds will sing as sweetly, spite of Death 
 
 and all his warnings ; 
 
 Lips will kiss and hearts go thrilling, spite of 
 Time s ironic scornings, 
 Then, as now ! 
 
 I am glad it will be so 
 
 Are not you ? 
 I am glad the streams will flow 
 
 As they do ; 
 
 I am glad the sun will shine, 
 - And the vines will bloom and twine, 
 And the autumn spill its wine 
 
 Through and through, 
 
 Just the same, 
 Whether you and I exist, 
 Or are not so much as mist, 
 Or the memory of a name 
 
 Men allow.
 
 ONL Y A MEMOR Y. 23 
 
 ONLY A MEMORY. 
 
 ONLY a memory is the maid 
 Who loved me true in the young-love days, 
 The wandering days of light and shade, 
 Of toil and search in devious ways 
 Ah ! little thought I she would be 
 Only a memory. 
 
 Only a memory every charm, 
 The music gone with the passing breath, 
 Each swaying grace of act and form 
 Forever still in the couch of Death ; 
 Oh dearest love ! are you to me 
 Only a memory ? 
 
 Only a memory, tone and word, 
 The tender care of the thoughful brain, 
 The gentle touch that my spirit stirred, 
 The woman s ruth at the world s wide pain, 
 The dauntless will that would be free 
 Only a memory. 
 
 To labor and love is life sublime ; 
 To labor and load an argosy 
 Sailing away on the tides of Time 
 To the shores of a dim Futurity, 
 To sail and serve when we shall be 
 Only a memory.
 
 24 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Our ships float on, my parted love, 
 White their sails on a sun-kissed sea, 
 The waves below and the winds above, 
 Waft our freights to the would-be-free, 
 To sail and serve when sunk are we 
 Only a memory. 
 
 MY LADY GENTLE WONDERFUL. 
 
 /""** ENTLE, wonderful is my fair, 
 
 \J My sweet dark love with the unnamed 
 
 charm, 
 
 With the clinging cloud of dusky hair, 
 Deep welling eyes of tender care, 
 And magnet arm. 
 
 Gentle, wonderful is her touch, 
 The silk-soft thrill of her little hand, 
 
 who can tell why its spell is such ! 
 Or tell at all why it means so much, 
 
 Simple yet grand. 
 
 Gentle, wonderful is her voice 
 I have in my store no figure fit ; 
 
 1 can but tell that it fixt my choice ; 
 I can but say that the winds rejoice 
 
 To carry it.
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 25 
 
 THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 OBEATIFUL, bright Greeks, naked, flower- 
 crowned, 
 
 Elate with strength and grace of human life, 
 Types, evermore, of naturalness in man, 
 And rosy, fresh and dewy things in youth, 
 To me thy gem-like songs are full of light. 
 
 The grace of bleating kids and fawns that skip 
 
 Upon the outlined rocks and peaks against 
 
 The opal sky of dawn is theirs ; the flush 
 
 Of sunrise pink upon the marble cliffs ; 
 
 The wash and drowsy lap, most musical, 
 
 Of waves rippling the blue, Aegean sea ; 
 
 The bubbling laugh of fountained nymphs among 
 
 Thy hills, rising to greet the morning sun ; 
 
 The song of blackbirds in the myrtle groves ; 
 
 The fluting of the little satyr lads 
 
 That herd thy goats and bask about thy rocks ; 
 
 The sanity of joy ; the dignity 
 
 And charm of simple, healthful life ; the mirth 
 
 And beauteous blossoming of freeest love ; 
 
 Wisdom most true, and penetrative wit.
 
 26 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 w 
 
 TRUE LOVE. 
 
 HAT is true love ? Is it this : 
 Only on one mouth to kiss ? 
 
 Only on one breast to lie ? 
 Only for one touch to sigh ? 
 
 Only in one soul to be 
 Shrined in love s idolatry ? 
 
 To have and and hold a human heart 
 Sole for self, a slave, apart ? 
 
 Is this true love ? It may be ; 
 It is not true love to me. 
 
 Love most true is this, I deem : 
 To, in love, be what I seem ; 
 
 To be always true to trust, 
 Though the years go back to dust ; 
 
 To be like a harboring bay, 
 Where rny loves, at anchor, may 
 
 Lie forevermore, secure, 
 In a love that will endure ; 
 
 To speak, in love, the simple truth 
 Tenderly, in manly ruth 
 
 Of a woman s agony, 
 
 Should Love speak deceivingly ;
 
 DEATH S WORD. 27 
 
 To be always frank and clear 
 To the hearts that hold me dear, 
 
 Though they love, and love again, 
 Others of the sons of men, 
 
 Though the lips that I may know 
 On still other lips may glow, 
 
 Though another love is first, 
 My love must not be the worst. 
 
 What my lovers love to me 
 Appeals for generous sympathy. 
 
 As they change not, nor will I, 
 But will give the sure reply. 
 
 Making answer aye the same, 
 When in love they speak my name, 
 
 When they call me, calling clear : 
 
 " Love, O hear me !"...."! am here ! " 
 
 This is true love, large and free, 
 Love s reliability. 
 
 DEATH S WORD. 
 
 FOR Death, but one word hath full eloquence, 
 That great unvoiceable whose name saith 
 Silence. 
 
 * ***** 
 
 But one word holds all eloquence of Death : 
 That undefined, unspeakable, which Silence saith.
 
 28 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 O MOTHER, calm and kind, 
 The Friend of Peace, 
 Lo, you have found at last 
 The long release. 
 
 Musing, we say farewell, 
 
 For what is Death ? 
 Or why does man receive 
 
 Or lose his breath ? 
 
 There is no answer here, 
 
 Nor anywhere, 
 In earth, or sea, or sky, 
 
 Or upper air. 
 
 We live in mystery, 
 
 And when we die 
 No answer has the Sphinx 
 
 To quest or cry. 
 
 We act our little part, 
 
 Or well or ill, 
 Then pass with pallid lips 
 
 Forever still. 
 
 We gag our clamorous doubts 
 
 With platitudes, 
 And stoutly feign the faith 
 
 That still eludes.
 
 MO THER. 29 
 
 But whether we believe, 
 
 Or feign we do, 
 We all remain the same 
 
 We do not know. 
 
 Faith is but willful hope, 
 
 And proofless still ; 
 Faith never changed a fact 
 
 And never will. 
 
 The simple ever hold 
 
 That virtue saves ; 
 The good go down, they say, 
 
 To blameless graves. 
 
 Ah, mother, you were wise 
 
 When that you said 
 You troubled not tho all 
 
 The dead were dead. 
 
 For if the dead woke not 
 Their sleep endured, 
 
 And life had sickness, oft, 
 That nothing cured. 
 
 It did not trouble you, 
 
 Nor does it me, 
 Whether we live so long, 
 
 Or endlessly. 
 
 Life must be aye the same, 
 Both gold and dross, 
 
 Virtue and vice, joy, pain, 
 And gain with loss.
 
 30 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 In earth, or heaven, or hell 
 The law must hold, 
 
 The see -saw rise and fall 
 With rhythm old. 
 
 And, mother, you have seen 
 
 The all of it, 
 Ten billion years, I deem, 
 
 Could add no whit. 
 
 But it may be you find 
 
 Continued life, 
 Another world of joy 
 
 And care and strife. 
 
 Or it may be you sleep 
 
 The utter sleep ; 
 Forever from the crowd 
 
 Who laugh and weep. 
 
 Your life was very sad, 
 
 But very sweet, 
 You walked in peaceful paths 
 
 With gentle feet. 
 
 You made an atmosphere 
 
 Of kindly grace, 
 You were beloved by all 
 
 That saw your face. 
 
 You taught us to be true, 
 
 As you were true, 
 To face the naked soul 
 
 And look it through.
 
 EMILY DICKINSON. 31 
 
 I thank you for that word, 
 
 Nor can forget, 
 Farewell ! most faithful friend 
 
 My "mother" yet. 
 MAY, 1892. 
 
 EMILY DICKINSON. 
 
 IT seems to me you sing a song 
 That startled every one ; 
 Odd intergrowth of heathen 
 And New England Puritan. 
 
 Your art is like a Japanesque , 
 Perspective and detail 
 Are very independent, 
 But the picture pleases well. 
 
 Suppose a Quaker wood-bird 
 To throw a parrot wing, 
 Talk Manx and Hindostanee, 
 And then go back and sing 
 
 Wierd bits and beautiful, 
 A Concord touch or two, 
 Lyric thought, so stated 
 As no one else dare do.
 
 32 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 REMEMBER. 
 
 DEAR friend, remember how we walked this 
 Park, 
 
 All safe in very heart of fierce New York, 
 And felt the bright sun with the winds of Spring, 
 And saw, to-day, the late snow on the grass, 
 And saw, the next, the dandelions appear, 
 And marked the robin s breast against the green. 
 
 Remember how I read you verses in these nooks, 
 Hard by the little pool among the rocks, 
 Where ran the music of the little stream, 
 And your soft tones made music sweeter still : 
 
 Remember how we wooed the squirrels to come, 
 And saw the seals, and gave the "beasties" 
 
 sweets, 
 And talked of gentle things, and things remote 
 
 from man ; 
 And talked of simple things, and joys that have no 
 
 sting ; 
 
 Letting our hearts flow on like little brooks 
 That sing beneath the sun, and were as gods 
 Or little children, free and wandering here, 
 And knew the Gentle Life and felt the Great 
 
 Content.
 
 THE MOON-SHARK. 33 
 
 THE SMELL OF RAIN-WET EARTH. 
 
 THE smell of rain-wet earth upon the air, 
 And rose leaves, wet and flashing : 
 The fragrance floats me back, all unaware, 
 I see that love-white face divinely fair 
 Again and drooping head with braided hair 
 Half know the fountain plashing, 
 The smell of rain-wet earth upon the air, 
 And rose leaves wet and flashing. 
 
 THE MOON-SHARK. 
 
 IN the evening sky, to the eastward, thro cloud 
 waves long and dark, 
 
 The half-moon s tip was cutting like the fin of a 
 golden shark.
 
 34 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 MOUNT WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 WHAT ! is Walt Whitman dead ? 
 Nay, it cannot be, for the mountains do not 
 
 die! 
 They say he is dead, but the difference does not 
 
 appear ; 
 
 For he is a mountain, 
 A great gray rock, 
 Rugged, alone, forever ; 
 And the mountains endure, sublime, motionless, 
 
 and fixed before us ; 
 
 They touch the sky, and we must see them, and we 
 cannot forget. 
 
 Have you ever considered how marvelous a moun 
 tain is ? 
 
 With its white head among the stars, 
 Its foundations broad as the bases of all things, 
 Deep as the center of the world s heart ; 
 A witness of all, and of the order of all, 
 Surveying the centuries, and the scratches man 
 makes in the surface of things, and the coming 
 and going, like shadows, of the nations : 
 Familiar with the red whips of the lightning, and 
 
 the deep-throated thunder ; 
 With night, and the great tempests, and the wide 
 
 winds of destiny ; 
 
 The changing worlds of vapor, the awful solitudes 
 under the stars, and the white, mysterious 
 movings of moonlight :
 
 MOUNT WALT WHITMAN. 35 
 
 Full of great voices, solemn music, sweet songs, 
 and the embracing silences of the upper air ; 
 
 The roar of avalanches, the screams of eagles, the 
 melody of falling streams, the love-whistle of 
 little birds nesting by the blue tarns 
 
 The blue tarns among the gray rocks (the wild fowl 
 know them) girt with green pines, placid, re 
 flecting like mirrors : 
 
 Rich with mines of the white ore and the yellow, 
 
 Iron for strength, and coal for heat, 
 
 And radiant, glittering gems : 
 
 With slopes and valleys where vines grow, and 
 flocks feed, and hamlets nestle : 
 
 And over all, and with all, always the free air and 
 the wide view. 
 
 Ah, Walt, Walt, poet of Nature, comrade of free 
 
 men, 
 
 Other poets have been Olympian, 
 But you are Olympus itself. 
 
 MARCH 28, 1892.
 
 36 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 T NCARNATE voice of English May, 
 1 The gentlest of the sons of song; 
 As some soft brook to me, alway, 
 Thou art, O voice of English May. 
 Mid rural scenes, in limpid play, 
 
 I love with thee to float along- 
 Incarnate voice of English May, 
 
 And gentlest of the sons of song. 
 
 AZTEC OF THE AIR. 
 
 AZTEC of the air, blithe Bob O Link,- 
 Quez-cat-a-lot/, link- a- link- a- link ! 
 Thy syllables, so sweet, 
 
 I think, 
 
 Chime with the tongue of Popocatapetl, 
 And the clink-a-link-clink, 
 Of a shaken sheet 
 Of crinkling, musical metal.
 
 POETRY. 37 
 
 POETRY. 
 
 O POETRY, 
 Thou art to me 
 My confidante, 
 My friend ! 
 
 When all the tides within 
 Rise overflowing, 
 Thou art to me 
 Like liberty. 
 
 On thine infinity 
 My argosy 
 Is launched, a boat 
 With every tide. 
 
 But some will sink, 
 And some who knows ! 
 O Poetry, thou art to me 
 As destiny !
 
 38 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 B 
 
 THE DAY-BIRTH. 
 EAUTIFUL ! 
 
 Beautiful ! 
 
 Far away 
 
 The Sun leaps up with his baby, Day, 
 A royal father, and proud, is he, 
 His visage gleams with fatherly glee; 
 The wood-birds sing and the roosters cheer; 
 The green leaves glitter up starts the deer ! 
 All nature rings with the glad refrain: 
 " Behold ! the world is new again." 
 
