1 iirkilitA LIBRARY UNIVERStTY OP CALHOHNIA / OUT OF HOURS BY THE SAME AUTHOR VERSE : THE SEDUCTIVE COAST MINOR MELODIES THE AFTER LIFE THE ANTINOMIAN PROSE : PASSION'S PERIL MERELY A NEGRESS THE SOUL SLAYER A CUPFUL OF KERNELS THE DOOR OF DARKNESS OUT OF HOURS POEMS LYRICS AND SONNETS e^^^-^^. BY J. M. STUART- YOUNG LONDON ARTHUR STOCKWELL, 29, LUDGATE HILL 1909 Copyright^ 1909 by the Author (fcf. Dedicatory Apology - . My dear John Davidson, I know of little that need be said in the way of apology for this book, of nothing indeed that can be said without an appearance of egotism. But you, dear friend, have read about one-half of the poems in manuscript ; and your criticisms call for a meed of self-defence. I do not desire that the readers of "Out of Hours " should look upon me, after the book has been laid aside, as a deliberate and calculating worker in sensual word- mosaic. For, while the abnormality of my delight in Youth and Beauty is apparent to me {and has been so for many years) I have striven throughout these expressions of feeling to write with spontaneity and freedom. I recall the conversation, three months before I left for the Tropics in 1908, which you accorded me at St. Ives. My admiration of you, as a writer of fantastic prose and haunting poetry, informed the whole of our intercourse — and you were generous enough to convey to me some degree of intelligence regarding the impulsive way in which you perform the greater part of your work. But you added slyly: "The true artist is sure carefully to revise his lines at leisure. For both sonnets and lyrics may be inspired — but they are best when they are guarded and polished, guarded and polished ! " I take it, then, on your authority , that a Sonnet is the least likely of all forms of poetic expression to be made " stiff " by revision and improvement. Even so, in the present case, I have not sought Perfection — impossible Ideal to even the greatest creator of thought! For, while I have invested my rhymes with all the grace available, I have also sought to study my fancies in a purely impersonal way, leaving them practically untouched after each emotion has reached its reasonable and comprehensive expression. As you know, these poems were written under somewhat peculiar conditions, and in the Bush of West Africa. Nothing, I conceive, can be less suggestive of the pure ecstasy of a Spring Day in England than the depressing heat of a dense tropical 799 forest. On the other hand, the " Birth- Land of Night " [as some one of our West African writers has not inaptly called the Bush) lends the abstraction from worldly news, without which — shall we not assume? — the greater portion of our lyric lore would not exist. Here, some reader will exclaim, mayhe, is clearly a case of verse being written falsely ; as no emotion can be true unless it belongs to the moment and the place, and is caught up instantly. The leaping shadows on the wall are not the fire, nor is the crested wave a genuine indication of the tide. This standpoint, however, appears to me to be a fallacious one. My fancies have been written down in widely different moods, and under varying circumstances , during the six months that I was cut off from all " white " conversation, in the despatch of logs from the Forest to the Coast. Only the arrival of mails, sometimes twice, occasionally only once, each month, served to break the monotony of rising, eating, working, and sleeping. Each one, of course, has had its root in actual experience or imagined adventure. The mind of yester-year, as it were, has acted as receiver — the thoughts being written thereon in sympa- thetic ink. Loneliness, suffering, relief, hunger, hope, terror, regret — each sensation has brought to the surface (EVOKED by the perusal of a letter from one dearly loved) an emotional record already impressed upon the brain. Oftener than not the only materials for literary work, which were at my command, consisted of a pencil and the margin of a newspaper. Composed during the leisure of an evening, after the " boys " had been given their rations of rice and dried fish — each line reproduced from the dusty archives of some previous opal-coloured year — the completed poems were immediately placed in an envelope, and despatched to you, there to be retained until I should ask you for the return of the manuscript. The copying out of the lines this month has been the mechanical occupation of an amanuensis , and [as previously stated) I have refrained from making alterations save where your own occasional emendations have impressed me as just. Somewhere, in a more ambitious volume of mine, written in days when I was seriously courting the muse, I have written, " Beauty is the expression of individuality . Poetry is the flowering of the mind into rhythmic utterance, Prose the budding of the leaves. And, seeing how deeply an erotic spirit flavours natural life, it is no wonder that the sweetest singers in any tongue are immeasurably sensuous." The craftsman is always the craftsman, I suppose, possessing a faculty of self-criticism which is co-equal with that of the pro- fessional reviewer. Faults here are numerous , blemishes must be evident, ineptitudes frequent — to be quite frank, I am ashamed of my work . . . or, should I not condone that, and say of some of my work? The unhealthy ring of certain lines is obvious to me; the frenzy of others ; the fatuity of others ; but (Dieu merci!) the merit of others ! I conclude that I always meant to publish the volume, though when I was working upon its contents, the occupation served merely as a palliative of my weariness, and an anodyne of my absolute loneliness of spirit. Hence, I make no special appeal to the reader who has sym- pathy with my outlook. Having seen — comme vous, mon cher ami — my Ideal in flashes, at first with a mazed and faltering vision, but ever more clearly as my eyes have been purged by m.anhood and the variable experience, bitter and sweet, of the passing years, I do not hesitate to expect understanding and sym- pathy, even from the most pronounced of Philistines ! All expressions and experiences have their value, sensations their psychological significance. The only road along which we can travel to a true philosophy of life seems to me to lie in this humble study of one's own nature — capturing the diverse readings of the soul's phenomena, as they are forced upon the mind by that essence of the soul — memory ! Your own words are apropos — " My feet are heavy now, but on I go, My head erect beneath the tragic years ; The way is steep, but I would have it so. And dusty, but I lay the dust with tears. Though none may see me weep : alone I climb The rocky path that leads me out of time — Out of time and out of all. Singing yet in sun and rain ' Heel and toe from dawn to dusk, Round the world and home again.' Farewell the hope that mocked, farewell despair That went before me still and made the pace. The earth is full of graves, and mine was there Before my life began, my resting-place ; And 1 shall find it out, and with the dead Lie down for ever, all my sayings said, Deeds all done, songs all sung. While others chant in sun and rain, ' Heel and toe from dawn to dusk, Round the world and home again.' " This is truth — or the truth so far as any man can write it about himself, or about the race to which he belongs ! Many of your keenest admirers were displeased by the result of such extreme candour. Personally, I revere your books the more — and it is in the same spirit that I would have my own poor verses received. I shall protest no further. To you it is unnecessary — and as for the General Public . . . Well, no one is asked to buy my book, so that I must beg leave to be excused 1 Better fortune, dear J. D., and that " peace of mind which passeth all understanding." Your devoted West Africa, J. M. STUART-YOUNG. Spring, 1909. Note. — Since 1 wrote the Dedicatory letter quoted above, the mysterious disappearance and death of John Davidson has added yet another tragedy to the long list of Disappointed Genius. I am reluctant to withdraw any part of my apology ; nor do I care to add anything to ivhat I have already written. Perhaps a significant sentence from my letter to "The Saturday Review," May 2gth, 1909, would not be superfluous. I quote verbatim: " . . . the painfully obvious and oft-stated fact that at no time during the last half-century [to go no further back) has any man had a right to expect a living out of poetry." It behoves all lovers of true verse to awaken to a sense of their responsibilities ! In the hands of book-buyers — and book-buyers only — lies the remedy of John Davidson's despairing suicide. Autumn, 1909. Contents The Offering 1 The Heather Bell 2 The Lady 3 On the Street 6 A Fragment 7 A Dead Poet 8 Melancholia ID Glimpses 12 Ada ... 14 Epigrams : Transfiguration ... 15 Cynicism, In 1 'une 16 SONNET GLOSE. Text: Rossetti's " The Dark Glass " ... I. He lies, a drowsy Sensualist n. Summer has slowly burned HI. My Princeling lies beside the watery gleam IV. I am as one who leaves ... V. And yet . . . how sweet! VI. All mental pains the mortal soul endures VII. Sleep on awhile, heart's dearest VIII. So may thy holy dreams .. . IX. For verily our love has reached its flower X. Love's height, they say, comes easy ... 19 20 20 21 21 22 23 23 24 25 25 XI. Beloved, I have always held it true XII. Hush! . . . Softly wake! . . . XIII. Erewhile I have complained XIV. How sweet the sunrise ! ... 26 26 27 28 OUT OF HOURS. Doubts ... • 31 Round the Clock • 33 Flowers of the Garden • 35 Promises • 36 If Dreams came true • yj Clair de Lune ■ 38 Eternity and Life ... . 