 THE WHITE SWAN OF WINTER. 
 
 THE white swan of winter is plucking her breast; 
 With down-fluffs the hill rocks are padded 
 
 and pressed; 
 
 The cold winds are blowing, 
 The white feathers strowing; 
 The white swan of winter is making her nest. 
 
 In all the universe but one great fact I see: 
 Mystery.
 
 A WILD TIGER-LILY. 39 
 
 A WILD TIGER-LILY. 
 
 A LURID Tiger-lily, flower of flame, 
 With purple blackness lurking in thy leopard 
 
 spots, 
 
 And red-coal-ashed-with-gold-dust anther tips, 
 Thou mindest me I know not hardly why 
 
 Of one dear name, 
 
 And one dark cheek, 
 Alike to thee in lovely arrogance of tint. 
 
 Yet difference I spy 
 
 In this, O fair flame-lily, 
 
 All thy glories glint 
 
 Within the lonely wood, 
 
 Or hillside solitude, 
 Where some rare lover of the wilderness may roam 
 
 Who only giveth thee caress, 
 
 Who only thee may know; 
 
 While she would glow 
 Where crowded-close humanity 
 Like over-ripe, packed peaches rots, 
 
 And woman sips 
 The false, thin, flattering foam 
 From empty hearts upwhirled. 
 
 But still, when deeper cause for this I seek, 
 This line of likeness which I needs must guess, 
 I find in these things still you are the same : 
 An equal, rich luxuriance of life in both, I see, 
 And careless blazing of bold beauty on the world.
 
 40 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 I LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. 
 
 SWEETHEART, lie still upon my breast, 
 With love-red lips to mine impressed, 
 And satin limbs that twine with mine, 
 Like clinging tendrils of a vine. 
 
 O, love, the morning gins to peep, 
 The rainbow-robed cataracts leap, 
 A spotted fawn stands in the glade, 
 The dew-drop diamonds gem each blade. 
 
 Sweet love, I feel your gentle heart 
 Throb where the sphered bosoms part; 
 My necklace rare, your warm white arms, 
 My coverlet, disheveled charms. 
 
 The whoop-crane s clangor wakes the fens, 
 Thrush voices pulse in echoing glens, 
 On wave-wet sands the sea birds meet, 
 Shy violets hide neath clover sweet. 
 
 Ah man is man, and maid is maid, 
 Sweet echoes, by each other swayed; 
 Soft eyes will smile, red lips will cling, 
 Till Death his last scythe stroke shall swing. 
 
 The wild-fowl wedge through Northern skies, 
 In Indian glades the tiger sighs, 
 The siroc whirls the desert sands 
 Love touches all, all climes, all lands.
 
 THE WHOOP-CRANE S CLANGOR, 41 
 
 THE WHOOP-CRANE S CLANGOR. 
 
 ALONG the lone Floridian fens, 
 Wild scrub-wreathed sands and hammock 
 Edens, 
 
 Croaks the importunate, clanging cry, 
 From out the painted sunset sky, 
 Of whoop-cranes, as they roost-ward fly. 
 
 So when the level fire-lance ray, 
 
 The first swift glance of hot-browed Day, 
 
 Adown the moss-hung forest hall 
 
 Of bannered pines, plume-tipped and tall, 
 
 About whose roots the saw-palms sprawl, 
 
 Illumes the smoke-like vapor, blue, 
 Upsteaming all the lilies through, 
 And glancing o er the waters, far, 
 Proclaims Apollo s coming car, 
 And warns all sleepers wake to war 
 
 Tis then that harsh and yearning sound, 
 Re-echoes to the morning s bound, 
 Clangs through the solemn cypress cave, 
 Warns the great owl his breath to save, 
 And shakes the bulrush o er the wave; 
 
 As long the still and steaming pool, 
 Clouded with shadows, broad and cool, 
 These great birds fan impetuous wing; 
 While round them echoes fiercely ring, 
 And startled mock-birds cease to sing.
 
 42 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Prone mong the lilies long the shore, 
 The gator stops his blubbering roar, 
 And sets his still, reptilian eye 
 Upon these corsairs, as they fly, 
 Then heaves his vast, resounding sigh. 
 
 And yonder, where the hot rays fall, 
 A file of coolers, great and small, 
 Emboss the twisted pitch-knot log, 
 (Outjutting from the reedy bog), 
 Their black necks stretching, all agog. 
 
 Above, against a sapphire sky, 
 The osprey wheels his spirals, high ; 
 His clear eye drinking all the sight, 
 His long wings glancing in the light, 
 His silvern belly flashing white. 
 
 Below, beneath the bay tree s shade, 
 
 The moccasin his length has laid 
 
 Of mottled char and muddy ash, 
 
 Still as the latent lightning flash 
 
 They come ! and o er him waters plash ! 
 
 The small-fry note their coming, too, 
 And swiftly fin them out of view; 
 With startled croak the pied frogs leap, 
 The hidden lizard s bright eyes peep, 
 The newts among the mosses creep. 
 * * * * # 
 
 The wide swamp lies at sultry noon 
 Beneath the brazen sun a-svvoon; 
 All still, save yonder tall-necked crane, 
 Stalking with stately, watchful mien 
 Athwart the lily-burdened plain.
 
 THE MOCK- BIRD. 43 
 
 Pacing his stealthy, measured way, 
 
 In ashen plumage, dim and gray, 
 
 Mid flowers, weeds and maid-cane grass; 
 
 Ghost-like he seems to fade and pass 
 
 From out the field of eye and glass. 
 
 Thou art my pride, fierce royal bird, 
 No sound in Nature hath so stirred 
 The wild, free echoes in my breast, 
 As thy weird trumpeting s unrest, 
 A savage longing, sweet exprest. 
 
 THE MOCK-BIRD. 
 
 ABOVE the white magnolia bloom 
 The mock-bird trills and sings 
 A woven note of lightsome lume, 
 That lights the cypress-cavern s gloom 
 And through the palm top rings. 
 
 The morning sun is in his eye, 
 
 His breast stands to the light; 
 All morrow cares he doth defy, 
 Hope helps him perch above them high, 
 
 Beyond them take his flight. 
 
 Now, suddenly, I see him rise, 
 
 Cresting a wave of song; 
 Then swiftly falling, far he flies, 
 With white-barred wings and love-bright eyes, 
 
 The hammock s edge along.
 
 44 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 A gift hath to his lady borne 
 
 In their bright sylvan room, 
 A nest, mid orange leaf and thorn 
 (All open to the Orient morn) 
 And citrus bridal bloom. 
 
 I hear their twitterings sweet and low 
 
 Behind the emerald screen; 
 I hear a flower of music grow 
 That dims those bells and buds of snow 
 With all their scent and sheen. 
 
 Sweet solace of the Southern home, 
 
 The bird I love the best; 
 Within thy brain some mirthful gnome 
 Sure bids thee brew this mocking foam 
 
 Poured sparkling from thy breast. 
 
 WOMEN POETS. 
 
 f~\ WOMAN ! Poem alive, to me ; 
 
 \^J I wonder not you are unversed in verserie- 
 
 Can a poem itself make poetry?
 
 THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT. 45 
 
 THE HOSPITAL AT NIGHT. 
 
 Roosevelt, Midnight, April 8th, 1889. 
 
 1SIT within the long dim ward at night; 
 Around me silent beds or snores or groans, 
 Ah ! List that prayer with anguish in its tones: 
 " O God, God, God ! How soon will it be light ! " 
 " Kape sthill ! An* let us shlape. Oi think yees 
 
 moight ! " 
 
 A boy asleep, who smiles, (with broken bones) 
 Dreaming of mother or some playground sight. 
 Without, thick darkness and a wind that moans. 
 
 A rattling breath, a gasp, a still, white stare, 
 A nurse s jest: "Discharged tie up the jaw, 
 
 A label on the wrist to save mistakes," 
 The tramp of dead-house men of heedless air, 
 Two lines of lifted faces full of awe 
 A sickened sot, that cot to-morrow shakes. 
 
 L 
 
 Life is an agreement of contradictions.
 
 46 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 THE GODS ARE DEAD. 
 
 THE gods are dead, and only shrines remain ; 
 The gods are dead, but still the Christs are 
 
 slain ; 
 
 The gods are dead, but priests yet work their will ; 
 The gods are dead, but men must worship still. 
 
 The gods are dead, but Mystery is yet, 
 And fears and tears and drops of bitter sweat, 
 And these begot and these have slain the gods, 
 And these upheld and these shall break the rods. 
 
 The gods we made to help us in our need, 
 And gave them crowns and in their lips a creed, 
 But Pain crushed on and they helped not at all, 
 And so we turned and smiled to see them fall. 
 
 We in our minds make all things that we know 
 Of gods above or god -like powers below : 
 Kings, tyrants, lawyers, warrior or priest, 
 The millions serving and the few at feast. 
 
 Withhold our faith and all these things shall fall ; 
 Like as the gods to whom our faith was all ; 
 Make change within and outward there shall be 
 Fair field, free growth, and life in all things free.
 
 CLEOPA TRA. 47 
 
 CLEOPATRA. 
 
 DECLINING in her chamber sat 
 1\ Egypt s great queen, 
 Below, on skin-of-tiger mat, 
 
 There might be seen 
 A fair slave, prone, to stool her feet. 
 
 Her carven couch was rich with gold, 
 
 And flashing gems 
 Were bound upon her forehead bold 
 
 And on the hems 
 Of all her royal robes replete. 
 
 The walls were wonderful about 
 
 With pictured things : 
 Isis, Osiris, battle rout 
 
 And pride of Kings 
 Ptolomy, Menes, Pharoah. 
 
 Out thro the open window, far, 
 
 Her fierce eyes swept 
 The fertile land, thoughtful of war ; 
 
 While shimmering slept 
 The corn beneath the noon-tide glow. 
 
 The hand that pressed her satin flank 
 
 Was clenching tight, 
 And thro pale lips that twitched and shrank, 
 
 A gleam of white 
 Showed tigress teeth set hard at Fate.
 
 48 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 " What ! shall I be a thing of scorn 
 
 At Caesar s show, 
 I, at whose feet, with sighs forlorn, 
 
 Not long ago, 
 Rome s proudest knelt to supplicate ? 
 
 " By Isis ! no ! if steel can stab 
 
 Or poison slay, 
 No tattling mob my shame shall blab 
 
 Thro Rome that day ! 
 For I have reigned . . . and now . . . can die. 
 
 "What say st thou there ! a peasant brings 
 
 A crate of fruit ? 
 Tis well bring here. (Now lord of kings 
 
 Thy mob may hoot, 
 With this friend s help I thee defy.) 
 
 " My ladies, leave me . . . thou too . . . all, 
 
 For I would sleep. 
 (Sooth a heavy sleep methinks twill fall 
 
 Ah, I could weep ! 
 But royal pride hath heart of stone.) 
 
 " Quick now ! . . . kind goddess, give me strength! 
 
 Up with the lid ! 
 Uprears that green and glittering length, 
 
 Out it has slid 
 
 curse my fear! . . here! . . strike! . . tis done. 
 
 " Bless thee, dear snake ! Ah, I love thee ! 
 
 That little bite 
 Makes free. Now Rome, what shall me dree ? 
 
 In thy despite 
 
 1 scape ; thou canst not me demean.
 
 STORM-HEART. 49 
 
 "A deadly langour clogs each vein, 
 
 My limbs grow numb ; 
 Now shall I sleep . . . Anthony ! . . . no pain . . . 
 
 Ho ! Roman scum ! 
 Laugh at yourselves . . I die . . a . . queen." 
 
 STORM-HEART. 
 
 TO live in the quick life of the wind ! ah ! 
 Knowest thou not the joy of the breath of life 
 In the nostrils of the swift man, air cleaving; 
 In the deep lungs of the galloping horse, 
 Rushing impetuously onward, neighing, 
 Spurning the resounding earth with beating hoofs ? 
 
 Canst thou not exult, with me, with the mad waves, 
 
 Leaping, flashing, foaming, upflinging spray; 
 
 With the boom of the surf upon the shore; 
 
 The wrack of clouds in the sky, storm-beaten; 
 
 The flapping of the sea-bird in the gale; 
 
 And the long wail of the winter wind 
 
 Thro the wild throats of the darkened pines ? 
 
 To live in the wind, to move, to sway with it, 
 Rising and falling with its noble rhythms, 
 Surges and lulls of the great gales Ah me ! 
 Ever since I was a boy I have felt thus. 
 I have loved the storm, and the speed of winds, 
 The run of waves, and the black heart of tempests.
 
 50 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 O wings of the great winds, whirling, whistling, 
 O serpents of flame, 
 O voices of terror, 
 
 O breaths of tempest, 
 
 Storm-hearts, I love you ! 
 As the dark eagles of the mountains, 
 As the fierce, wild falcons of the desert, 
 As the sea-gulls flashing over the breakers, 
 As the stormy petrels of the black seas. 
 
 To be God-shot by the long lightnings, 
 In the great forest, by the still, stern rocks, 
 With the thunder muttering and exulting, 
 With the wind sobbing and the rain weeping, 
 The pall of a black cloud overhanging, 
 And the torn leaves driftihg over, alone 
 Would not that be a beautiful death to die ! 
 
 BY MOUTHS OF SEA WORMS 
 QUAINTLY CARVEN. 
 
 A 
 
 LITTLE sea shell 
 From the beach, 
 By mouths of sea worms quaintly carven, 
 Whispered me a thing to tell : 
 
 " Loving is living ! " 
 Whispered well, 
 
 Whispered me, and slipt and fell 
 Into water, out of reach.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE. 51 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE. 
 
 I AM a dove, 
 The bird of Love, 
 And the woodlands ring 
 When I sing ; 
 I do not mourn, 
 
 I rejoice, 
 
 When the little ones are born 
 I lift my voice : 
 
 Coo-oo! coo-oo! coo-oo! 
 For the mate I love and woo, 
 For the nestlings, two, 
 Coo-oo! 
 
 And I croon 
 
 At sultry noon, 
 In the coolness and the shade 
 Of the glade 
 
 do not say I mourn, 
 Or am sad, 
 
 1 have life and love and corn, 
 I am glad. 
 
 Coo-oo! coo-oo! coo-oo! 
 Dear mate, fond and true, 
 I have life and I have you 
 Coo-oo!
 
 52 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 A LITTLE RAMBLING RILL. 
 
 O 
 
 MAIDEN fair 
 
 In hair 
 
 And face and form 
 
 Ah, how the blushing warm 
 
 Blood 
 
 Makes flushing flood 
 
 Thro all the sweet lip-pasture of her cheek !- 
 O hear me speak ! 
 
 Hear me declare 
 
 Confession, bare, 
 
 Of all my fondness true 
 
 For you, 
 My azure sky s white dove, 
 
 My love, 
 
 My goddess bright 
 As light. 
 
 Hear me proclaim, 
 
 Aflame, 
 
 My ardency 
 
 For thee. 
 
 That little fleck 
 
 Of curling hair, behind, upon your neck, 
 
 Entangleth me 
 Make me not free ! 
 
 O maiden sweet, 
 Discreet,
 
 A LITTLE RAMBLING RILL. 53 
 
 Why should so long the blisses 
 Of warm kisses 
 
 Abide, 
 And hide, 
 
 Where your two lips, sweet, 
 Meet? 
 
 O maiden pure, 
 
 Demure, 
 Why should your soft bright eye s 
 
 Surprise 
 Be veiled back 
 
 Alack ! 
 
 By kissing of fringed lids, dainty, down 
 Thrown ? 
 
 O maiden coy ! 
 
 Ah, joy ! 
 Now little smiles, 
 
 At whiles, 
 Begin to creep, 
 
 Peep, 
 
 And show thro rippling lips your teeth 
 Beneath. 
 
 Ah, now your tender eyes 
 
 In love arise ; 
 
 And softly speak 
 
 That what I seek 
 
 You gladly give. 
 
 O darling ! now I live. 
 
 My sweet one, come 
 
 Home !
 
 54 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Your timid, tender kiss 
 
 Is bliss ; 
 Like new rain on the earth 
 
 In time of dearth ; 
 Your clinging half-embrace 
 
 Makes race 
 
 Thro every vein 
 
 Sweet sense of gain. 
 
 Upon my cheek your breath 
 
 In silence saith 
 
 A sweeter thing 
 
 Than sirens sing, 
 
 When like winds whirling, 
 
 Wandering, 
 
 They flee 
 
 With moonlit feet along the sea. 
 
 Your little hand s 
 Soft nestling stands 
 My heart still with full pleasure 
 
 No measure 
 Have I for my joy, 
 
 Without alloy. 
 
 I cannot speak for peace, 
 
 So cease.
 
 NO FLAG. 55 
 
 NO FLAG. 
 
 NAY, I am no patriot ; not for me 
 This prejudice, so proud, of one s own country, 
 Always right, chiefest cause of enmity 
 
 Atween the nations. Were it not for this, 
 All peoples had a million years, I wis, 
 Ago, exchanged of brotherhood the kiss ! 
 
 And, were it not for this, how great a flood 
 Had never flowed of warmest, reddest blood, 
 From hearts of murdered heroes, brave and good ! 
 
 How many women hearts unbroke had been, 
 Had " patriots " not forgotten they were men, 
 And murdered that their land might "glory " win ! 
 
 O folly, this, to die to wear a tag ! 
 
 O crime, to kill because one s country s flag 
 
 Is different from some other piebald rag ! 
 
 For noble hearts find one land scant of room, 
 All men their brothers, and the world their home, 
 From highest mountain peak to ocean foam. 
 
 Their love holds all, their boast is every clime, 
 Their sympathy with every race in every time, 
 All patriot songs with equal voice they chime.
 
 56 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 They lift no flag, and sound no party cry, 
 And leave to fools to run in herds to die, 
 Insane at hearing : " Foreign foes are nigh ! " 
 
 For them there are no foreigners at all, 
 No prejudice of birth, no Chinese wall, 
 The Briton but the fellow of the Gaul. 
 
 They hold all roads are open, earth and sea, 
 
 No rightful duty, tax, or passport fee, 
 
 All travelers welcome, and all commerce free. 
 
 They would all bounds were blotted, bars were down 
 All nation-lines and States were overthrown, 
 Naught left but honest neighborhoods alone ; 
 
 For honest men no laws, no government, 
 No interference, howsoe er well-meant, 
 Each man s life, fortune, as he pleases spent. 
 
 O when shall men be tall enough to see 
 That pride of country makes for slavery, 
 That he alone who has no flag is free ! 
 
 The man without a country habits all ; 
 
 Without a flag all banners drape his wall ; 
 
 His patriot heart hears but the wide world s call. 
 
 \ Love others because you love yourself.
 
 SONNET TO A WHITE LADY. 57 
 
 SONNET TO A WHITE LADY. 
 
 OSAD White Lady of my soul, I say, 
 Listening at memory as one might the spell 
 Breathing mysterious from some twined shell, 
 Wherefore art thou so far from me astray ? 
 So far, and yet so close to me alway 
 That my own heart seems but thy house, to dwell 
 Awaiting thee, and all my soul thy well 
 For thee to drink so strange ! ah, well-a-day ! 
 
 I mind me now of some whose souls have bent 
 Like bows, full aimed upon some great event ; 
 And so have broken, missing what they meant ; 
 Disarmed, and yet with arrows all unspent. 
 And some who, meeting Love without dissent 
 For once, have kissed and kissing died in full con 
 tent.
 
 58 IVIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 DESERT VOICES. 
 
 O DESERT voices, why tempt my soul? 
 For what have I of kin with thee ? 
 With deadly sun and the drifting sand, 
 The cactus-thorn and the blasted tree ? 
 
 Ye desert voices, why tempt ye me ? 
 
 For aye and ever I hear ye call : 
 "O come, where the wastes are wild and wide, 
 
 And the wide, wild winds are over all ! " 
 
 O desert voices ! O Great Sublime ! 
 My soul is moved by thy weird appeal ; 
 
 Force unknowable, unmasked Life, 
 And the Seeds of All Things in thee I feel. 
 
 The heated sand and the pallid snow, 
 The sullen mountains, bare and tall, 
 
 The fierce and beautiful, bitter sea, 
 
 And the wild, wide winds that are breath of all.
 
 INGLE-LOW. 59 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 THE season, like a courtesan, 
 Hides her age with paint and gems, 
 Dyes her locks with gold. 
 Pleasing hard while please she can : 
 Lovers hasten ! no delay ! 
 She is smiling, warm as May, 
 Quickly passeth charm and sway, 
 Glare and glory fade to gray, 
 Naught at last but leafless stems, 
 And the end is cold. 
 
 INGLE-LOW. 
 
 BLESS you fire, born of burned wood ! 
 For you bless me and do me good ; 
 Antic and lightsome and kindly and warm, 
 You make in merry when out is storm ; 
 And no man finds him a blither friend 
 Than his ingle-low, at the hard day s end. 
 
 The key of pleasure appreciation.
 
 60 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 WILD ROSES AND MAIDEN HAIR. 
 
 THAT she was warm I was aware, 
 With all sweet virtues in her air, 
 ( Wild roses and maiden hair. ) 
 
 Night has morning and night has noon ; 
 Woman s face is a hidden rune 
 (In a hammock, beneath the moon.} 
 
 So it were hidden she did not care ; 
 
 Her dress was white, in the moonlight, there. 
 
 ( Wild roses and maiden hair. ) 
 
 Her feet were dainty in slippered shoon, 
 The trellis-vine had a fragrant swoon. 
 (In a hammock^ beneath the moon.) 
 
 The little hands were soft and bare, 
 
 I might have touched them, but did not dare. 
 
 ( Wild roses and maiden hair. ) 
 
 The end was coming and came too soon ! 
 Words unspoken, and never a boon ! 
 (In a hammock, beneath the moon.)
 
 NA TURE AND I ARE GLAD. 61 
 
 NATURE AND ! ARE GLAD. 
 
 THE days are leaden and purple in stain, 
 And laced with bars of a sweet, dark rain, 
 And the brows of men are heavy with pain, 
 But Nature and I are glad. 
 
 The fields are sketched and etched in gray, 
 With charcoal shadows of night-in-day 
 O why do men hate such ? tell me, pray ! 
 For Nature and I are glad. 
 
 These warm, wet days are akin with the South, 
 And they kiss close down, like a wet, warm mouth. 
 You may pray, if you will, for the days of drouth, 
 But Nature and I are glad. 
 
 They are filled, a-thrill with the thunder-soul, 
 The pen of the lightning has writ their scroll, 
 And brows may furrow, and lips condole, 
 But Nature and I are glad. 
 
 For the days are latticed with sweet, dark rain, 
 They are gray and purple and leaden in stain ; 
 Dull hearts get dolor, dull lungs complain, 
 But Nature and I are glad.
 
 62 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 REVERIE. 
 
 I SAT me down within a beauteous wood, 
 All in a strangely sweet and dreamy mood, 
 My thoughts, like all those bright leaves, strewed. 
 
 I drank the freshness of the amber air, 
 
 The glowing beauty of those colors rare, 
 
 And thought of one whose face was dark, yet fair. 
 
 Twas then a nymph-like form beside rne stood 
 
 Is it a sylvan spirit of the wood ? 
 
 Or is the wine of autumn in my blood ? 
 
 The ripeness of the time my soul receives, 
 An Oriental web the sunshine weaves, 
 Rich-hued, and patterned by the crimson leaves. 
 
 A gentle presence shares my pleasure now, 
 The glory of the day gleams on another s brow, 
 Our thoughts are far too deep for words light flow. 
 
 Ask not, O friends, that I should tell you more ; 
 There are sweet secrets in the heart s deep core, 
 Close guarded as the mine s rich ore.
 
 CHBRR Y BL OSSOMS. 63 
 
 CHERRY BLOSSOMS. 
 
 CHERRY blossoms are white and sweet, 
 As a white cloud from the sky come down, 
 White as fair foam from the sea upthrown, 
 For the eye s joy meet. 
 
 Cherry blossoms are white and sweet, 
 A dark-red the robin s breast among, 
 And full of red love the song he sung 
 My love sings discreet ! 
 
 Cherry blossoms are white and sweet ; 
 The far, fair sky shines blue between, 
 And the sharp, bright air seems washed out clean- 
 Summer whispereth ! 
 
 Cherry blossoms are white and sweet, 
 Thunder and sun and ropes of rain, 
 Anger and smiles and kisses of pain, 
 Petals blown with a breath. 
 
 There is luck in love where the woman woos.
 
 64 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 HAIL, COMRADE ! 
 
 WRITTEN FOR EVALD HAMMAR s FORTIETH 
 BIRTHDAY, OCT. 3RD, 1892. 
 
 HAIL, comrade, whom my thought endears, 
 Your day of birth, of forty years, 
 Deserves a bit of rhyme ! 
 
 For we were chums, in heart and thought, 
 Among that little band who sought 
 The Southern clime 
 
 To hold a larger life and free, 
 In the elect society 
 Of thinkers great. 
 
 Who came to browse on Eden food 
 And lead a life of brotherhood 
 Millenial state. 
 
 Alas, we only found it true 
 That names oft change, but seldom do 
 The hearts of men ; 
 
 The bigot is the bigot, still, 
 Whatever words his mouth may fill, 
 Of generous ken ; 
 
 The pard doth not evict his spot, 
 Nor blanch his hide the Hottentot, 
 Because his name
 
 HAIL, COMRADE! 65 
 
 Is changed from this to something else, 
 Or some brave tag the public tells 
 His whitened fame. 
 
 And thus we found the fact to be, 
 A " Liberal " might be aught but free, 
 And for " Reform," 
 
 It might be but another creed, 
 To limit nature, cripple deed, 
 And mind deform. 
 
 ***** 
 
 You built your home, and I built mine, 
 From logs of hewn and peeled pine 
 And cleared the land 
 
 Of saw-palm, pine, and black-jack oak 
 And planted what we might to cloak 
 The naked sand. 
 
 Remember you those long-drawn days 
 Of flashing sun and azure haze 
 And balmy air, 
 
 When we would toil with plow and hoe 
 To coax the lazy trees to grow, 
 The crops to bear ? 
 
 And those gay nights when all would meet 
 To kick out care with dancing feet 
 And rustic mirth ? 
 
 Or when, within my home, you d sing 
 And make the little fiddle ring 
 Beside the hearth ?
 
 66 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Those days were hard ones for us all, 
 And yet I love them to recall, 
 For there was much 
 
 That gave us pleasure in them, too, 
 And every thought and purpose true 
 Found us in touch. 
 
 Our thoughts were high, our speech was great, 
 With noble hopes we were elate, 
 And every plan 
 
 To make life freer, wiser, strong, 
 Was in our ears as some sweet song 
 Of help to man. 
 