40 Icora's Song of the Aftermath • 41 Two Epigrams • 42 Temperament • 43 When night has fallen • 44 For an autograph album ... . 46 Waiting • 47 A charity school • 49 Fragment • 50 On the shore • 51 Prince ■ 53 A Spring idyll • 54 Song • 55 High noon ... • 56 Admonition ... • 58 To One in Heaven . . 60 Tommy Todd . 62 Love and death 63 Impromptu : Suggested by S. M. .. 64 Alec 66 To my Mother .. 67 Street arabs dancing .. 68 Invocation ... .. 69 After the Greek of Theocritus .. 70 The Unwelcome 71 Golden stairs 72 In church •• 73 Jim : a Picture 74 Summer and winter •• 75 Boy extracting thorn .. 76 Bathers •• 77 Some other night ... .. 78 CAMEOS OF AN ENGLISH BOYHOOD 83 STRAY THOUGHTS. A song of the hills .. 99 Were we so cold? lOI Sweetest flower 102 Poetry and desire .. 103 A woman's way 104 One in prison .. 105 Afterward .. 108 In Cheshire ... 109 La vie est vaine 1 10 Le ciel est par-dessus le toit III Last thoughts 112 The Offering Take, sweetest heart, the homage that I bring. For — be it young or old — Each soaring note that I may chance to sing To you has first been told : Told to you, dearest, whispered in your ear; iVnd when life's shadows fall, I hope these halting melodies to hear In silence — best speech of all ! The Heather Bell In shawls of carnation and kirtles of green Blossoms and buds shine out from the trees; They linger in hedges, or languish unseen In dim tender corners, rock'd by the breeze : Crowding the dale in a purple demean. Seducing the sun and enticing the bees ! Richest and sweetest the dear heather-bell Nestles so near to where hasty feet chafe : A talisman wrought with a fairy spell, — Miraculous, mystical, delicate waif; Clutching the breast of the sheltering dell, Rocked by the breeze, and perfectly safe! The Lady I SAW one day in summer A flow'ret pure and fair; Ah! why when I stooped o'er it Did sorrow hold me there? Was it too pure for wonder, Too good for human eyes? Or did some subtle answer Leap out to my surmise? There was no stain upon it, And that thought wounded me; Ah! little flower-lady, I dare not worship thee ! II. Sometimes I sit beside her, My raptured heart beats fast; I say, " Ah ! she is near me. My own, my own, at last ! " Oft-times I dare not see her, Her presence is too dear; I linger sad and lonely, And shed a silent tear. III. " A Rose to you I give," The smiling lover said, " For, dear, the life you live Is full of roses red! " She took the blushing rose. Nor dream'd of hidden thorn — The treacherous spike that grows Beneath. Her hands were torn. But on her breast she laid The blossom, blushing red; I marked it hourly fade Though by her heart's blood fed. IV. I brought a lily pure. When Passion's flower was dead; " I bring to you the cure Of love and pain," I said. " Place this against your breast, 'Twill heal its smart and ache, Till night shall bring you rest. And morrow's dawn shall break." She took it. All her guile (Ah! Death is strong and deep!) Was fled. I saw her smile, My darling fell asleep. V. The stars shone faint in the windy night, The moon was low on the hill, When my dead love came with a wondrous light. Loving and beautiful still. " Oh ! come with me to my misty home. The land where the ano-els are : And I will lead thee to God! Oh, come! I will guide thee from star to star ! " But we went to sleep for a thousand moons. Under the dew and the rain; And she has forgotten her home, eftsoons. And I have forgotten my pain! VI. King Death seemed loath to wake us; For there, in the soundless deep. When home He came to take us. He found us clasped in sleep. So mayhap in our dreaming On risks and perils run, We shall arouse, past Seeming, To find Life's Haven won ! On the Street Here on the streets? Good God! what's this? I danced at her bridal a year ago ! (Your husband was harsh and you tired of bliss, And life is a gamble, an empty show?) The same bright face, but rouge on her cheeks, — She fingers her rings and laughs the while; The same sweet voice of violets speaks. But jars a little with slang and guile. (A year ago you were boasted of all, I drink with you here as a " friend " to-night : ) As honour'd guest I danced at her ball. And she has gone down ! What a sorry plight ! Fragile and pure, creamy white and rose, — (There's lodgings to pay and a girl must live ? There's bangles and theatres, money and those Trifles that lovers were once wont to give ?) But to-morrow? (What matter? It's all in your right?) She says it with laughter and tears in her eyes; 'Tis perfum'd day and a doubtful night — And an earthly Hell and a Paradise! A Fragment Even when the day is drear and nights are long, Through the sadness and the sore, A song Ripples o'er. Even in the deepest sorrow I can feel In my soul a breaking smile : A seal To reconcile. Or when fleet joy illumines o'er the way Of life, I shed a tear, — The day Is one of fear. Fragile we are; emotions melt as snow Before the fire's bright gleam; Andlo! All is a dream ! A Dead Poet O thou! serenely dead, amid the throng Of tuneless poets in a sordid town, Each wild and wistful harbinorer of song^ Was near thee smiling when thy thoughts were sown. Thy songs were sweet : thy lays were ever glad, In thy fresh lines were bird and bud and tree; And when thou sang'dst of sorrow we were sad. For fiction did not thrall, — 'twas real to thee ! Among the reeds intimately lied'st thou, Anear the roots of radiant flowers that thrust Aloft their heads. And thou upon the bough Wert sure of home, and feared'st not distrust. The silent labour of the patient rain Was to thy tuneful measure reconciled; The little life of Autumn's pregnant grain Was incarnate within thy sonnet mild. Nature is sister to thee now, and tells Thee all her secrets, all her sorrow's burden; The lily budding from thy breast compels The benediction of our freer pardon. I look at life with clearer, calmer eyes, No place there is that does not breathe thy name; Some gracious word of thine opes Paradise And fills the mind with iridescent flame. Sebastian, take my little halting song, — Thou wert my friend, and all my passion now Is mingled with the listless passing throng; And mingled with my life and death art thou! Melancholia The world is dead and cold, And only tremors flit Across my soul. 'Tis writ In some book, turgid, old, That man is but a shadow Within a world of dreams. I lie on my lonely bed, And look at the soulless stars; The rain is dripping like lead. And nothing my pain unbars, — Man and shadow . . . ! Restless and sleepless am I, And fear is gnawing my heart; I gaze on the leaden sky — But nothing will heal the smart; World and dream . . . ! Here, from the murky street, 'Neath moon, pallid and thin, The beat of monotonous feet Comes welling and surging in — Man and shadow and dream, World and dream and shadow ! The day has been one of rain, All night the roofs have drip'd, All day has my solace been pain, All night shall my soul be whip'd,- Man and dream and shadow, World and shadow and dream! I am weary of tears, all tears, I pine for my heart's desire, A runner lost 'mid the spears Of pursuers, and windy fire — Man and shadow and dream, World and dream and shadow! I would wash in the cleansing flood, Runs to th' eternal sea; I long for green solitude. For birds in a sighing tree, — World and dream and shadow, Man and shadow and dream! Glimpses I. A MINION, rosy, young and frankly fair, Upon his golden curls a diadem, Beneath his ivory neck a glittering gem, And in his heavy eyes Lust and Despair. II. The sun encouch'd upon a bed of blood, Filling the path with shadows long and weird; And through the trees a-tiptoe then there near'd One with shamed face, who beckon'd to the wood. III. A girl with parted lips and trembling hands, " Virtuous you are, a frail embodied joy! " A man with head averted near her stands, — " And I could love you : if you were a boy ! " IV. A youth with loitering limbs, importunate lips, And flowers before him, lifted by his breath; Then a brown worm that on the dank soil slips. And I, wild-eyed beside him, whispering " Death ! " V. A drunken girl with rough dishevell'd hair, Reeling a-down the street at break o' day; And at the corner, with a soulless stare. The speckless man who speeds her on her way ! »3 Ada In our little murky street, When rain fell fast, And the sound of slushy feet Meander'd past; Ada sat and smiled and croon'd All the day; Murk and mire assuaged her wound- She felt gay! Should we laugh and cry aloud, — Keeping holiday; Should we bend o'er infant, proud, On its natal day. Showing keen delight, — a tear In Ada's eye Would glisten, and in awful fear She would sigh ! Ada cried when we had mirth, She was crazed; Sin had vaunted at her birth, She was mazed. Ah ! But method rules the hour : Should we laugh — or cry? Life is full of secret power. Let us sigh! 14 TRANSFIGURATION Within the bosom of the poet prest, Dry scentless leaves find shelter and a rest; But as the warm blood through his body flows, They rise and blossom in a new-born rose. »5 Epigrams CYNICISM From Helicon's stream a draught would once inspire The bard to sing in sweet ecstatic flight; But poets of this sordid age require A draft on Parr's, made " payable at sight." IN TUNE As a bell in a chime Sets its relative ringing, So one poet's rhyme Wakes his comrade to singing. i6 SONNET CLOSE TEXT ROSSETTI'S "THE DARK GLASS" I dedicate these sonnets to you, " my Tommy," and apologise for their crudities. i8 The Dark Glass (House of Life — xxxiv.) Not I myself know all my love for thee : How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday ? Shall birth, and death, and all dark names that be As doors and windows bared to some loud sea, Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray; And shall my Soul pierce love, — the last relay And ultimate outpost of Eternity ? Lo! What am I to Love, the Lord of all? One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand, — One little heart flame sheltered in his hand. Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call. And veriest touch of powers primordial That any hour-girt life may understand. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 19 I. He lies, a drowsy sensualist content : His flushed face copied by the ripening corn. I worship at his side, the while is born Within my nature jealousy unspent. He is as one who to the earth was sent To feed on luscious lotus leaves, unworn By contact with mankind; and hearts forlorn Make sweet with whole of beauty's blandishment. Muse on, my Prince, and fancy life a psalm Set to the melody of earth and sea; I must not woo thee now; 'twixt thee and me Is noontide's barrier. . . When each evening's calm Brings thy fair head upon my willing arm Not I myself know all my love for thee! II. Summer has slowly burned these silent lands. Leaving them golden, tinged with ruddy fire; Yet in the hedge-top mark reluctant briar. Rose of July, extending snowy hands; While kingcups clasp the sward in starry bands, And everywhere day whispers its desire For cradled sleep. E'en vocal bees aspire To naught save rest, despite the dew's demands. And thou art like a god within the woods, Chequered with woven sunbeams. (Here Pan lay At anguished solstice, conquered by the sway Of boyish tiredness.) Upland solitudes Make holy all our erewhile wanton moods . . . How should I reach so far who cannot weigh f III. My Princeling lies beside the watery gleam Of little pool, — its ever-trembling glass Faint circling to the breezes as they pass. His rosy cheeks reflect each brilliant beam Of sunlight; and the sight gives pulsing dream To my ambitions. In the long lush grass How sweet to lie beside him, and amass Our lyric lore to Nature's endless theme ! I kneel beside him, conning every line : I am so wont to watch at break o' day; And when my shaded tributes most I pay His eyes are closed. . . This hush-song makes me pine For dusk to come, that I may not decline To-morrow'' s dower by gage of yesterday. IV. I am as one who leaves the sunlit height To seek the valley, while the solemn sky Cools into ashy wanness. Strange that I, Who love the sun so well, should count the light Impediment and barrier to the sight Of this fair bud, which blossoms cannot vie! Sweetest one, slumber! — for thy friend is nigh Though voiceless and inactive in his might. The daisies make an aureole for thy head; Incarnadined art thou with purity : The consummation and the mystery Art not for now. The passionate hour is red. And heaven forbids my love ! Shall Love be dead } Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be ? And yet . . . how sweet is this enchanted place ! 'Tis not for flowers that I am mostly fain : The day's effulgence serves to waken pain; And all the rapture of thy angel-face. Its youth, its indolence and native grace, Place round my arms and feet a brutal chain That cold, hard men, out-topping sense, have ta'en As check for lover in love's secret place. Oft have I marked thee on thy pillow white, With parted lips, expectant, eager, free For Eros and his crowned majesty. And then, ah ! then, all doubt has taken flight : Our pulses have been in their matchless night. As doors and windows bared to some loud sea. VI. All mental pains the mortal soul endures; And thus it is that fibres leap anew : I must, I must absorb myself in you, — Must take the joy this solitude secures. Could but the rapture that the thought procures Be lifted to completion, Will to Do Would bring a peril passionate; for few There are who know the thrill such love ensures! The fault lies in this fervent atmosphere : Self-schooled, self-scarred, I am too fierce for day ! Night is my anodyne, — as seas may play Silkily silent when the moon shines clear, But in the day of storm bring clamorous fear. Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray! VII. Sleep on a while, heart's dearest, while I roam Through these fair fields to seek a lighter mind. What joy is there for me in wanton wind } % Now I behold that love must have its home. Its beamy roof and starry-tesselled dome. Pleasure and purpose both have left my mind, And thy serene unconsciousness makes blind My amorous instincts, like some heavy tome. 23 V When thy faint-fluttering footsteps wake the field, And thy dear voice exults in laughter gay, Lo! suddenly the orient light will play Around once more; and ripened sheaves will yield Anew their secret. Then shall my heart be filled. And shall my soul pierce love, the last relay! VIII. So may thy holy dreams touch nearer earth Than is their wont. I know love's topmost peak Is not for me; for I have grown too weak To climb the slopes. Still have I wakened birth Of passion in thy nature, seen the mirth Grow hourly stronger. There's no more to seek Than this — that thou and I should learn to eke Our wonder and our wealth 'gainst future dearth. "^ When thou shalt wake I will with thee inhale A rarefied delight and ecstasy. " To-night, to-night ! " my heart will hauntingly Be crying to my brain. Life's breath may fail In level air; but moonrise brings the vale And ultimate outpost of eternity! 24 IX. For verily our love has reached its flower, And redly fall the petals, one by one; Soon, soon, beneath an urgent autumn sun The fruit will shine, and harvest be our dower. The leaves crisp now; but doubt we not the power Of life resurgent in the seed, when dun And dark are winter's skies. The seasons run From plighted troth to bridal's pensive bower. It seems but yesterday our plot was proud With woodbine and clematis, and the tall Solemn lent-lilies, — till we heard the call Of cuckoo in the clearing. . . . Soon a shroud Of snow will all these haughty heads have bowed : ho! what am I to Love, the Lord of all? X. Love's height, they say, comes easy to the feet Of him who feels the day- warmth in the air; But there are friends who count the moonlight fair,- And risk no rival in the night's slow beat. I stand as one who thinks the sunbeam cheat. And deems the heart its love-feast can prepare Best in a chambered close, above a stair — Ladder as symbol of ascension sweet ! 35 Then silence is a sense from which one sips Water pellucid found in arid land : The dawn steals in to find one on the strand, Watching the distant tide as back it slips, But holds as souvenir to his trembling lips One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand. XL Beloved, I have always held it true That swiftly and serenely life should run Toward its gfoal. This over-ardent sun Gives eddying course too urgent. Though I woo In earnest I'll not kiss, lest lust anew Should hurl me forth, ere rapture be begun. Thou hast thy varied dreams : I know they shun All painful issues. / have my dreams too ! This is a golden pause for me and thee. Soon wilt thou give thy sleepy quaint command : " Help me to rise ! " and dance the meadow-land With ardour made rejuvenate, and see King Sol at set, malicious, full of glee One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand. XII. Hush ! . . . Softly wake ! . . . Sincerest constancy Comes to the surface in my lack of love. The day must gloom before we homeward move. And life is as a river, neither free 26 To pause or hurry on tempestuously. . . Waken then sweetheart, my soul's treasure- trove ; The smiling clouds thy innocency prove, And we may watch love's dawning consciously. Once more we range the meadows side by side, And deem the earth a flower-enamelled ball; The moon is rising, and the loud rooks yawl; Their piercing message may not be decried. Prince o' my realm, Eros has been denied, Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call. XIII. Erewhile I have complained against the fate Of life eternal; and the thought of death Has 'suaded me to abdicate my breath. Under spring skies I have not sought a mate, Clinging to such dark things as fear and hate. And blinding sight with tears ! But now my faith Is linked to harmony, and my Soul sayeth That love is life, and life is happy state. Look in mine eyes, and drink their message deep. What do they say "^ Wilt thou obey the call } My flesh is all athirst, and shadows fall Deeper around us. Soon must love and sleep Into our moonlit room on tiptoe creep, And 'veriest touch of powers primordial. 37 XIV. How sweet the sunrise on our little bed; And tender is the fragrant morning breeze : It dissipates all sense of foul disease And pierces to my fibres. . . . Hours have fled Like moments honey-filled. . . . Each word was said In lessening cadence, while the solemn trees Echoed our intent. ... I am one who sees The dawn break whitely, without fear or dread. Slumber still claims him ! Ah ! delightful years That linger in youth's listless wondering land ! His lips to mine, we knew a heavenly strand. . . . How well I now recall his trembling fears When all my manhood melted into tears. That any hour-girt life may understand! 28 OUT OF HOURS Dedicated to John Gambril Nicholson for some most charming letters and many sweet confidences 30 Doubts The man who taught me loving Was clever, witty, keen; But was it worth the proving : For I have often seen The may-flower wither on youth's holiday, The lilac droop, or lily fade away — And was love worth the proving? Was love worth the learning — That love he sang so well ? I saw Francesca yearning Beneath Paola's spell; But ardent night was followed by a dawn Of shifting- shame : mist-clouded was the morn- So was love worth the learning ? Was love worth the proving? It seemed to scorch my heart; And all the fruit of loving Was sorrow's greater part! I walked alone because I lived awry, And people murmured : " He dreams painfully " — So was love worth the proving ? 31 Is love now worth the learning ? My Prince clasps both my hands; I feel my senses burning, For he — he understands ! Though death soon come, and years hold pain in store, I feel that doubt shall be my part no more — And love is worth the learning! 32 Round the Clock I SANG of my love in the sunshine of May, And the garrulous bird on the sycamore spray Warbled his song to the nest; Come, sweetheart, the flowers are a-bloom on the lea. The blossoms are blooming on bramble and tree. And all through the long, odorous Spring we will be At rest ! I sang of my love in the scorching July, And the ruddy-browed sun in a radiant sky Uplifted his golden-hued crest; For the clam'rous-tongued land was melodious with son^ Ah! the world shall be merry, the morns shall be long, For love i' the sunshine is happy and strong, With rest ! I sang of my love in the wane of the year. And the sheen of the sunset hung luridly drear Far down in the lowering west; The home was forsaken — each throstle had fled. All music seemed hushed : every flow'ret lay dead ; But a voice through the silence and solitude said, " Lo— Rest ! " 33 Still warbles my heart In the wind o'er the snow; There is rest after sorrow, and joy after woe, For love that is tried is the best; I care not though tempest be black in the sky. Though the sun may be fickle, and frail blossoms die, A day surely comes when love's glamour is nigh. And rest, sweet rest! 34 I Flowers of the Garden His soul is like a garden, fair and sweet, Where ptow irreat blooms of red and blue and white; And, through this realm I tread on daring feet, — No pathway being too narrow for my might ! The way I use each morn is fair, and dim With lovely beds of pensive violet — It marks the portal of the soul of him On whom my every pride and hope is set! And back of this a vibrant hedge is high — A hedge of lilies, passionless and white, — These are his pure unsullied youth, and I Am faint with worship at the holy sight. But wealth is still behind them : for I see, Clustered in circles, roses full of fire — They are the symbols of our ecstasy. And make me bold in anguish of desire. So, half in yearning, half in prayer, I tread The garden paths, till doubt is left behind : On from the lily-gates where peace is fed To the red glory of his passionate mind ! 35 Promises No classical tongues shall be yours, dear, Because they are musty and cold — See, laughing up there is the sun, dear. And round us an earth never old! All Nature is dancing to Springtime, And winter is cruel no more : A new world is made for the ringtime. As tender as that known of yore. So why should you delve in the past, love? For surely 'tis frowsy; and flings Only boulders before you, to cast, love. Sad shadows on youth's fairest things. Drink deep from an ever-clear nature : White noon and a mystical eve; For youth is the time for enjoyment. And Age may not dead years retrieve ! Come then to the fields of white heather : Dream there ivory dreams all the day; And learn from the birds in Spring weather The tune all Creation may play. 36 If Dreams Came True If dreams came true, I would not mind How drearily the breezes blew, Nor that the Fates were all unkind — If dreams came true! I think of rapture and of you. Of frail desire and plastic mind, While tears blot all things from my view. My hectic hopes illusion find. And sorrow stabs my memory through; But I should whistle with the wind If dreams came true! 37 Clair de Lune Oh, beautiful Moon with your Acolyte, The steadfast Star or the ravelled Fleece, When you see me sin in the secret night Do you deem me callous? Or is your Peace Unbroken by usage of Man below ? Oh, beautiful Moon, is it so — Yes or No! You are white in summer and in winter gray : But there's never a sky where you fear to reign; As the Glory of Sunset passes away The charm of your presence bepaints it again! Oh, beautiful Moon, with the Brows of Snow, It is so, as you know! Two Souls may be bound by warm links into One- So my constant Change and my haunting Quest Speak only of Sympathies Life has undone : Of a Broken Hope, and a Fierce Unrest! Oh, beautiful Moon, with the Heart of Snow, Life is so, as you know! 38 My Body shall rest in great Peace at last, Under the ground, a forgotten thing : All Pleasure shall die, and all Rapture be past. And never a Blossom its Blessing shall bring! Oh, beautiful Moon, with the Soul of Snow, You surely know, you surely know! 39 Eternity and Life I. With searching eyes we scan the blue expanse, We hear the rustling of the midnight air; We look around, our senses in a trance, But what we seek we see not anywhere. 11. With madder motion and infuriate cry, the dancers on are hurled, We start and tremble at the ominous touch of Death; With muffled groan we rise, seize on our cloaks, and from the seething world Are hurried — but the dancers pause not e'en for breath! 40 Icora's Song of the Aftermath The child is mine, and from my flesh he came; Blood of my blood is he, flame of my flame; Welded by Nature's links, challeng'd by sentinel Death, Fed by my dearest thoughts or ever he drew breath, — The child is mine! A thousand men have liv'd and lov'd for him, For olden wrongs lurk, wolf-like, dark and grim. Behind him : pain, desire and sin's dark ban Bestrode his path before his life began; And, — the child is mine! Not all the turbulence of the poignant past. Nor all the midnight secrets that o'ercast His little soul's clear purity can charm The fact away. Come death, come storm or calm, The child is mine ! 4' Two Epigrams A PORTRAIT, A.H.G. A GENTLE youth With dark and soul-lit eyes, Where twinkling thought and fleeting fancy lies; A calm pale brow that shows each passing phase Of budding beauty in a thousand ways. SORROW Rise poet and sing In sad, sobbing strain; To our souls solace brings Again and again. For woe, when expressed With tear-thrillinpf throes. Brings sweet-scented rest And sunny repose! 42 Temperament The thundering passion of Niagra's fall, Or snow-clad stillness of the mountain's height, Is each contented in its place, and all Nature shows God's transfiguring delight. Man is alone dissatisfied with Fate, — Heaven's restful calm leaves him in discontent. Nor passion's power can he obliterate : Disturbed by calm and by emotions spent. 43 When Night has Fallen When night has fallen, and the stars are out, I seek my couch, to muse upon thy face; And I am sick with yearning. Round about Are phantom forms that fill the air with grace; And yet, and yet, my cheeks are wet with tears, For only one boy-form can bring surcease to all my fears ! 'Tis thine my Princeling : tender soul within Looks out in every line of pink and white, Inspiring my stained heart to look from sin (Where Grief has bled) to Innocence's height. How mighty is love's fervour when we lie Lips close to lips, to breathe away the pain of days gone by ! I have loved wildly in the wayward past, Placed laurels on my head and myrrh on mouth, — Seeking oblivion, as the Attics cast Stones from their shores toward the gleaming south; But all the time, even when the song was loud, I hungered for a love like thine, where Purity is vowed! 44 T love thee, Princeling! Nothing can derange This strong affection. 'Neath the watching sky I pledge anew my faith, grown almost strange By pressure o' the years. Keen memory Will bring me safely to your presence, — grown More loyal and more fervent from this exile borne alone ! 45 For an Autograph Album 'Tis but a little book, as yet unspoiled, Or rendered rich by those who dream and know! Shall blind conceit obscure its leaves? Or show Upon its whiteness gems that men have toiled Through daring hours to perfect, as thought coiled Or opened out within? Let virile concepts go Into these pages, — and, as breezes blow Both hot and cold, may Fancy ne'er be foiled! I am content, and ask no more of it Than that all here may show sincerity : Write unafraid; for Faith and Dignity Can only come when thought is freely writ. . . . See! On yon hill the fleecy cloud may sit Radiant, that in the depths looms mistily ! 46 Waiting Ivory dawn and crimson noon, Sultry purple afternoon, Primrose eve and twilight gray — I have waited all the day! When the shadowy moon is high In an amaranthine sky, Visions faintly round me gleam. And I wait as in a dream. Yearning, longing ardently. Wishing, craving passionately, Watching, hoping — but for what ? God must know, if I do not! Roses have I flung: around On the ever-ready ground; And my feet have learned to dance To a tune composed by Chance. Rapture meets me at all hours. Wreathes my hair with dewy flowers; And my pulses know the beat Cadenced by Life's twinkling feet. 47 To my soul has Nature spoken : Given great gifts as her token — For my lips are held apart To the singing of my heart. And, withal, I still am waiting, Still am yearning, palpitating For the joy that lingers long. Formless, wordless, as this song. Ivory dawn and crimson noon (What, ah! what is Mystery's boon?) Primrose eve and twilight gray — Shall I watch, — both night and day? 48 A Charity School In 'ninety-seven our big-whigs made a trial Of teaching poorer children how to go Through life with strength and fortitude, and so A school for orphans opened was at Styal. These children's cheeks are red, there's no denial; And they have learned their aptitude to show In many ways. . . . While summer breezes blow I watch them loudly play at Touch the Dial. Erewhile these lads and lasses lived in gloom Of grimy court, insanitary street. Mark now the twinkling of their