 You were a teacher to me, there ; 
 You opened doors to fresher air 
 And gave me food 
 
 To ease my hunger for the best, 
 And that of which I was in quest 
 You showed was good. 
 
 Among that small, Utopian band 
 You were my chiefest, chosen friend, 
 And when you left 
 
 It seemed our music left with you ; 
 My fiddle strings all snapt in two, 
 Of you bereft. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 Well, friend, those times are past and^gone, 
 And you the fortieth mile-stone 
 Are reaching, fast,
 
 "LIBERTY." 67 
 
 Upon life s journey to that strange, 
 Unravelled mystery of change 
 Of all the last. 
 
 I wish you birthdays, many more ! 
 Of all good things I wish you store ! 
 And, ere you die, 
 
 May your glad eyes perceive, fulfilled, 
 The freedom they have wished and willed 
 And so good-bye ! 
 
 "LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE 
 WORLD." 
 
 HARD by the ferry s rail I stood, one night, 
 And saw the beacon gleam across the bay, 
 Of that fair statue bravely raised to say : 
 O Brain and Hand be Free ! in words of light ; 
 But as I looked, no statue met my sight, 
 Only a shapeless shade that seemed to stay 
 Atween the glorious torch-star, sweet as day, 
 And where the pedestal shone palely white. 
 
 A symbol this, it seemed to me ; forsooth 
 
 The world lies wan beneath high Freedom s flame, 
 
 And, dazzled, knows not yet her form, nor grace ; 
 
 Her torch to men is but a torch in truth, 
 
 Few read as yet her lines of healing fame 
 
 Too dark ! Too soon ! the morrow sees her face.
 
 68 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 MY WOMEN. 
 
 BEHOLD my women, grave and sweet, 
 With eyes of depth, and stately feet. 
 
 With brows of thought, and magnet hand, 
 And tact and heart to understand ; 
 
 Who hear and see, and quickly feel, 
 What tone and glance alone reveal. 
 
 Who, hand in hand, keep step and stride, 
 With tender courage, at my side. 
 
 Who fit my mood, as fits the sea 
 Into a noontide reverie. 
 
 Who calm my soul, as does the sky 
 When on the sward I musing lie. 
 
 Who give me rest, as Mother Earth 
 When on her breast I make my berth. 
 
 Whose woman s pride and kindling eye 
 Inspire me like a prophecy. 
 
 Whose courage high, and faith elate, 
 Bend all my aims to nobler fate. 
 
 Who stir and thrill like music, rare, 
 And cleanse and free like ocean air.
 
 A WINTER MORNING WALK. 69 
 
 Who bid me trust them, have no fear, 
 With lips of truth and eyes sincere. 
 
 I know my women, grave and sweet, 
 And they know me, where er we meet. 
 
 A WINTER MORNING WALK. 
 
 THE gray hills circle on the bourne of sight, 
 And like a picture on a shell are drawn 
 The eastward farm and trees upon the light : 
 Across the pallid, drifting fields of snow 
 I stride, elate, while overhead the crow, 
 Cut on their clearness like a cameo, 
 Athwart the pearl-hued skies of first, faint dawn, 
 Flaps like a flying fragment of the Night. 
 
 Hold we but hope of souls untouched of tether, 
 And pace in step with Nature s mood alway, 
 
 For health and wit and happy thought and love, 
 No matter be it fair or falling weather, 
 
 Or skies be black or skies be bright above, 
 The morning is our youth, and spring of day.
 
 70 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 A FAIR WOMAN S HAIR. 
 
 P EVVARE 
 
 LJ Of the spell of a fair woman s hair ! 
 
 Glinting with sun-gold. 
 
 Floating in air, 
 
 Softer than silk of the Orient loom, 
 
 Brown, auburn, or golden, or glossy in gloom : 
 
 Fragrant, beautiful snare ; 
 
 Beware 
 
 Of the charm of a fair woman s hair. 
 
 Beware ! 
 
 The bonds of the heart are there ; 
 
 Curling so prettily over the brow 
 
 Oh turn your eyes from its magic now ! 
 
 Those threads are the strings of Cupid s bow, 
 
 His arrows dart from bright orbs below: 
 
 Turn! 
 
 Spurn ! 
 
 Or your heart will yearn, 
 
 And your thoughts will burn 
 
 Ah ! when will the wise man learn 
 
 To beware 
 
 Of the snare 
 
 Of a fair woman s hair? 
 
 Beware ! 
 
 Take care ! 
 
 A lasso of Love is each hair, 
 
 Waving and crinkling there,
 
 STORM-LESSON. 71 
 
 Or bright and straight 
 
 With the beauty of Fate ; 
 
 Brittle as glass yet strong as steel, 
 
 Entangling hearts for woe or weal ; 
 
 Drawing a man to the gates of sin 
 
 Or hedging him in 
 
 With a holy veil, 
 
 Against which Hell s gates cannot prevail 
 
 O hide me there ! 
 
 Safe from care, 
 
 Wrapt in the cloud of a fair woman s hair, 
 
 Beautiful, beautiful hair. 
 
 STORM-LESSON. 
 
 AGAINST the sombre pines the white storm 
 whirls, 
 
 Below a felted sky, wan-hued as death, 
 While all the woods are rimed with Winter s 
 
 breath, 
 The trunks ice-mailed; sleet cuts ; the wild wind 
 
 hurls 
 The damp and clogging flakes, and rhythmic 
 
 sings, 
 In wailing words of chanted under-song, 
 
 As in the lee the wave-like drift it flings, 
 A rune of things unfathomed, old and strange 
 and strong.
 
 72 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 ii. 
 
 The East is pale as pearl ; faint stripes of red, 
 Athwart, burn clear and fine, the fields are white 
 And drawn with drifts curl-lipped like shells ; the 
 
 Night 
 Hath banished Storm ; the Winds, wide-winged, 
 
 are fled, 
 
 And with the sun, lo ! all the world hath gems 
 And fire of stabbing sparks and jewels a-cling 
 
 To crystal twigs and spangled sprays and stems 
 While tinkling on the crust the falling ice-casts 
 ring. 
 
 O Nature, mother, sweet and fierce and kind, 
 Strange, beautiful or passionate or grave, 
 From thee are all the things that slay or save, 
 
 That give us ease or dread, that loose or bind ; 
 And, we, of thee begotten, have the germs 
 
 And rudiments of that thy largeness hath. 
 Thou canst no more, and I accept thy terms 
 
 And wage with thee no silly war of whining 
 wrath. 
 
 Genius is intuition, innate force and the passion 
 ate desire to do a perfect thing.
 
 MY WITCH FLAMES. 73 
 
 MY WITCH FLAMES. 
 
 THE witch, Flame, stept on a kindling stick, 
 And leapt with a bound to the apex, quick, 
 Scattering abroad her blazing hair, 
 Waving weird arms, wild, red, and bare. 
 
 Tossing her smoke-blue mantle o er, 
 With a crackling laugh, half-hiss, half-roar, 
 Licking the logs with her lapping tongue, 
 Writhing, worm-like, the knots among. 
 
 While eerie urchins came from her wame, 
 Skipping some step of an elfin game, 
 Doing the tricks of their demon dam, 
 As apes, insane, with an oriflamb. 
 
 And their red eyes winked, mid ashes gray, 
 As they turned and squirmed and vanished away 
 Stretching, anon, like tip-tailed snake, 
 Lizard-like, seeming to fall and break. 
 
 So I sit and pore at the eldritch race 
 And their flapping fun in that sooty place, 
 And hold my toes to the genial heat, 
 Or nod and grin at a witch-face, sweet. 
 
 But it sometimes seems that they stay not there, 
 But leap and climb in my beard and hair, 
 Bedaubing my nose with charcoal grimes, 
 Whirling my wits in mad-cap rhymes.
 
 74 WIND- HAR P SONGS. 
 
 Ay, I love ye well, ye witch-flames, gay, 
 As I sit at mine ingle and mind your play 
 May ye and I be friends for long 
 Ye skip-jig Muses of my song. 
 
 IN A CEMETERY.* 
 
 I SAT among the earthed and speechless dead, 
 While in the west the great sun, round and red, 
 Sank like a sign behind the hazy hills. 
 
 My thoughts were floated far in solemn trance, 
 The heights of life and death stood in my glance 
 And all the vale that intervening fills. 
 
 The giggling laugh smote faint upon my ear 
 Of thoughtless ones who jested there, anear, 
 While on the bourne the day s life burned out 
 clear. 
 
 A dry wind, lingering, touched upon my brow, 
 And seemed to whisper : " Work your worth out 
 
 now, 
 For all the hope of man you see below. 
 
 " Tween hills of dawn and dark a little vale, 
 A little day before the light shall fail, 
 And then oblivion, soundless, swift and pale." 
 
 O mystery of joy and all held dear ! 
 O mystery of pain and death and fear ! 
 O mystery of all we may not know ! 
 
 * Hillside Cemetery, Plainfield, New Jersey.
 
 LOVE WAS RED. 75 
 
 And yet I scarcely long to have it less, 
 I love the music of its awftilness, 
 The solemn cadence of its rhythmic flow. 
 
 f It is right (saith Nature) to seek perfection, but 
 wrong to attain it. 
 
 LOVE WAS RED. 
 
 OLOVE was red, and Love was ripe. 
 And Love shone like the sun, 
 And my brain went round with a sweet delight, 
 As I sped away through the charmed night 
 With the maid, my lovtid one. 
 
 Her eyes shone bright till the stars went pale, 
 
 Her hair was silk-of-gold, 
 Her cheeks were hot with the blushing blood, 
 Her lips were full, like the red rose-bud, 
 
 Her voice was rich and bold. 
 
 " Come ! love of mine," she sweetly said, 
 
 " And bear me far away 
 Upon your steed so strong and fleet, 
 Away thro the moonlight, weird and sweet, 
 
 Long miles ere break of day ! 
 
 " For my home is not a home to me, 
 
 My parents are cold and stern ; 
 My soul revolts at this tyranny ! 
 O take me hence, for I would be free ! 
 
 With love for you I burn ! "
 
 76 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 My mare stood under the linden tree 
 
 Black as a flashing coal 
 
 And she pawed the ground as she saw us come, 
 Whinnering low a glad welcome, 
 
 As tho the maid were her foal. 
 
 I placed my love on a pillion soft, 
 
 With one white arm she clung 
 Her warm breath played athwart my cheek 
 And words of love in my ear did speak 
 
 Ah me ! our hearts were young. 
 
 Afar we fled through that moony night, 
 
 And landscapes strange and still ; 
 And the hills rose up and the hills sank down, 
 As we galloped on past waste and town, 
 Till midnight clocks did peal. 
 
 We reined, at last, in a forest lone 
 
 My cloak was wide and warm ; 
 Where love is pure and love is real, 
 Where hearts are warm and hearts are leal, 
 
 What matters a bond, or form ? 
 
 Our priest was Love who gave the ring 
 
 The circle of joy complete 
 By Nature s rites our souls were wed ; 
 And the stars looked down on our sylvan bed 
 
 And danced with twinkling feet. 
 
 Yea, holier far than prayer of priest 
 
 Is the maiden s kiss of love ; 
 And the faith of a true and sincere man 
 Was never yet helped by Statute s plan 
 
 Where Liberty smiled above.
 
 IN A PRISM. 77 
 
 HOMELESS. 
 
 WHOSO hath home hath hope, 
 A wall of courage at his back, 
 A coigne of vantage for his feet, 
 And for his head a rest. 
 
 Whoso hath home hath hope: 
 The beasts upon the thousand hills 
 Have all and one a cuddling place, 
 A hole or nest for each. 
 
 Whoso home hath none is sadder than a beast, 
 As poor as Christ, and lonelier than a fox. 
 
 IN A PRISM. 
 
 WOULD write me a poem to-night, 
 Gemmed with beautiful words; 
 But of what, 
 I know not; 
 I have only the impulse aright, 
 
 The passion to sing, 
 
 Like the waves and the birds; 
 
 And the thought 
 
 Is not clear, 
 Nor the vision to the seer,
 
 78 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 But I write 
 
 As one might 
 
 In prophecy 
 
 Unsought, 
 
 And I think, it may be, 
 As bards of minstrelsy 
 Improvise. 
 
 Arise, 
 O my soul, 
 Come out ! 
 
 There is music in thy brain 
 Like the rain; 
 
 Like the laugh 
 And the sip 
 Of the lip 
 Of the wave 
 On the sand. 
 It is faint, like the mist, 
 
 And it turns 
 Like the wind that we list, 
 
 And it burns 
 
 Like the flush of the flame in the womb 
 Of the time when the daytime is not. 
 
 I sat on the ground 
 
 To-day, 
 With a hound; 
 And he was the brother of me. 
 
 Exceedingly 
 Beautiful were his eyes; 
 Gentle and merry and brown. 
 Ah it was sweet to be down 
 On a level with him and all things there 
 In the grass.
 
 IN A PRISM. 79 
 
 We, who are tall, 
 How much of pleasure we pass ! 
 Of the joy which the little and earth-close know ! 
 Is it not so ? 
 
 There is place for me, 
 
 Discovery, 
 
 Wonder, adventure and mystery, 
 In the forests of ragweed and clover, 
 In the silvas of the grass; 
 Where the beetles roam, 
 And the butterfly hovereth over, 
 The humming-bird is ruby lightning and thunder, 
 The toad is a gnome, 
 The pebble a rock, 
 
 The harlequin-spider swings his silvery net, 
 Dew-wet 
 On the fret, 
 And to us, thereunder, 
 The tall lily is goodlier than the palm. 
 