well-shod feet! I'll speak to one : " My lad, have you got room For one within.'' Your life has idyll, bloom! " " Get out! Yer kiddin'! Just got ^nough to eat! " 49 Fragment The song of the thrush was sweeter, Far sweeter, love, to-day : It thrilled and it keened and filled me. Till it took my heart away. For its song seemed like to an angel's That into my senses grew : I saw the streets of God's Heaven, And the angel ... ah, sweet, 'twas you 1 50 On the Shore Underneath the rugged shelter Of the rude gray cliffs we stood; While the north wind shrilled around us, And the tide was at its flood. There I yearned to know my fortune, And my heart was full of fears : Though your silence made God's music Sound exultant in my ears. In the darkness, broken only By the light of drifting moon. Still I waited, wondering, fearing. As the ocean ceased to croon — For the tide was coming nearer. Full of menace, full of power; And the anguish of that moment o Seemed to lengthen to an hour. Sudden came a daring billow. With a roar that drowned our sighs; SI And the rushing, laughing Triton Dashed his tear-drops in your eyes. You were timid. ... I took courage, Dared my fortitude to prove. . . . Caught you to me, — and the ocean Sang a song of Love, sweet Love! 52 Prince Tell, O tell me why — the reason that you find the lad so fair ? (Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince) Because the sunlight has been caught within his russet hair ? Is it for this ? Not this the bliss, Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince ! Tell, O tell me why — the reason that you find the lad so fair ? (Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince) Because he loves you is he beautiful ? His soul to share Makes life a song ? You do him wrong. Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince ! Then tell, O tell me why — the reason that you find the lad so fair ? (Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince) Because I love him, he is beautiful ! My wisdom's there ! Love's mighty flame Wakes at his name, Prince, my Prince, my Fairy Prince ! 53 A Spring Idyll They sat on a low wall together, At the first rosy touch of the dawn ; Deliciously warm was the weather, While the sky mingled opal and fawn. From the sea came the song of the surges : (Each wave wore its garment of gold.) And its message to Youth never dirge is — So the boy his first love-story told. By chance 'twas his tenth birthday morning, And she had met seven, maybe eight ; For Love comes to some in the dawning Of Life, and to others — too late! O mystical hour of Love's Wooing, While the sun lifted high his warm crest ; And the sea hushed its song to low cooing— Loves Kiss in the Morning is best! 54 Song Wake him again to the song that I sing, Breeze o'er the bending corn; Tenderly touch him to say that I bring Songs at the early morn! I, who have loved him, would meet him again : Speak to him then for me; Press his pale brow, and so bring to my pain Solace and sympathy. Wake him again, — for I hold him so dear That my only hope is to be Wrapped in his arm, with his soft cheek a-near Tenderly, tenderly! 55 High Noon A PURPLE passion came to us that day : We walked the valley where the lad's-love grows; And in the hedges, ruby-red and gay A rose hung bleeding, and again a rose. We talked of love; and he sank on the sward. Drawing me nearer in a warm embrace : We felt each nerve beat keenly; and toward Each other drew, till lips fed on cool face. " Ah ! Love-lies-bleeding ! " Soon our moment passed. And, softly rising, I said in his ear : " How sweet is lad's-love ! " " But it does not last ! " He murmured in reply, with sudden tear. Then I (the elder) on my dreams intent Plucked many handfuls, piled them at his feet : " You are the Prince of Lad's-Love, — and its scent Was meant for bosom, not one whit less sweet ! " " Would that 'twere true, and I e'en as this stem ! " The boyish words half sounded like a cry; His kisses fell ail-hungrily on them, — But I caressed him, saying, " These flowers must die ! " s6 Winter has come, and all the fields are bare; I sit alone, and dream of his dear face : His look, his voice, his manner, and his air Of wistful innocence and childish grace. 'Tis true, alas ! 'tis true that blossoms fade : Earth's sweetest gems are to the sight denied Gone is the lad's-love from the open glade, And he — he went before the lad's-love died! 57 Admonition O LOVELY boy, a very Prince 'Monof others dost thou move : A gentle comrade to thy friends — But ah! a foe to Love! The simple flush upon thy cheek, Though fragrant as a rose. Was born of crimson autumn eves : Chill as the mountain snows. Not from the limpid brook thine eyes Their mystic mirth have ta'en — But from prismatic floating isles That arctic circles chain. And thy red lips (to poppies kin) Yield silvered bitterness, — While that low voice, for music framed. Wears scorn's ungraceful stress. (In olden days strong Orpheus Compelled the rocks to own Love's greater spell.) Could even Greek Melt such a heart of stone.'' 58 I fear me no ! Thy obdurate soul Despair to lover brings : A-nd Orpheus too might own defeat Before such raptured stings! 59 To One in Heaven Now have you many homes, O sweetest one, Where we have none save this perplexing earth : You have the clouds, the stars, the august sun, The virginal higher birth! Your song will cling around the breathless spheres. While here is shade, and gnawing pain and fret : You have the noon-shine, — we the mist of tears, And endless sorrow. . . . Yet Albeit each sad heart is lashed with grief, We lift them up to you in hope and prayer : O Angel-one bring solace and relief, — The strength our cross to bear ! We chant our halting notes with troubled breath. Our trembling fingers shake the lute's wild strings : But if you link your voice to ours, pale Death No desolation brings! Immortal, free, untrammelled at the bars Of Heaven you soar, — love-crowned as when you trod Our mundane plane, — eternal as the stars. Or as your boundless God ! 60 Sometimes look, down; and teach us how to sing The fruitful psalms, known in that lucent morn And let us feel the touch of your warm wing In this, our dismal bourne. For you are native of the dazzling spheres; And in Christ's courts you serve eternally : Yet carry when you can to temporal ears Your starry minstrelsy! 6i Tommy Todd A SUNNY sky over sunnier sea, And a great green wave that slouches in, While we sit on the beach, — ^just you and me, — And around us the others make noise and din. On the far horizon the gleam of a sail. Which flames into gold on the ocean's blue, — And the clouds gloom purple or red or pale. As the gulls speed past our enchanted view ! Can you recall. At the year's slow fall. That picture of light, gold-shod ? Sweet, neat, fair and sweet. Neat little Tommy Todd? The harvest-field, in which reapers shout. While far on the hill the horses run; The gleam of the scythes, and round about The swooning heat of an August sun; But under the hedge the smile of the rose, And lunch in the shade of a leafy lime : Of every Eden that Eros knows Was there ever an equal on earth, or in time ? Can you recall. At the year's slow fall. That picture of golden-rod ? Sweet, neat, fair and sweet, Neat little Tommy Todd ? 62 Love and Death (After Watts Picture^ Whitnvorth Institute^ Manchester) A Child's nude breast, before a shrouded Thing : (Soul's protest 'gainst the Body) thrusting out The pale, sad feet of Death : but meshed about By impotence and youth and fragile wing. Yea! Eagerness has spoken in the sting Of this brief struggle : while the boyish shout Is yet upon Love's lips, Death slays with drought The Darling One, beneath his arm's wide fling. Alas ! The tale is true ! Love may not turn Gaunt Fate away! Eros disconsolate The onward march may momentary bate; But Age must win o'er Youth. So though we yearn To see the struggle through, we can discern Love i' the dust, beaten — and blest too late! 63 # Impromptu : Suggested by S.M. You cannot die! As when the day is past The moon a milder glory sheds around, So will your spirit linger to the last, Near to your silent body in the ground. Silent? Mayhap — for snowy breasts will turn To lilies o' the valley; and your hands To golden-hearted peonies that will burn, Till crimsoned o'er with glory are the lands. When men have buried you beneath the sod, Your cloven lips a red, red rose shall be; And level brows, that proudly speak of God, Shall emulate the pearly narcissi. Ah ! If I lie a-near you in the ground. Mayhap the wind will thrill us to its joy; And we will wake together at the sound To be once more strong man and ardent boy ! My spirit throbs in hope of that sweet death. When Nature shall be sister and a queen, — When beast and bird and flower shall hold our breath, And we shall not be bondslaves of the Seen! 64 Think of it, dearest — we shall pass into All sensuous being, — equal with the 3awn, — The sunshine and the moonbeam and the dew. The dryad and the centaur and the faun! The thrush's chaunt, the nightjar's plaintive psalm, All feathered singers shall be ours to hear; And in the winter we shall fear no harm, For then the robin's breast will draw more near. Notes shall we be in one grand harmony, Whose rhythmic beats aspire toward the sky : And in whatever form our spirits may be. Love shall be ours, — Sweetest, we cannot die! 6s Alec (To ^lec Fischer, for a photograph in 'Bathing Costume) Your face is not divine; but softly wrought Are your white shoulders which strong muscles hide. I like you thus, and am most satisfied That you have posed, as in a sculptor's thought. Watching your sinuous breasts makes me distraught, In memory of the time when we defied The indolence of flesh; and magic taught Each to the other, and no thrill denied! Man's loveliest labours are conceived in pain, — The charms of woman-nature meet in you. Intense, defined, exquisite; and I knew Both poles of feeling in your love's refrain. Years hurry each to marriage, — but the strain Of the sweet past shall haunt us, old yet new! 66 To My Mother Your weary head, O let me feel at rest Upon my heart. Scarce can I bear to gaze Upon it without tears; for on your breast I lay a weakling in my stammering days. From out the mart that stains and mars the soul I seek one hour of pure and perfect peace; And in your arms I reach the further pole Of heavenly joy, where gnawing sorrows cease! Sleep then upon my aching heart, O sleep! And gathered thus may angels reach our side; That through the coming years I safe may keep The shadow of the love which life denied ! 67 Street Arabs Dancing An oasis upon an arid plain ! These children half entrance me in their fun : I love to mark their frolic in the dun Light o' the streets. Far more am I than fain To call them linnets, squirrels; and my pain Is all forgotten when the day is done. For heart is moved to pity, — fancies run As thick as berries 'mid this spongy rain. They dance in groups, with secrets in their gaze Of things romantic — Music-Hall-ish theme ! Puck leads their footsteps in ecstatic beam, And none save youth can touch their pregnant praise Each mind is all-forgetfiil, in a phase Of things ideal, not what they may seem! 68 Invocation Shy boy, shy boy, Shyest of your kind; If you were of my mind, You'd not sit apart. But enter my warm heart. Shy boy, shy boy ! (He cons a dog-eared book. And bends his brown head low But could I catch his look Such work he would forego.) Shy boy, shy boy, See the evening falls, And the nightjar calls : Shy boy, shy boy, Will you court the gloom, Or seek a lighter room? (Shyer than a cricket. Meeker than a dove, He was meant for rapture. Made for love, for love!) 69 After the Greek of Theocritus They listen to these platitudes unvexed, — Thirty strong lads; but by the gods! I swear That I am sick of thought, count it unfair That summer hours should hover round a text So feebly old. Why ! What will follow next ? The air is close within, and blood should care For its delight. I'm half inclined to dare The lecturer's frown, ere I become unsexed! In passing, let me touch the nut-brown hand Of yonder youth. His eyes have challenged mine. The open street, the field, ambrosial wine Of August, and his comradeship's command. Now let us seek some stream, and in it stand Bare to the hips, and talk of things — Divine! 70 The Unwelcome Love's little hand came knocking at the door Of my young heart — The rosy palm beat softly at the door : I cried " Depart ! " " But I am weary, and the night is long; Within is warmth and feasting, light and song : Bid me come in that I may share your joy." ". . . My guests are many. Get you gone, fair boy — I count you foe, And bid you. Go! " Love's little hand came knocking at the door Of my old heart — The rosy palm beat softly at the door : I cried " Depart, For love o' God ! I am both weak and frail : My youth is dead, and every bud is pale! " " I will come in. . . ." Thrown are the portals wide : " So be it — in this cheerless room abide ! " He trembles — " No : 'Tis cold as snow! " 71 Golden Stairs The common parlance of the counting-house I have to speak from nine o'clock to seven; But all the while my soul is at carouse With abstract things, all gloriously given; And when I am alone one moment's space I hear a singing voice throughout the place ! I listen wonderingly, and lift mine eyes : I do not dare to scorn a syllable; I must not mock at Love's known paradise, Where all is sweet as any marriage-bell ! Let gods with feet of clay be basely theirs : I keep my vision of the Golden Stairs! 72 In Church There are three things I shall recall, while memory holds her seat : Three little things while Time beside us flies — The soft touch of your hand in mine; the sunshine at your feet; The mingled trust and dread in your clear eyes. March 2^th, 1908. 73 Jim : A Picture (To James Henry Richardson^ for many pleasant hours) A BOY I know, whose eyes are full and gray, Beneath straight brows and hair of honey hue. He walks the earth undaunted, staunch and true, As if the gods had given him right of way Through every path. What money cannot pay In gold for's his, — an optimism new With each day's sun : the wish and will to do His duty with a smile, whate'er men say! He puts on tights and jerkin, looking trim As youthful pageboy in Revivals here; And when I smile approval (no small beer) His head goes up in pride, and full of vim He cries out rapturously: "Ah, never fear; Pll be an actor some day! " Thafs my Jim! 74 Summer and Winter When all his locks were golden, Like most to ripened wheat, He sang of warmth and summer, Of flowers and lightsome feet. Anon his hair was brindled. And brackets wreathed his mouth He thought him of brown autumn, And sang of coming drouth. But — ^just because the snowflakes Are falling on his brow — He needs must sing of winter. And 'Only winter now! 75 Boy Extracting Thorn (Marble at Florence) The fairest nymph from out the limpid stream, Lying at ease beneath the swooning heat, Is not so finely shaped from head to feet, Nor delicately sweet in Beauty's Dream, As these bent shoulders (slimmer than they seem), Or lithe thin legs, whose loveliness complete Mocks at the pride of manhood, — for replete In every line is Innocence's beam. He bends his anxious head above the toe. Extracting from his languid flesh the thorn : A very flower of life, as yet upborne On stem of shamelessness, — perfected so By fifteen springs. . . . The thorn he seeks below, Is planted in the gazer's heart, love-torn! 76 Bathers (After Walkers Carinas) Their garments lie upon the sun-kissed grass, And, — clothed alone in their young loveliness, — These boys but wade or lounge in idleness. While summer's blossoms hail them as they pass. A warmer glow of radiance on the glass Of purling stream responds to each caress Made by exultant limbs in nakedness. That ere while fidgetted and fumed in class. Great painter of this thrilling theme, I hail Thee Beauty's Prophet; for thine eyes have seen The Secret Rose of all the World ! I ween That as thy models posed in red or pale Garments of flesh, thy practised eye the tale Of Life had mastered, — Love the Whole and Clean ! 77 Some Other Night Some other Night, you tell me, shall be given To clasp of hands, fresh kisses and dear love : Sweet promise of caresses! While above Is radiant atmosphere of Eros' heaven You gage to me the flower with petals seven. So day by day you curb my ardour, even To the last breath, while courage back is driven; To wait, and wait for that rare treasure-trove Some other Ni^ht ! "to Ah, love, I know. . . . But hearts may not be riven For ever thus. Though I may ne'er be shriven Of my sweet sin, I claim you for my dove This very hour — lest you should learn to love Some other Knight! 78 CAMEOS OF AN ENGLISH BOYHOOD CONTENTS I. The second mother • 83 II. In memoriam : S. M. ... • 83 III. The tomb of inspiration • 84 IV. A moonlit picture • 85 V. In March • 85 VI. Something discovered ... . 86 VII. Happiness and shade ... . 86 VIII. Within the cave ... • 87 IX. Above the stair ... . 88 X. Bathers ... . 88 XI. High summer . 89 XII. Gratitude • 89 XIII. In protest . 90 XIV. Idle days ... • 91 XV. Unseasonable languor ... • 91 XVI. On modern ways • 92 XVII. In prospect of fulfilment • 92 XVIII. Poets at play • 93 XIX. The end ... • 94 XX. Quiet waters of grief ... • 94 XXI. Echo and response ■ 95 XXII. Waiting — not in vain ... • 9^ These Poems partly replace a private edition of '■^Through Veiled Eyes'" (1908). I. The Second Mother Do you recall the urgent pitiless rain, Along the sedge low-hissing, as we passed With scurrying feet, and reached the house at last Through fierce wind wailing ! Then (our supper ta'en) We all went to the music-room, where fain To be informed, Prince Charming, much downcast By solitude, wept at our news ; held fast Within your arms, his " mother," novel gain. Then at his father's (now your husband's) side You played from Chopin; but the dismal cries For light of that dead poet filled our eyes With tears for wasted moments. And we sighed To think what wealth of intercourse had died With that great vow " I will," what melodies ! II. In Memoriam : S.M. One asked me for the secret of my faith In restless Youth; whereat I answer made With serious words. He seemed annoyed, dismayed. At tribute that this halting number payeth 83 To vigorous human life. My poet sayeth, " Love's sinews in the soul are unafraid." Thus take I counsel of the heart, being paid From mint of sense, and guided by Love's breath. Even such am I ! I chose my hero : then Made him a model, brain and mood and nerve. He lived right fully; and upon the swerve Into the pit, I pitied him. For when His nature snared him most I knew that men Must hail him god at last ... I, too, must serve! IIL The Tomb of Inspiration I may not write to order; for the fount Protests that it is dry, and ancient wrongs Surge black within my heart to slay the songs. That erewhile made the tedious thoughts to mount On eagle wings, — away from things that count As dross, or babbling folly of the throngs. May then a town-bred poet count the tongues Of men ignoble, and their woes discount ? Perhaps a face may wake him in the ray Of misty morning, or soft prattle speak Unto his soul; but he must ever seek Something on which the soul may brood alway. Dwelling apart. Enthralled with Beauty's play, He needs must shun the valley for the peak ! 