 O soul, 
 
 There is room ! 
 We are free ! 
 
 In the inness of things there is room, 
 There is room in the wind and the sea, 
 There is room in the crowds of the tree, 
 In the multitudes of the grass. 
 There is welcome for me 
 In the beauty of things; 
 In the sunset 
 I am home. 
 
 Did you ever swim in the sky ? 
 Often have I,
 
 8o WIND-HARP SOXGS. 
 
 And hung in the air like a kite, 
 I could turn to the left or the right, 
 
 And go 
 Or high or low 
 In the atmosphere 
 
 Of crystal. 
 Come up with me there ! 
 
 We will fly 
 
 To the top of the purple cloud 
 Where the shrill hawk circles; 
 We will sit on the golden verge; 
 
 We will feel the urge 
 Of the winds of the world; 
 We will see the crimson stain the side 
 Of the cliffs we ride; 
 We will have sight, 
 
 Aright, 
 Like the high gods, 
 
 Tall, 
 Overall. 
 
 soul, 
 
 1 surmise 
 
 We are too achromatic. 
 Would it not be wise, 
 
 Sometimes, 
 
 To live in radiant rainbows? 
 
 In the Iris-land perfume is food, 
 
 Music is breath, 
 
 Color is sight, 
 
 The winds are what eloquence saith; 
 Love is the moon of the night, 
 
 Glamour her light; 
 For stars, beautiful eyes,
 
 EPICUREAN. 81 
 
 And for sunrise 
 
 A smile. 
 
 O would 
 It not, for a while, 
 
 Be well 
 
 To dwell 
 In a prism ? 
 
 EPICUREAN. 
 
 H ! sing glad heart, sing 
 
 Thy pean; 
 There is but one wisdom, even joy 
 
 And kindly wishing ! 
 Well saith the Epicurean: 
 To-day be happy, for to-morrow die 
 
 Thou must. 
 Therefore to-day is glad perfectness of life, 
 
 Breath, 
 
 Innocence, and happy-hearted laughter, 
 With manly earnestness of strife; 
 To-morrow cometh sweet Death, 
 The blending with the dear brown dust, 
 And how think you? nothing after? 
 
 A 1
 
 82 WIND-HARP SOi\GS. 
 
 SELF. 
 
 TO be sufficient unto self! to me, 
 Who fain would stand on purest heights 
 serene, 
 
 Where suns rise first, sink last, and all is clean, 
 This seems the acme of philosophy, 
 The one great need of whoso would be free: 
 
 Mine own sure friend, no matter how demean 
 
 My fellow selves, nor what may come between, 
 I know no lack of love, nor sympathy. 
 With reverence still before myself to stand, 
 
 To learn, to love, to honor all therein, 
 
 Knowing self-injury alone as sin, 
 And sin to others, sin at second-hand 
 I deem a sane man s thought, and therefore grand, 
 
 The attitude of one whom truth helps win. 
 
 DRIFTED LIKE A WIND-BLOWN 
 LEAF TO-DAY. 
 
 1 DRIFTED like a wind-blown leaf to-day, 
 Along a rambling, country, back-roadway, 
 Whose unkempt banks and bed as red as rust, 
 And white stones scattered in its ruddy dust, 
 W 7 ere toned with autumn sunlight s mellow ray, 
 That soft, on all things like ajdamour lay, 
 And russet hue of leaves, which every gust 
 Of wind sent whirling with imperious must.
 
 A FACE SERENE. 83 
 
 A giant mastiff, gentle, by my side, 
 With lion-front and hue of eye and hide, 
 Was comrade with me, happy, wandering there, 
 Blown onward by the wanton piercing air, 
 Marking with me, approved, the gray and green 
 Of cedars and of farmsteads quaint that flanked 
 the scene. 
 
 A FACE SERENE. 
 
 I WOULD my face were as a god s in mien, 
 Not proud, nor pitiless, nor taint with scorn, 
 But calm, illuminate with joy inborn; 
 The face of one whose eyes to smile are seen 
 As deep, still fountains, crystal-clear and clean, 
 Hold visions sweet of blue-sky peace mid thorn 
 And crag of rudest wilderness, uptorn; 
 "Self peace! To others peace!" from depths 
 
 serene. 
 Ah ! beautiful are lips that restful move, 
 
 And strong, smooth brows that fairly, calmly 
 
 think, 
 
 And gentle eyes whose courage is to death; 
 The fair, strong features whoso sees must love, 
 The firm, strong hands that with yours truly link, 
 The pleasant mouth whence cometh Truth s 
 sweet breath.
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 A PLAQUE of gold, up slips the moon 
 Above the shadeful eastern hills; 
 Far-floating, like a big balloon, 
 Its pale light crimping on the rills. 
 
 The little stars come twitching out, 
 
 Like spiders on a sky-blue wall, 
 Twinkling their liule legs about 
 
 See there ! that one just had a fall. 
 
 Each firefly strikes his little light 
 And joins him to the gay quadrille; 
 
 Brisk, eager bats flap through the night; 
 We all receipt mosquitoes bill. 
 
 The whip-poor-will s clear sounding note 
 Comes echoing from the black-caved wood 
 
 Where great, wise owls silent float, 
 Or screech and hoot in comic mood. 
 
 The oars dip softly in the mere, 
 
 A girl s light laugh thrills on the breeze, 
 
 Rich, murmuring tones come to the ear 
 What import have such sounds as these ? 
 
 The wavelets ripple by the prow, 
 The moonbeams sparkle on her hair, 
 
 His form is bending toward her now, 
 And we had better leave them there.
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 85 
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 
 
 O DEAREST love of mine ! 
 Thou lovest not to kill, 
 But it must be 
 That cruelty 
 Is deep in thee. 
 For oft thy moods incline 
 My heart to spill, 
 My hopes to tease. 
 
 Though all thy charms so please, 
 
 I can not hope for ease 
 
 With thee, but pain, 
 
 For it is plain 
 
 Thy sweet eyes find delight 
 
 In my sad plight 
 
 And baffled suit. 
 
 The fruit 
 
 Of Tantalus 
 
 Thy grace 
 
 For all my prayer; 
 
 Witli half-averted face, 
 
 And smiling eye, 
 
 Thou, careless, 
 
 Hearest my sigh, 
 
 And hold, 
 
 O beautiful ! but cold, 
 
 My love in light esteem 
 
 Ah, foolishly I dream ! 
 
 Thou wilt not spare.
 
 86 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 O pity me, 
 
 For it must be 
 
 That I should so love thee ! 
 
 Man cannot scape his fate, 
 
 Nor soon, nor late, 
 
 Be other than he must. 
 
 And yet I trust 
 
 And dare to hope ; 
 
 Before me there doth ope, 
 
 Like as the mirage, fair, might cheat the sight 
 
 Of one upon the desert sand, 
 
 Such vistas of delight, 
 
 With groves of peace, 
 
 And springs of calm content, 
 
 As make me raptured stand, 
 
 And give me no surcease 
 
 Of longings, theevvard spent. 
 
 I weary thee 
 
 With all these plaintive moans, 
 
 And this my love-sick air ; 
 
 And yet so dreamily 
 
 Thou listenest my tones, 
 
 And eke my tender prayer, 
 
 That I may not forbear, 
 
 I am not wont to supplicate, 
 But such is now my fate ! 
 
 Ah, Soul within my soul ! 
 O Heart-beat of my heart ! 
 If we must live apart 
 There is no perfect anywhere. 
 And all my days shall wear
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 87 
 
 This sorrow like a thorn, 
 And all fields shall me warn : 
 "Yea, this too must be borne " 
 What shall me then console ! 
 
 Presumptious is my love, 
 Thou art so much above, 
 So better, everyway, than I, 
 And yet I cannot still this cry, 
 My great need makes me bold, 
 I may not rest my heart 
 Till all of it is told. 
 
 My love hath this one art 
 Of poetry ; 
 
 I needs must sing to thee : 
 Most like the love-smit bird, 
 Whose ardent notes are heard, 
 From shaken throat, elate, 
 Imploring, wooingly, 
 His coy, reluctant mate. 
 
 O love, we are so near 
 
 In every hope and fear, 
 
 In every dream and thought, 
 
 And all that thou dost state 
 
 Hath kindredship so clear 
 
 To somewhat I have wrought, 
 
 That I am moved to build, 
 
 Audaciously, 
 
 Whilst thou art kind to me, 
 
 Before thy sight 
 
 The visions that I see 
 
 With pleasuance filled 
 
 Of our delight.
 
 WIND- HARP SONGS. 
 
 I meet thee, O my fair, 
 
 In vernal woods, 
 
 Among the birds, 
 
 And note the soft surprise 
 
 Leap to thy cheek, 
 
 The lovely lips that speak, 
 
 And eloquent, sad eyes. 
 
 We go a-rambling there, 
 
 The trees among 
 
 And emerald fields, 
 
 Where blades and buds are young, 
 
 The day is young, 
 
 The year, 
 
 The flowers that have upsprung, 
 
 And we in heart, my dear. 
 
 Like children, so we stand, 
 
 Hand clasped in hand, 
 
 Beside the forest pool, 
 
 Or gather mosses, cool, 
 
 Among the ferns ; 
 
 Or take the devious turns 
 
 Which ever hath 
 
 A woodland path. 
 
 While woodsy fragrance yields 
 
 From leaves, damp mold, or brake, 
 
 At every step we take. 
 
 I gather flowers there 
 
 To twine within thy hair, 
 
 And bring thee guerdon, strange, 
 
 Of lichen, toadstool, 
 
 Frond,
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 89 
 
 The bleached tortoise-shell, 
 The club-moss from the pond, 
 The Indian-pipe s pale bell, 
 And such like simple spoil 
 Of woodland range 
 And sylvan soil. 
 
 For thou art good to me, 
 Thy tones are sweet, 
 (On this our holiday 
 And treat), 
 
 Thy features, erst so sad, 
 Wear now no care, 
 For Nature s sympathy 
 And, it mayhap, my own, 
 Hath ta en all away, 
 And left thee glad 
 With joy in life alone. 
 
 I lead thee to a seat 
 On fallen log 
 And cast me at thy feet 
 The blackbirds whistle sweet 
 Around the bog 
 And, when I lift mine eyes 
 I see thy dear face there, 
 Bent down as from the skies 
 My angel ! true and fair. 
 * * # # 
 
 Tis slumberous afternoon 
 
 In June, 
 
 And I, in easy chair, 
 
 Read thee a pleasant tale ; 
 
 Swinging thy hammock, where,
 
 90 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Beneath the shadeful trees, 
 
 All murmurous with bees, 
 
 The languid calm of summer thro us thrills. 
 
 The banks within the vale 
 
 Quiver with heat ; 
 
 The distant hills, 
 
 From our breeze-drawn retreat, 
 
 Before thy dreamy gaze, 
 
 Melt in an azure haze. 
 
 A-swing 
 
 With gentlest motioning, 
 
 At ease, 
 
 Thou, upward, through the trees, 
 
 Perceivest swallows twittering fly 
 
 With fluttering wing, 
 
 And graceful dip and spring, 
 
 Against the dark-blue sky ; 
 
 While Alp-clouds pile them high 
 
 Within the widening West. 
 
 Lo, all is Sabbath rest ! 
 And yet 
 Holds threat 
 Of thunder by and by, 
 When Night, 
 
 With Shadow, draweth nigh 
 To fright 
 The Light 
 And put out sight. 
 # * * * 
 
 I sit beside thee, dear, 
 And hold thy hand ;
 
 A SONG OF SAD LOVE. 91 
 
 We speak not any word, 
 For all the night is grand 
 With flames we do not fear, 
 And over all is heard 
 The thunder s breaking roar, 
 And rushing, swift downpour 
 Upon the roofs of rain. 
 
 We feel the solemn charm 
 Of midnight and of storm 
 An organ strain 
 And are as one in twain, 
 For thou art close to me, 
 Reclining on my breast, 
 And in my sphere of calm 
 Is all thy soul at rest. 
 
 A gently stroking hand 
 
 Hath loosed fatigue s close band, 
 
 And drowsy fancies creep 
 
 Upon the sense, 
 
 Like as a little child, 
 
 Within some sure defence 
 
 Of sheltering arms, 
 
 Secure from all alarms , 
 
 To Dreamland is beguiled, 
 
 Thou art a-nest. 
 
 The thunder s muttering threat 
 
 Dies far away ; 
 
 Upon the mountains wet 
 
 Its echoes play ; 
 
 I lie awake and hear 
 
 The gentle rain 
 
 Soft beating on the roof 
 
 And window pane ;
 
 92 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 I may not sleep at all 
 
 For deep content, 
 
 For ended is my call, 
 
 Thou art no more aloof, 
 
 My loss hath turned to gain, 
 
 And all my breast 
 
 Is with fair locks besprent, 
 
 Where thy dear head is pressed, 
 
 In breathings soft and deep, 
 
 Of utter sleep. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE GREEN, GREEN 
 SEA. 
 
 1MET a milk-white woman there, 
 Down in the depths of the green, green sea, 
 Wrapped in a net of her red-gold hair 
 She threw its mantle over me. 
 
 Her breasts like great foam-bubbles were, 
 Down in the depths of the green, green sea, 
 
 And pearls were strung on her red-gold hair, 
 In the woven net that compassed me. 
 
 " O whence come you that seek me here, 
 Down in the depths of the green, green sea ? " 
 
 " I am a dead man, drowned anear ; 
 O who are you that speaks to me ? " 
 
 Her eyes were blue as the deep water, 
 With a phosphor gleam thro the green sea, 
 
 A wonderful, beautiful sea-daughter, 
 Swaying and smiling there at me.
 