84 IV. A Moonlit Picture A night in winter, when the mantling snow Had stilled the world to silence, I recall : Against the pane its iterate tender fall, Fleeing the wind in rugged fields below. My " T.O.T." in bed, reluctant yet to go To shadowed vales of rest; his whispered call For some account of Love's unchanging thrall, And my response in Romeo's rhythmic flow. And while I tell him of fair Juliet, The cadenced lines accompanied by the flakes Upon the glass, his moonlit child-face takes A deeper wonder, and his mouth is set Into a rose of rapture. . . . Closer yet His lips to mine for these dead lovers' sakes ! V. In March During an hour I watch him standing there Guard of the goal, with naught to move his ease; Yet, all the while, defensive arms and knees Are ready for attack. His form is bare Of all save knickers and a vest; his hair Is ruffled and at stir in chilling breeze. His young face glows with rapt attention, — tease Him as you will, he's not caught unaware. 85 See ! Mellow red on cheek and dew on lip, — The centre-forward missed his kick. . . . Here slide A frenzied knot towards him. Open-eyed The post he keeps. . . . With rapid noble rip He hurls his puny body on them. . . . Whip-p-p! The ball's to field ! That kick has saved his side ! VI. Something Discovered Come, let us linger near the hawthorn bush. Where sun and leaves have rootless bridal made. It is a place where faun and nymph delayed Their languid feet before the morn's inrush. How sweet the scent, — and listen to that thrush, Whose palpitating song his debt has paid Unto the day's repose! No sound shall fade From out our minds, attentive and at hush. Drink in the scene, my Prince, with all your eyes. Heedless and hurried mortals rarely see These mingled patterns of earth's tapestry. Stitched by the silent hands of Paradise. When we return we shall have poet-guise Upon our brows : blood immortality. VII. Happiness and Shade Inquisitive, alert, in greeny nook My Prince oft nestled to me in the shade, 86 And problem after problem deftly made, As if for library my brain he took. And then with temperate and persuasive look The highest compliment of all he paid : " Write me a poem, please." Each word was weighed As one might test gold found in barren brook. " That rhyme is weak; this passage doesn't scan." Oh, throbbing voice like to an angel's song : " I'm sure the cadence of this line is wrong! " " A hit indeed ! But tell me, little man, Where hast acquired thy wisdom ? " So began Love's argument to which all sweets belong ! VIII. Within the Cave A cave I know, where Love exalts a theme Of adolescence, scarce as yet discreet For outer world. Prince Charming at my feet Lures by soft wiles the water's sunny beam. While I regard him smiling, in a dream About the ivory of his flesh, — as sweet As any flower. Then, basking in the heat. We are entangled in Love's stratagem. All through my life shall memory hold thee dear, Thou noisy cave, where vines cling close above With endless wooing-. Here at noon came Love To sway our souls, eradicating fear; For His sweet sake thy shelter shall appear The fairest bower built by the nested dove! 87 IX. Above the Stair Those mornings in the double-bedded room I never shall forget. My breezy boys Wakeful and cheery, apt for play and noise : Still in their shirts, alive with health and bloom. Within the garden close the cheery boom Of bees in search of dew. My Prince's voice Chanting a tag; then Albert's legs at poise, In Highland Fling, across a broken broom. And while I sit and laugh at them, the hiss Of cooking from the kitchen will ascend. Like dormice have they slept. But now defend Who can against their frolic! All the bliss Of Youth is theirs : clear eyes, fresh cheeks, — and this, Best boon of all, a visitor as friend ! X. Bathers We four were seated in one bathing-van : Dusky-skinned Ibra, Albert and my Prince; Then, while my Afric garcon tried to rinse Soap and salt water o'er his palms, began A dispute on the temperature, and ran The words hot-footed. " // fait fro'id! " But since 'Twas my own holiday words must convince; I cried, " No bathing then for you, young man ! " Forthwith we left our shivering friend; plunged back; And my Prince sported with me on the beach, Submitting when I kissed him, — each to each Sufficient. Sudden rang his clear tones, " Jack, I want to ask you something." " I will teach You all I can." " Is Ibra's body black.'' " XI. High Summer The harvest fields are crimson, red on red, And glow on glow of poppies in the corn. I love these soft medallions, boldly torn, And eager courage of each nodding head. I love their show, because my Prince has said That they are emblems of a heart forlorn, And typify a passion newly-born That has not found the fount from which 'tis fed. 'Tis passing strange these rumours should be his : And when I lift my hand to pluck a flower. Behold! his smaller palm has greater power, — For he has drawn them o'er him. . . . Raptured bliss. Of studious flowers, whose blushing faces kiss His rosier cheeks! — content ye with your hour! XII. Gratitude I bless God for you each night on my knees. Because I con you like an open book. There is such comfort in one curious look. That gold and glamour wake whene'er you please. 89 Yes, little Prince, for me you hold the keys Of that blest symphony which throbbed and shook IsrafePs heaven. Harmony never took So fair a priest as you in hours of ease ! Should Spring refuse to crown the silent year. And daisies sleep ungrown within the sod, Or every other face show sensual rod In bleak blank lines of pain and sin and fear — I could but choose to ask that Life should rear One simple flower, — my precious Tommy Todd ! XIII. In Protest Why frown because he makes one wilful move Toward the gulf.'' This wayward boy will bear His burden no less nobly. Do not spare. Because of this, your sympathy and love. The world's to blame, who lays her treasure-trove Lavishly before him : fascinations rare ! Her nursino; knee is treacherous, — for her care Will slacken later, and his merit prove. Take heart, O fond ones; he to lean must learn Upon his own reliance. Better friend Am I in teaching your dear lad to spend His days resistless, than in Youth to spurn All love and pain. He will enjoy return, And bless the gods for knowledge at the end ! 90 XIV. Idle Days At morn I cried, " Wake, Prince; for limpid light Shines on the fields. And, hark, the throstle's song! The day is ours, each crystal minute long With lucid rapture for our heart's delight. We will until the eve glut hearing, sight, And every sense the active fields among. The oaks and elms have all a fancied wrong Against the breeze. Ah! listen to their plight!" The window opened to his aureoled face. And wanton winds caught at each tangled hair; Large sleepy eyes looked down at me. " Forbear!'* I said : " Keep silence generous; I can trace, Bent thus, your mystic dreams!" Anon a race Of expectation made his face more fair ! XV. Unseasonable Languor ''' This is not cricket ! " smiling I protest. His o'erworn body on the sward lies slack, The sun-kissed hands clasped lightly on his back, While rose-leaf face is buried in his breast. ■" Three minutes only are allowed for rest; And you are learning to acquire the knack Of rapid bowling." Then I see the black Beneath his guileless eyes — and know the test ! *' Ah! you are tired .^" (That brilliant baby skin Of his must last unstained throughout the years!) 91 I stoop to press his hand, the while great fears Grip at my heart. . . . But soon he enters in Among the players, rested, eager — tears Dried on his cheeks, and makes the leather spin ! XVL On Modern Ways I like it not, your creed of cruel things. Full only of the lust of wealth and war. Go to the envious! Leave my simpler star Undimmed by blood — the while my nature sings. Why seek to mark each soul with stripes and stings And ruddy specks ? Surely, 'tis better far To be inept or weak, than conqueror Over the suffering, and to steal their wings! I am contented with obscurity, And will not lend my ear to your behest. " God's in His Heaven!" Thus, I deem it best To bow beneath the statement patiently. Your message is not Love's — and while I see My soul at full, why covet I the rest .'' xvn. In Prospect of Fulfilment Some ancient wrong had stirred my soul to pain. And I knelt sobbing with a fevered brow; When lo ! my Prince's arm around me : " Now, This will not do," he sagely said. " The chain 92 Of our affection must be roses, ta'en Only from sunny plots!" Ah, fruitful vow That made me his beneath the autumn bough ! We wandered out into the shadowy lane. The symphony of life we understood. And all the straining air was clear, and fraught With holy aspiration; and our thought Went up in prayer, till in sublimer mood I took his hands in mine. . . . Thou God art good Who gave me Love's frail pathos all unbought ! XVIII. Poets at Play Albeit I was born beneath the brume My lines seem all concerned with summer closes — With only pleasant paths and radiant roses. Some think that, hence, my fancies have no room For aught but joy and Nature's wealthiest bloom. The reason why my rhyme untroubled flows is That inspiration which the poet knows, is Bliss scorned of bliss, unique with Death and Doom. When darkness falls, and all the lamps expire. Men will behold their poets sick and lame, — Ignobly conscious of frustrated aim! They strive awhile to chant their heart's desire, Making men kingly 'neath an opal fire, Yet all the while are wrung with gilt and blam.e I 93 XIX. The End He asked if he were good ? before he died. They told him that an angel he had been; And when he passed away their anguish keen Was