 BALLAD OF THE GREEN SEA. 93 
 
 " O I was drowned an hundred years 
 
 Ago, in the depths of the green sea, 
 And all these pearls are all my tears, 
 
 And in this net I drowndexl me. 
 
 "An hundred years ago we sailed, 
 Out over the depths of this green sea ; 
 
 A corsair crew O fate bewailed ! 
 Struck us and slew all souls but me. 
 
 "And me they stript to taste my shame, 
 
 And wove a net of my hair on me, 
 I scaped, and leapt like a blushing flame 
 
 Into the depths of the green, green sea. 
 
 "Now you have come to be my love, 
 Down in the depths of this green, green sea, 
 
 To sleep in a cave in a coral grove 
 O come, dear love, and lie with me ! " 
 
 She wrapped me then in her mesh of hair, 
 Down in the depths of the green, green sea ; 
 
 A woman s tress is stronger than prayer, 
 And never a prayer escaped me. 
 
 Now happy the lives of us so dead, 
 
 Down in the depths of the green, green sea ; 
 
 Where still, slow currents smooth our bed, 
 And I hold her, and she holds me.
 
 94 WIND- HARP SO N GS. 
 
 THE LATTER DAYS. 
 
 OH cold and blithe are the latter days, 
 When the winds go wandering round and 
 
 round, 
 
 With the brown leaves drifting, nowhere bound, 
 And the skies are pale, and the hills a-haze, 
 And the rabbit leapeth before the hound. 
 
 The woods meseemeth a shipping s spars, 
 
 From the dead-leaf sea which the world hath 
 
 drowned, 
 
 If I were dead would my soul be found, 
 Playmate of winds and the dancing stars, 
 Tumbling the dead leaves over the ground ? 
 
 ONE HAPPY HOUR. 
 
 ONE happy hour, one afternoon, 
 I lay in my boat on the open bay, 
 Cradled and rocked by the rythmic sway 
 Of lapping and laughing waves at play, 
 Dreaming and dreaming whatever I would. 
 
 With pulses tripping a pleasant tune, 
 As young as ever, and life as fair, 
 A boy, on my back, with never a care, 
 Drinking the joy of the salt-sweet air 
 "Live in the present, for Life is good ! "
 
 YOU STOOD. 95 
 
 CHOCOLATE. 
 
 SWEET like a child, but wise, so wise ; 
 A little brown woman with bright brown 
 eyes ; 
 
 Piquant and charming ; magical bands 
 Weaving with eloquent, soft little hands, 
 
 Daintily, tenderly ; merry and sweet ; 
 Smiling and smiling from eyelash to feet ; 
 Closer and closer, ever, to thee, 
 O little brown woman, why winnest thou me ? 
 
 YOU STOOD. 
 
 YOU stood a sweet, still statue, looking down 
 To see him pass ; the while your woman s 
 heart 
 
 With him went too, and all your vibrant soul 
 Swung struggling with strange moods, and yet no 
 
 word 
 Nor sign " Good-bye ! " O irony of Fate ! 
 
 So might some lute, most daintily attuned 
 To lays of love, in soundless grief perceive 
 The only hand which knew the touch to strike 
 Its waiting music out to life, withdrawn :
 
 96 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Come back ! O touch me once again ! Come 
 
 back ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 O wonderful and sweet ; why should you love him 
 so! 
 
 if Poetry is the rhythmical interpretation and ex 
 pression of charm. 
 
 A LARGER LIFE. 
 
 WAKE to the dawn of a Larger Life, 
 Sleepers dull in the Night of Now ; 
 Beat your hearts to a wider strife, 
 
 Build your thought in a broader brow ! 
 
 For the hills are high (hat hold the sky, 
 
 And the waters are wide that wash the world, 
 
 And the breaths of all r,iot, that live or die, 
 The winds have given and caught and whirled. 
 
 Be free and conscious of all you are, 
 
 Dignity and a selfness great, 
 Life at one with the farthest star, 
 
 With all of Nature in every state ! 
 
 For the hills are high that hold the sky, 
 And the waters are wide that wash the world, 
 
 And the breaths of all men, you and /, 
 Forever and ever the ivinds have hurled.
 
 GREA TNESS. 97 
 
 GREATNESS. 
 
 SHALL a man always long for greatness and yet 
 never attain it? 
 Shall he spend the treasure years of his life in 
 
 training for great battles, 
 And then see his heart eaten with rust, 
 His hands soften with sloth ? 
 Shall he lie like a log on the beach, 
 Stranded out of the currents of the great sea, for 
 ever ? 
 
 Nay, it matters not ! 
 
 For this is greatness to be always ready for it. 
 
 It is not the great deed that makes the great man, 
 
 The deed is but the outward sign, 
 
 Not greatness but the publication of it ; 
 
 For though the man be stripped, dumb, paralyzed, 
 
 He can still be great. 
 
 Greatness inheres in the great thought, the clear 
 purpose, the serene poise, the wide view, the 
 overlook ; 
 
 In individuality, ability, reserve force, knack, cour 
 age, knowledge ; 
 
 Not in what you have done, but in what you can 
 and will do if need come. 
 
 The cannon may nut speak for a decade, 
 
 But, if it be loaded, 
 
 It is always sublime, deadly, terrible. 
 
 ##**** 
 
 When the time comes !
 
 98 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 CRANFORD WATER. 
 
 AN ink-black flow beneath November s gray 
 And serious sky : upon it, as I stay 
 My listless footstep on a bridge, I spy 
 A dead leaf, sapless, drifting slowly by 
 Still stream, brown leaf, bare branches pointing 
 
 high ! 
 And musing much I wend my aimless way. 
 
 All loves inspire weak loves vanity and a will 
 ingness to deceive ; great loves nobility and a 
 passion to deserve. 
 
 PLACE ME AGAIN, I PRAY, GREAT 
 FATE! 
 
 F)LACE me again, I pray, great Fate, 
 
 1 Beside a nature broad and grave and sweet ! 
 
 To all my nobler thirsts and passions mate ; 
 
 Inspired and sane again, great Fate, 
 
 Within the realm of some soul-queen, so great 
 
 That Love himself, page-like, waits at her feet, 
 O place me once again, great Fate, 
 
 Beside a nature broad and grave and sweet !
 
 A SOUVENIR VILLANELLE. 99 
 
 A SOUVENIR VILLANELLE. 
 
 IN an open boat on a winding stream, 
 Lilies and flags and a flashing sun 
 Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 
 
 Souvenirs fit for a poet s theme, 
 
 Gather we here where the ripples run 
 In an open boat on a winding stream. 
 
 Flowers and friends that we hold in esteem, 
 
 Shall we remember when all is done ? 
 Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 
 
 Life is for all but a floating dream 
 
 (Tallied by trophies, memory won,) 
 In an open boat on a winding stream. 
 
 Threat of storm and a bright sunbeam 
 
 (How ends the voyage when once begun ?)- 
 Do not forget how the waters gleam ! 
 
 Are real things fairest, or things that seem ? 
 
 Shall we look back upon this one ? 
 In an open boat on a winding stream ? 
 Do not forget how the waters gleam !
 
 TOO WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. 
 
 BEYOND lies a valley of silence, 
 Clear night without tempest or star, 
 Naught holding but darkness and stillness, 
 And calmness that nothing can mar. 
 
 We go to that valley of silence, 
 Days happy or sad bear us on, 
 
 Repose in that valley of silence, 
 
 When joyance and sadness are done. 
 
 Peace, peaceful that valley of silence, 
 Full of great words ever unsaid; 
 
 Pure silence, clear calmness, real resting 
 Sweet echoless vale of the dead. 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN OWL. 
 
 THE little brown owl 
 That sat in the tree 
 With great, gold eyes 
 He looked at me. 
 
 He laughed " Ho-Ho ! " And I laughed "He- 
 He!" 
 Afthat little brown owl that sat in the tree. 
 
 The little brown owl, 
 
 That sat in the tree, 
 With gold-black eyes 
 
 Winked thrice at me.
 
 TRIOLET. IOT 
 
 He laughed " Ho-Ho ! " and I laughed " He-He !" 
 For I thought him a droll bird, certainlie. 
 
 That little brown owl, 
 
 That sat in the tree, 
 Seemed over-wise 
 
 Exceedinglie. 
 
 But he laughed "Ho-Ho!" and I laughed "He- 
 He! " 
 At the solemn face he made in the tree. 
 
 O little brown owl, 
 
 Tell me, prithee, 
 Why art thou so 
 
 Solemcholie ? 
 
 But he laughed " Ho-Ho !" till I laughed "He- 
 He !" 
 And he spake me no more for a veritie. 
 
 TRIOLET. 
 
 TO lie on one s back and look at the sky, 
 Up through the branches and leaves of green 
 Why, I used to do that when only so high ! 
 Lie on my back and look up at the sky, 
 At the white and the blue, and wish I could fly. 
 
 It gives one a feeling so great and serene, 
 To lie on one s back and gaze at the sky, 
 
 Up through the branches and leaves of green.
 
 102 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 OF AUTUMN WINE. 
 
 OF autumn wine, sweet friends, I fain would 
 sing; 
 
 That golden nectar, ether strained, doth sting 
 My nerves, intoxicate, to brighter bliss 
 Of brighter dreams than Madjoon slaves e er 
 
 wis 
 
 When from their pipes the white, slow smoke doth 
 ring. 
 
 That topaz-hearted, amber drink forth bring 
 In crystal, variant-dyed by leaves a-swing, 
 While dreamily we drain the bowls we kiss 
 Of autumn wine. 
 
 About our halls an azure haze doth cling, 
 And on our walls are vagrant birds, whistling 
 In music clear, their farewell songs tis this 
 That bids me mind that somewhat we must miss 
 For every draught we quaff, with heedless fling, 
 Of autumn wine.
 
 THE DISINHERITED. 103 
 
 THE DISINHERITED. 
 
 THEY cluster at every corner; 
 They^wearily pace the land; 
 Their starving eyes devour each loaf ; 
 They stretch the begging hand. 
 
 They are hungry and sick and tired; 
 
 Their bleeding footsteps lag; 
 My brothers ! and none to help them ! 
 
 Their nakedness mocked with a rag ! 
 
 They bake, and others have eaten; 
 
 They burn, but others are warm; 
 They build, but their heads, unsheltered, 
 
 Are bare to the pitiless storm. 
 
 They till, but the crop goes from them; 
 
 They reap, but " The Harvest Home " 
 Means to them that their product is stolen; 
 
 They brew, and taste but the foam. 
 
 Ah God ! how sadly they call Thee; 
 
 If Thou wert, Thou couldst not withstand; 
 But always the wicked have triumphed; 
 
 The cunning and strong rule the land. 
 
 The hearts of the mothers are breaking; 
 
 The daughters are bedded with shame; 
 The fathers are brutish with labor; 
 
 The thoughts of the sons are a flame.
 
 104 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 And Hatred and Arson and Murder, 
 Like demons they beckon and tempt, 
 
 The hand to the sword is outreaching 
 Blood ! Blood ! O can nothing exempt ! 
 
 O Wisdom be instant and help us ! 
 Quick rearing thy radiant crest 
 
 O brothers, the sword is a traitor ! 
 The calm, thoughtful methods are best. 
 
 The way of the wise is the best, 
 
 Which thinkers have pondered and planned; 
 The Gordian tangles are slipping 
 
 Behold ! your release is at hand. 
 
 LOVE IS A RIDDLE. 
 
 T OVE came to me with a new-appearing head : 
 \-j " I see you do not know me," Love said, 
 "But I have many forms, and in no one am I 
 
 altogether wed." 
 
 " You are truly very strange, Love," said I, 
 "You are never twice alike, and I cannot tell the 
 
 why. 
 Tell me, sweet Love, are you always thus unlike 
 
 and appareled differently ? " 
 " Always," said Love, " lest men weary of me, 
 Lest with limits of I know, they should hold me 
 
 less than free."
 
 AN IDYL OF THE HILLS. 105 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE BEACH. 
 
 BLUE sky, and in the distance sails, no cloud ; 
 A sea-bird winnowing the salty air ; 
 A sweep of shining sand, a pebbly glare 
 Beneath the sun ; foamed sea-dogs running loud 
 Upon the beach, choked sullen back, half-cowed ; 
 Knee-deep, two blue-clad women, walking there, 
 And hand-in-hand, with shining, unbound hair, 
 Their faces strong and sweet, their motions proud. 
 
 A shell, upwashed, doth whisper in my ear : 
 "The sea the sea hath washed full many hearts 
 Their red love out, and left them cold and still." 
 
 But sun and sparkling wind wot not of fear, 
 Nor those fair figures happily free of arts, 
 To-day is joy let morrows work their will ! 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE HILLS. 
 
 1MIND me how I walked, one summer s day, 
 Adown a hillside, straw-hat on my hair, 
 Coat off and "pants" in boots, all debonair; 
 Bearing two pails for someone going my way, 
 Sunbonneted, in country girl s array, 
 Demure, with plump hands berry-stained and 
 
 bare 
 
 And pleased shy eyes beneath a forehead fair, 
 While something glad about us seemed to play.
 
 106 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Well-met, and not quite all an accident, 
 
 Though we were willing each should think as 
 
 much, 
 
 She capped the knoll as I the gap unrailed, 
 And subtle glamours all about us blent ; 
 That braid of tawny hair I longed to touch, 
 Yet loved the sweet half-fear that just pre 
 vailed. 
 
 SUNSET ON 7 HOPATCONG. 
 
 PLACID, softly shaded as a dove s breast, 
 A-tint with olive green where in it sink 
 Dark shadows of the hills along its brink, 
 As some gay bird is taken by its nest 
 The wide lake fills with all the painted West ; 
 All mingled stains and tender lights a-link, 
 Pale gold and flame ef rose and flush of pink, 
 Gleam there ere droop the purple plumes to rest. 
 
 Entranced, I see some red Nariticong 
 Dip paddle in those pools of sunset stain, 
 
 His wild dark eye, beneath his eagle plumes, 
 Smiling a little at the chanted song 
 
 His young squaw sings of happy hunting plain- 
 A savage dream, which all the West illumes. 
 
 The more we grow the more we become at peace 
 with the Universe, the more tolerantly we regard 
 the motives and motions of others, the more rest- 
 fully and contentedly we yield ourselves, to our 
 selves, the less we fear from laissez faire.
 
 FIREFLIES. 107 
 
 FIREFLIES. 
 
 I SAT at ease upon my latticed porch, 
 While in the cloud-walled west the thunders 
 
 smote 
 
 Their muffled drums and up the east gan float, 
 In globe of gold, sweet Luna s lover s torch, 
 While bats and bugs that dread the midday s 
 
 scorch, 
 Flew, chirped and hummed ; and yonder in the 
 
 womb 
 
 Of very night the fireflies lit the gloom 
 With sparks that mocked the lightning s sudden 
 search. 
 
 You bring unto my memory thrillingly, 
 Beloved insects, fitfully luminous, 
 Visions of sultry evenings long ago, 
 When by your light I marked her cheeks deep 
 
 glow, 
 
 As in the night my passion amorous 
 I breathed, and knew she listened willingly.
 
 io8 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 THE LODGE. 
 
 BEHOLD it ! thus : a rude room ribbed with 
 logs, 
 
 A puncheon floor, a roof of riven boards ; 
 A fire-cave mouth of rocks, whose flame affords 
 The only, flickering light ; two guant, sad dogs 
 Outstretched before, their dream of trails, banks, 
 
 bogs, 
 
 Deer, fox, tongue-lapping streams, most fit ac 
 cords 
 
 With all that garniture of hunter s hoards 
 Horns, flasks, pelts, guns, dirks, tools and trapper s 
 togs. 
 
 The wood-wolf s bark wails wide beneath the 
 
 moon, 
 
 That coldly paints a path upon the lake 
 To where the wild ducks sleep ; the screech-owl 
 
 trills, 
 
 All stealthily disports the barred raccoon, 
 The bucks come down and splash beside the brake 
 For on his robe snores now the One-who-Kills. 
 
 SCARLET TANAGER. 
 
 A SCARLET bird in a grass green lane, 
 Glowing beneath the lilac-bloom ; 
 In a crystal pool of the recent rain, 
 Flinging pearls from a preening plume.
 
 I DREAM IN THE AMBER A UTUMN. 109 
 
 I DREAM IN THE AMBER AUTUMN. 
 
 OI DREAM in the amber autumn, 
 When the forests are filled with flame, 
 And the haze hangs blue on the mountains, 
 And the days march ever the same. 
 
 When the palette is painted with sadness, 
 Fire, sweetness and passionate breath, 
 
 On a background of purple distance, 
 With the blood-tints and ashes of death. 
 
 When the wigwams of maize are awaiting 
 
 For the spoiler to ravish their store, 
 And the brown leaves are rustling and drifting 
 
 A Dead Sea with never a shore. 
 
 I am tranced in the mellow misting 
 
 Of the amorous atmosphere, 
 And the slumberous warmth and languor 
 
 Of the smoky and golden air. 
 
 I am proud of the sumach and maple, 
 Whose banners are crimson and gold 
 
 Tho the days of their winter are coming 
 And the days of their summer are told. 
 
 And I dream in at-one-ness with Nature, 
 Stained through with her beauty and pain ; 
 
 I am drunk with the wine of her color, 
 With the pangs of her deaths I am slain.
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 ANEW. 
 
 A LISTENING stillness in the morning air, 
 An air of night-sliade, touched with coming 
 fire, 
 
 With cooling freshness weaning my desire, 
 While new hopes paint their dawn on night s 
 
 despair: 
 I kiss the sad sweet lips that are so fair, 
 
 I read the tear-bright eyes that bravely smile, 
 And her dear, quivering mouth that would be 
 guile, 
 And count that woman-courage more than prayer. 
 
 O love, within this morning cool and new, 
 A new day riseth fair within my view ! 
 For you, to-day, I tread the purple crest 
 
 Far, far above the passion-tainted plain; 
 For you, henceforth, I do my manhood s best, 
 And peace, like this bright dew, shall ease our 
 pain. 
 
 TO LIFT ONE S HEAD. 
 
 TO lift one s head on high, on high, 
 And look beyond it all, afar, 
 The petty strife and party cry, 
 
 The shallow spites, that jar, and jar;
 
 TO LIFT ONE S HEAD. 
 
 The narrow thoughts of partizans, 
 
 So pitiable and yet so proud, 
 Self-deemed of truth the sole defence, 
 
 The ear so shut, the mouth so loud. 
 
 The stupid bounds of sect and clan 
 That think their little worlds hold all; 
 
 Twould burst them to be large as man, 
 And if they fail the heavens fall; 
 
 The childish formulas of creed, 
 Babe-guesses petrified in faith 
 
 " Oh weary, weary, weary breed ! 
 O give me room ! " the free soul saith. 
 
 I lift my head on high, on high, 
 
 And look beyond it all, afar, 
 To where the mountains touch the sky, 
 
 And where the oceans beat the bar. 
 
 In health the essential word is balance, the 
 1 method, motion; exercise, thorough, searching, all- 
 inclusive; for the body running is the perfect exer 
 cise, for the mind, writing. A good runner a vig 
 orous, buoyant man; a good writer a facile, well- 
 educated man. In a nutshell Verbwn sat sapienli.
 
 U2 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 A TROPIC HOPE. 
 
 1HOLD, heart friends, a dream of years; 
 A visioned hope, dim seen through fears. 
 
 And this is how it dreams to me, 
 This flower-en wreathed vagary: 
 
 A summer isle in tropic clime, 
 With peaks volcanic, sharp, sublime, 
 
 That stab from out the level sea 
 And pierce the blue immensity 
 
 Of perfect azure, arching clear, 
 
 A wind-washed, sun-thrilled atmosphere; 
 
 While at their feet a cirque of white 
 And dazzling beach flames on the sight; 
 
 Whence, landward, calls a thunderous moan, 
 The sullen surf s deep monotone, 
 
 As curving, tumbling breakers roar, 
 And, foamy-lipped, suck at the shore. 
 
 And there, far up a mountain side, 
 Mid jungles, cliffs and vistas wide, 
 
 (With bridle-path, a steepy stair, 
 Rock-edging, twisting, half in air,
 
 A TROPIC HOPE. 113 
 
 Upwinding from the vale below) 
 A terrace hangs, whereto I go. 
 
 For on that shelf is built my cot 
 
 Of palm and cane, with roof inwrought 
 
 Of thatched leaves; with vines, intwined, 
 Which thatch and rafters joining bind; 
 
 With wattled walls that frame and hold, 
 And floor of smooth, down-beaten mold; 
 
 With unglazed windows, opening wide 
 Their shutters, that within may glide 
 
 The fresh, bloom-scented wind-of-trade, 
 To give cool hearts to noons of shade, 
 
 When, in verandahs low and deep, 
 
 My hammocks swing to dreamless sleep. 
 
 My furniture my own hands make 
 From knotted spoil of jungle brake, 
 
 Jointed bamboo and lustrous woods 
 Known but in tropic latitudes. 
 
 My floor with Indian mats is spread, 
 With netted guards swings free my bed. 
 
 And, all about, barbaric spoil, 
 Of seaside sport and jungle toil, 
 
 Adorn floor, ceiling, or the side, 
 Or on my shelves arranged abide:
 
 ii4 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Sea-beans and sponges, sea-shells rare, 
 Shark-jaws and beauteous corals fair; 
 
 A scarf of bark as fine as lace, 
 A mottled tortoise carapace; 
 
 The mailed coat of cayman grim, 
 Flamingo-wing, and snake-fang slim; 
 
 Great beetles, transfixed with a pin, 
 A coteau sheathed in serpent skin; 
 
 Machetas, keen, with heavy blade; 
 Riatas, tough, of raw-hide braid; 
 
 A rifle cased in porpoise hide, 
 
 Fish rods, nets, harpoons, side by side; 
 
 Spy-glasses, pistols, fossils, gum 
 And reptiles bottled up in rum. 
 
 With goodly pictures here and there, 
 And books and papers everywhere. 
 
 My house-cat is a petted snake, 
 For fly-traps, lizard tongues I take. 
 
 Above, a screaming parrot swings, 
 Chased by a monkey through its rings. 
 
 Withon my board cool sherbets plash 
 In cups of gourd and calabash, 
 
 Mong Creole baskets heaped with fruit, 
 Cassava leaves or arrow root,
 
 A TROPIC HOPE. 115 
 
 Palm cabbage, sooth and delicate, 
 Rich sweet potatoes, yams of weight ; 
 
 The milk of goat or cocoa-nut, 
 And honey combs of amber glut ; 
 
 Delicious eggs my fowls have laid, 
 And fish by baited hook betrayed. 
 
 Without, my faithful dogs unite 
 
 To guard my dwelling day and night. 
 
 I have a cow, a pony, goats, 
 
 And on the beach behold my boats ! 
 
 Ah ! such as this is wealth indeed ; 
 
 Fat grows Content where lean grows Need. 
 
 Happy the eye that clearly sees 
 The worth of wise simplicities ; 
 
 Their wholesome comfort, sans pretence, 
 Their pleasing of the artist sense. 
 
 Eschew the love of luxury, 
 
 The simple life makes whole and free. 
 
 Beware the palace s thorned ease 
 Welcome the cabin s homely peace. 
 
 n. 
 
 Around my home there stands a grove 
 Of tropic palms and plants I love.
 
 1 1 6 WIND- HA R P SONGS. 
 
 The orange and the sprawling fig, 
 The manihot, with tubers big ; 
 
 Sweet grapes and olives rich with oil, 
 Guava s fruit that asks no toil ; 
 
 The palm of dates, and cocoa-nut, 
 
 The banyan, whose strange limbs down-put 
 
 An hundred trunks, instead of one, 
 To bear its leaves against the sun ; 
 
 Acacia-foliaged tamarind, 
 
 The lilac-flowered Pride of Ind ; 
 
 Banana, very tree of life, 
 
 Plumed pampas-grass, each blade a knife ; 
 
 The great silk-cotton s bole, butressed, 
 The royal palm of heavenward crest ; 
 
 The passion flower and fruit divine, 
 The fragrant, fair vanilla vine ; 
 
 The coy and shrinking mimosa 
 The flesh preserving poypoya ; 
 
 The woman-breast-like pomegranite, 
 Coffee, mate and chocolate ; 
 
 The cherimoya, luscious, sweet, 
 Whoso which tastes must surely eat ; 
 
 Pine-apples, sweet as lady lips 
 When Creole kisses Cupid sips
 
 A TROPIC HOPE. 117 
 
 In tropic-passioned ecstacy, 
 In tropic bowers, by Carib sea ; 
 
 Sweet lemons, limes and sapofa, 
 Custard-apple and magnolia. 
 
 But ah ! my poem must not clog 
 Its music with this catalogue. 
 
 I will be brief and say but this 
 
 Of these my Eden bowers of bliss : 
 
 An hundred fruits and sweets are here, 
 Where want comes not, nor famine near ; 
 
 A thousand flowers bloom and scent 
 The zephyrs neath my fruit-grove s tent 
 
 Of wondrous foliage overthrown, 
 With ropes of sunlight lacing down. 
 
 in. 
 
 About my grove sharp hedges fret 
 Of needled Spanish bayonet ; 
 
 Or fence of giant cacti, high 
 A score of feet, tall cerei 
 
 With candelabrum arms beset, 
 
 Aflame with flowers when night-dews sweat. 
 
 Or thousand-handed prickly pear, 
 With cups of gold and weapons bare ;
 
 1 1 8 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Or massive agaves ranked in rows 
 Of mighty spears, defy ing foes. 
 
 And here are arbors deftly made 
 Of living bamboos, lattice-laid, 
 
 Their feathery foliage green between, 
 Bignonios netting close the screen. 
 
 And here are hammocks, gently swayed 
 Beneath the mango s perfect shade ; 
 
 And here are paths of semi-gloom 
 Neath arching oleander s bloom ; 
 
 And here are vistas fair and far 
 Inland, to mountain walls that bar, 
 
 Upward, to peaks in clearest air, 
 Downward ah, dizzy ones, beware ! 
 
 Seaward, o er sweeps of boundless blue 
 To where the sky line stops the view ; 
 
 The mountain walls and valley beds 
 The tumbling torrent s silvern threads ; 
 
 The waves, the beach, the sails that pass- 
 All subject to my eye and glass. 
 
 Ah, faith ! it is a fair, fair dream, 
 
 And foolish, too, my good friends deem ; 
 
 But then we live our lives but once 
 Each hath his bubble, sage or dunce,
 
 A MEMOR Y SWEE T. 119 
 
 And this is mine then let me be ! 
 Give me my isle, my tropic sea, 
 
 My hut upon a mountain steep, 
 
 My fruit groves where the trade winds sweep, 
 
 These simple joys, wealth without pelf, 
 My thoughts, my dreams, myself, myself. 
 
 A MEMORY SWEET. 
 
 1HAVE a memory, sweet and clear, 
 Of a woman whose name was Rest ; 
 Who folded me in with warm, strong arms 
 Away from care and the world s alarms, 
 Close down on her tranquil breast. 
 
 I have a memory, clear and sweet, 
 With never a thought that mars, 
 Of tender lines round a sensitive mouth, 
 Dark eyes that tell of the tropic South, 
 And midnight hair with sheen of stars. 
 
 I have a memory, still more sweet, 
 
 Of her face aglow with joy, 
 Of joy because she stands near me 
 Mon doux repose ! Ma chere cherie ! 
 
 In our love there was no alloy. 
 
 I have a memory, passing sweet, 
 Of a dance that was Motion s rest ;
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Of our floating, neath the lovelight s gleam, 
 On the eddy and swirl of music s stream 
 Together, breast to breast. 
 
 O memory sweet, 
 
 O vision dear, 
 
 O spirit, kind, 
 
 From Love s bright sphere 
 
 Why am I by thy presence blest ? 
 
 My sweet Repose, my Love, my Rest. 
 
 A KNIFE OF AGATE. 
 
 LO ! a paper knife you send me of the agate of 
 Ute Pass, 
 Smoky clouds and mossy branches in a crystal 
 
 clear as glass, 
 In my pocket bid me place it, use it for my daily 
 
 need, 
 Tis a curio rare and dainty thanks for it, dear 
 
 friend, indeed ! 
 But tis broken ! Well, I ll mend it that shall be 
 
 to us a sign 
 
 In our friendship: Yours the giving, but the mend 
 ing must be mine 
 Should it break to heal so deftly that a scar shall 
 
 scarce appear 
 Thwart the verdure of its mosses, on its field of 
 
 agate clear.
 
 SO WE CARE NO T. 
 
 SO WE CARE NOT. 
 
 AH, sweet Life, you cheat us always when we 
 put our trust in thee ; 
 Only when we doubt and care not do you give us 
 
 gear and fee ; 
 Only when we flout and scorn you do you treat us 
 
 tenderly ; 
 
 Only when we build above you are we really rich 
 and free. 
 
 Like a woman, if you follow, she will turn and 
 
 walk away ; 
 If you plead her heart is hardened and she only 
 
 answers " Nay ; " 
 If you laugh and look beyond her she will closely 
 
 by you stay ; 
 Let her find your heart is higher, she will court you 
 
 every day. 
 
 Seek for friends, and they forsake you ; live for 
 
 love, you lose it all ; 
 Live to love, and love will give you drink of ashes 
 
 steeped in gall ; 
 Build your own, and all will aid you, so you build 
 
 not weak nor small, 
 Love your own and all will bring you loving gifts 
 
 to heap your hall.
 
 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 THE MELODY. 
 
 OSIXG me the melody, sweet and low, 
 Of hearts that throb, of cheeks that glow, 
 Of the world transformed by a light divine 
 That out of beautiful eyes can shine. 
 
 Let a note there be of this mystery, 
 How the hair on a girl s head witcheth me, 
 How the touch of a soft hand sets a-thrill 
 All the brain and nerves and the firm-set will. 
 
 Let one rhyme sing of the sweet surprise 
 When the lone heart mirrors in loving eyes, 
 When out of the cold and dark there form 
 Dear lips that kiss, dear hands so warm. 
 
 Let a word be heard of the tenderness 
 That a maid can show in a man s distress ; 
 How all things else may a man forget 
 Not a lovelit eye with its lashes wet. 
 
 O sing to me of this melody, 
 
 Music and rhythm and harmony, 
 
 Of hearts a-chime to the dancing joy 
 
 That rings from the string of the archer boy.
 
 TWEN TY KISSES. 1 23 
 
 THERE ARE LOVES AND LOVES. 
 
 ""THERE are loves and loves that pass one by 
 
 1 As light as birds in a summer sky, 
 As sweet as flowers that quickly fade, 
 As little dreams, made and unmade. 
 
 Their memories linger ah, how sweet ! 
 But we hear no more their tripping feet ; 
 The world laughs on, and we laugh too, 
 But we sigh sometimes, as all must do. 
 
 But loves there are, when we lay supine, 
 Which suddenly lift, as with touch divine; 
 And our lives grow rich with wealth untold, 
 And our nerves as bowstrings, twanging bold. 
 
 And these loves last, for their lines are deep; 
 Their days are sun-full, their nights are sleep; 
 With life they live, and they shape the breath 
 That lingers last on the lips at death. 
 
 TWENTY KISSES. 
 
 TWENTY kisses on your cheek, 
 Lady love, so fair; 
 Blush and pallor, hide-and-seek, 
 Prove them welcome there.
 
 124 WIND- HARP SONGS. 
 
 Twenty kisses on your throat, 
 Dainty, round and white; 
 
 Swelling soft as love-tides float 
 Innocent delight. 
 
 Twenty kisses on your lips 
 Little sweetheart, mine ! 
 
 As the bee its flower sips 
 Thrills my mouth on thine. 
 
 Twenty kisses on your hair 
 Little darling, sweet ! 
 
 Could my love print plainer there, 
 I would kiss your feet ! 
 
 MY SOUTH. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 Y sweet warm South, strange woman of the 
 
 sun; 
 With breath of soft, sad winds blown from her 
 
 mouth, 
 
 Dreamy with sighs; lovelier there is none 
 My sweet, warm South ! 
 
 With bare, brown feet,bathed by perpetual youth, 
 She leadeth me through all her bowers to run 
 By solemn swamps, still streams, and dunes of 
 drouth.
 
 BL A CK ROBIN. 125 
 
 Lo ! I am Northern, yet, wonderful one ! 
 I love her; crown her, seeing she allow th, 
 
 With jasmine gold her hair of night outspun 
 My sweet, warm South ! 
 
 This moment hath its own joy. 
 
 BLACK ROBIN. 
 
 A WORD for you too, 
 Robin, 
 Black pony, 
 Beautiful, 
 Hard fighter; 
 
 Many the sharp tussle we have had together, 
 Many the flying gallop through the woods, 
 Along the shore road, 
 
 With glimpses through the trees of brown beach, 
 white sails, and wide stretches of water. 
 
 " Now boy ! Come sir ! " 
 
 " I will not ! " Kicks, plunges, short-stops, shies ; 
 head-down, back-running, curb-jerks, white- 
 foam, sweat, keen cuts of the rawhide and 
 sharp words of command; 
 
 Brave boy ! 
 
 Always beaten but never conquered: 
 
 Yet, after all, I fancy you did not hate the man who 
 would not be thrown or troubled;
 
 126 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 There was fighting friendship between us; 
 
 When I patted your proud neck you would look as 
 
 if you liked me; 
 And you never took advantage of me when I threw 
 
 the reins on your neck and trusted you; 
 And I never struck you without warning; 
 The gage of battle was always fairly given. 
 
 " Here, take this apple ! " 
 
 Farewell Robin ! 
 
 Stubborn, broad-browed, stout-hearted, fearful of 
 
 nothing; 
 Cunning rogue, 
 Glossy fellow; 
 We shall go no more together. 
 
 A DREAM OF DREE. 
 
 I WENT and spoke to the wrinkled tree 
 Tell me, friend, what life may be? 
 Its green tongues whispered: Fates are three, 
 Life, my lad, is a dream of dree. 
 
 I said to the rocks Can you tell me 
 Whether life be a dream of dree ? 
 Their echoes answered, mockingly, 
 A dream a dream a dream a dre 
 
 I climbed; the mountain air was free. 
 Tell me, O hills, can this thing be ? 
 Their shadows pointed silently : 
 Mapped below was a dream of dree.
 
 THE SYL VAN SINGERS. 127 
 
 I asked the plains the same query. 
 They stretched away unansweringly. 
 The pun was grim, but I could see, 
 They made it plain a dream of dree. 
 
 I went and spake to the sounding sea, 
 Its waves came on unendingly, 
 Each as the last, and all agree 
 The flow of life is a dream of dree. 
 
 I questioned the heavens Immensity 
 Smiled down in tender pleasantry: 
 It makes us blue, but a dream of dree 
 Is life throughout infinity. 
 
 THE SYLVAN SINGERS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PAINTING BY E. W. MC DOWELL. 
 
 >nPIS through the sylvan glades of Arcady 
 
 1 A maid goes pacing, piping fitfully, 
 Or singing little wood-songs, two or thee, 
 
 Anent the reeds and myrtles, red-rose-blooms, 
 The laurel glosses and the cypress glooms, 
 The shifting sunlight which them all illumes. 
 
 A maiden tall, fair-formed, and bannered with 
 A silken flag of red-gold hair, like myth 
 Of Dian, or the maids of wood god kith.
 
 128 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 At peace, akin with all the furtive throng 
 
 Of wild-wood things she dreams them not a wrong, 
 
 But prone upon the sward pipes them this song : 
 
 MAID SONG. 
 
 O sweet the light on the mist-blue hill ; 
 Sweet is the light on the laughing rill ; 
 Clear on the rocks at the cavern door ; 
 Warming the moss on the forest floor ; 
 Pleasantly falling on nest and lair, 
 Soft through the stream on the cataract stair. 
 
 Sweet and soft and bright and clear, 
 Sweet is the light and the light is here. 
 
 ( ECHO : 
 
 Sweet soft bright and clear, 
 Sweet the light the light is here ! ) 
 
 ***** 
 
 Then with a flash and flutter of bright wings, 
 
 A little bird himself before her flings, 
 
 And lifting up his throat thus blithly sings : 
 
 BIRD SONG. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet 
 Light, 
 
 Light, 
 
 Light ! 
 
 Lips of music, 
 Eyes so bright ; 
 Sunshine hair, 
 Shoulders white ; 
 O lady we love you, 
 We wood-friends all ;
 
 THE SYLVAN SINGERS. 129 
 
 We flutter above you, 
 We whistle and call ! 
 In your breast, 
 There to nest, 
 Would be sweet, 
 Sweet, 
 Sweet ! 
 And the wood-blossoms leap from the prints of 
 
 your feet, 
 
 And the winds fall asleep in the net of your hair, 
 And the dews never weep, but forget their despair 
 When you walk where the moonbeams with you 
 are so fair, 
 
 Fair, 
 Fair ! 
 
 Clear, clear, clear is my voice ! 
 Hear, hear, hear me rejoice ! 
 
 Lady, we love you ! 
 Lady we love you ! 
 
 Lady we love you here ! 
 
 ( ECHO : 
 
 Lady love ! 
 
 Lady love you ! 
 Lady, we love you here ! )
 
 130 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 "T7 ASHION, the world, society, to me 
 i These ever are as some brave board out 
 spread, 
 
 Where men and women feign to feast, unfed ; 
 
 Smiling and gay, yet holding in each eye 
 
 The piteous glare of hunger s agony. 
 
 Ah ! this alone is death, and these the dead ; 
 
 And yet men call it " life " pitying, instead, 
 
 The child-like soul that loves simplicity. 
 
 A padded pomp, chill state, a gaslight glare, 
 The bitter-sweet and dust of discontent, 
 Soul-hunger and a secret none dare broach 
 
 These are thy wages, world, thy servants wear 
 Upon their brows the stamp of manhood spent, 
 Lost innocence, and haunting, vague reproach.
 
 ONE MORE SONG. 131 
 
 SOUL AND SOIL. 
 
 FAIR the flower, 
 But the roots are found 
 In the rot, the grave, the ground; 
 Its nutriment and need they draw 
 From the corpses which they gnaw. 
 
 So, 
 
 Ebb and flow 
 
 Beauty, power, life s sweet play. 
 
 Chaos, weakness, sin, decay 
 
 Tips the balance either way, 
 
 Rules the hour. 
 
 ONE MORE SONG. 
 
 I WILL sing one more song, 
 Full of bold, bright music, 
 
 The music of him of the glad eyes, the quick step > 
 the brave brow, the laughing lips, the frank 
 look, the true word; 
 The music of the free man. 
 
 A song of daring thoughts, of high hopes, of fear 
 less faith; 
 A song of youth;
 
 132 WIND-HARP SONGS. 
 
 Of lilac skies, flakes of gold, and sunrise over the 
 
 purple hills ; 
 A song of morning; 
 A song of children playing in the warm sand, 
 
 spattering the water with bare feet; 
 A song of seals sporting in the surf, with soft, 
 
 loving eyes, barking like dogs; 
 A song of bright peaks, thunder, and the long, 
 
 quivering lightning; 
 A song of dark waves, racing with the west wind, 
 
 beating the rocks with a white foam; 
 A song of sea gulls; 
 A song of brilliant courage; 
 A song of innocent love; 
 A song of red flowers; 
 A song of white birds against a blue sky; 
 A song of a rock in the great sea which is always 
 
 the same, 
 
 Whether the waves waste themselves upon it, 
 Or foam at its feet; 
 
 Whether the ice arms it with glittering mail, 
 Or the sun blisters it with angry heat; 
 Whether the rain weeps over it, 
 Or blue skies smile lovingly; 
 Whether the birds scream hoarsely about it, 
 Or come to it for rest and protection; 
 It is always there, 
 Calm, strong, beautiful: 
 
 "I am a rock, I have foundations, I believe in my 
 self ; 
 
 I stand alone, or I stand with you, but I stand 
 steadfast; 
 
 I am not troubled, I do not change trust me ! "
 
 
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