tinctured by the thought that they had lied. He had been wilful, oft his tasks denied : But now they only thought that they had seen His boyish escapades and childish spleen For the last time, and could no longer chide! And I — I knew that restless hands would twine Around my neck no more, nor pluck my sleeve. Fancy nor fact would ever serve to weave Those rosebud lips to realness laid on mine; Each daring touch of naughtiness divine Had made him Spirit, — that I would believe! XX. Quiet Waters of Grief I give one lingering look at his dead face; They deem it strange I do not weep or moan, For he has been heart's-brother. He alone May know how much I loved him, and may trace 94 The currents of my soul. This solemn place Has witnessed our delight, as we have sown The seeds of grave content while days have flown. Ah ! full heart's overflow and pulses' race ! What matter I weep nothing.'' I dare tell Of my affection when their lips are dumb. He died that I might worship; and the knell That plucks at these torn hearts is marriage-bell To my heart's core. Let Spring or Winter come, I keep my watch untiring. All is well! XXI. Echo and Response The ocean's silken smile, secretive, cool, Brings back the dreadful trial of the past; The silence and the sunshine seem to cast A veil around my senses. O mad fool To yearn for him again ! Easy to school Your soul to patience; for, behold! at last. If Death be Love, your arms will hold him fast Beside the glistening waters of Heaven's Pool! The vanished loveliness of form and face, Great eyes and treasure of his auburn ha.h*. Will yet be yours. For meeting on the stair A moment of exquisite holy grace Will be vouchsafed; and hungry fingers trace Each subtle charm beneath the Angel's care ! 95 XXII. Waiting — Not in Vain The stealthy tide creeps up the snow-clad beach, The restless gulls are screaming to the sea; Ah! who will bring my darling back to me, And who incline our faces each to each? This hawthorn bough has little hope to teach, Yet holly-berries clasp him fervently. Ah ! who will bring my darling back to me Across the weary miles o'er which I reach ? The sky is dark, and very cold to see; The sand is lone and worn as my sad heart. Bleak is my soul; and acrid tear-drops start. Ah ! who will bring my darling back to me, Across this moaning and relentless sea, Ere darkness falls upon life's empty mart.'' 96 STRAY THOUGHTS To Bos A, without whom my sojourn in O. — March, 1908, to August, 1 909 — would have been empty. May happiness always be yours ! A Song of the Hills In vernal hours, so fresh with flowers, And sweet with sylvan song, When riding high across the sky The sun makes spring-day long; While overhead the heavens are spread In depths of azure, bright With fold on fold of clouded gold, And palpitating light; The herdsmen cry — " Lura la, la, la, la, li, 006." The noonday scene is fair and green. With sturdy tuft and tree; The south winds blow, the streamlets flow. And strains from bird and bee Are flung around in raptured sound Of thrilling music, and With mystic rhyme the far-off chime Melodious makes the land; The herdsmen cry — " Lura la, la, la, la, li, 006." 99 O sweetest lays of living days, And scenes of brilliant bloom! Your potent power makes glad the hour, And brightens sorrow's gloom; Ah ! let me win a bliss akin To song so sweetly sung; Reap from this lore oft heard before A purer, loftier tongue; The herdsmen cry — " Lura la, la, la, la. If, 006." Were We So Cold ? Were we so cold, you could not tread this earth On rugged path for weary miles untold? You did not stay to test our ampler worth : Were we so cold ? Yet Nature did not hide from you the gold Of her rich store, nor did you lack in mirth; The fault lay nearer to ourselves. . . . Ah ! bold And fearless traveller through another birth. All gifts of time and change your hands shall hold In yonder sky; but answer to our dearth — Were we 5o cold ? Sweetest Flower Prince, sweetest flower, Known to earth, twins Death — brightest dower, Prince ! Not long is it since We felt all the power That love may evince; And now Heaven's Tower A rare ruby wins, — Gone from our bower, Prince ! Poetry and Desire I. I ASK not in a world like ours That sun should shine alway; I shall be happy if the hours Bring night as well as day; But this, O God! I do entreat With trembling heart and tongue, /dh! let me hear Lifers pulses heat And answer in a Song! II. I saw a star against the sky : a restless, radiant thing, I cried unto the heavens for it — ('twas in the sunny Spring); But suddenly one last long ray I saw it downward fling, Then rush into the gathering gloom on swiftly dying wing ! 103 I A Woman's Way They stood in a quaint old country town, And shelter'd under a tree; Simple was he, with a skin of brown. And pretty and proud was she. And day by day did he woo her there. In sunshine or in rain, But ever she said with haughty air — " We must not meet ao^ain! " And day by day they met at eve, Be the weather wet or fine; Beneath the tree they would make believe, Till he asked, " Wilt thou be mine ? Let us be lovers, and share the day, We have waited through the rain." But the maiden turned her head away — " We must not meet again ! " The night falls at last with dusky wings. And silent 'neath the tree Stands the maiden, while the night-jar sings In poignant threnody; And one pleads yet with tender tone — He whispers brokenly — " The night is come; I am all alone." " Thou art mine, I am thine," said she. 104 One in Prison " I am ill, miserable, tired — how I suffer I cannot tell you, but life seems a weary burden." Letter from Wandsworth Gaol, zAugust^ 1895. I. Gray, pallid dawn, forgotten of the sun. Drifting weird clouds across a tent of sky; Then sudden darkness, long harsh night begun, What bird could call to bid the day, " Good-bye " ? Dawns thus, nights thus, and never a change, This tedious while of weeks in the dead year : A butterfly in the tainted light looks strange, A birth unnatural in a world so drear. No pulse of vibrant Nature beats and thrills Within these walls where vilest weeds are born; Here is the acid humid air that kills. And rusts the soul, the while the heart is worn! II. Frangible is life, and here no roses blow; Creatures but sigh, and sigger out their day In abject pain, the like man may not know Who has not given his better self away. 105 What gain results from grim and gnarring age? Mark how the dismal days drag wearily : This is our vaunted justice ! How assuage The heart-ache of this soul's mad misery ? For all this time he knows where, too far hence, Through earth's pure pores the year's young life leaps forth : Where air is drunken with a quickening sense; Where sky of blue is east, west, south, and north. Where, diamond-decked the dew shines on the grass, In trembling adoration of the sun. Who soon in all his majesty will pass From out his rosy-curtain'd pavilion. Where snow-white lilies, blushing at the marge, And rose-carnations, tinged with amethyst. Crowding upon the sunny acres large Are peering forth in thousands, sunshine kiss'd. III. O angel-flowers, whose scents fresh, mystic, coy. Close in the heart like childhood's earliest hope. Give him your secret and your faithful joy, — Lend him th' allurement of your verdant slope. Ah, give him ease ! Beneath the ruddy shield Of the bright sky the summer blossoms gleam; The larks have nested in the unmown field. And rise in rapture near the elfin stream. io6 Young children, greedy for the flowers, make haste For nosegays which the busy fields hold out : — Your world is full of flowers : enough to waste, For as you scatter down the buds you pout! Sebastian ! dark is Wandsworth Gaol to-day, Your life lags numbed! But Pity's fragrant urn Is broken for your sake, and I, who pay Sin's tribute, am your brother, and may mourn! 107 Afterward " Yes, she is wed," the people say, With smug and placid look; I saw him with her yesterday, — She dallied with a book. Her eyes looked at me fearfully — What consciousness was this? A sudden flush ran over me : Did he suspect that kiss ? Ah ! They are married : all is well ! But in her haunted eyes Are thoughts too deep for lips to tell, And clinging memories. io8 In Cheshire (An Acrostic) A MUSE art thou of all my simple songs, Nestling like wayside flower of greatest worth, Nurturing the weary vision of the throngs Imbued with pain, — an alien on the earth, Elusive, tender, full of maiden mirth ! Knit strongly to my heart thy loftier aim! Need I look down while thine is honour'd name ? I claim thee : thou art she who, lov'd, rever'd. Gleaming athwart my youthful days appear' d, Holy and pure, to wake my slumb'rous brain To thoughts of time, tears and life's thrilling strain. Youth passes swift, — but murmurs round me rain Of days to come beneath your love's soft beam. Unless you live to supervise my theme Naught else can satisfy my pride elate, — Give me your love, and I shall yet be great ! 109 La Vie est Vaine Vain is our Life : Of love a ray, A little Strife, And then — Good Day ! Brief is Life's Flight : Of Hope a gleam, A little Dream, And then — Good Night! Le Ciel est par-dessus le Toit The sky above the roof is near, So blue, so calm; A tree that is the roof a-near Rocks her green palm. The deep bell in the atmosphere Fails and is faint; A sweet bird in the balmy air Ceases her plaint. Dear God ! the very day is here Calm and tranquil; A peaceful mumur rises here From the far ville. " What have you done, you, who weep there In tears and ruth — What have you done, weeping there, With your white youth. With your white youth ? " Last Thoughts I. Think not the poet loves like common clay, He woos his art, and to his muse is wed : Vain all thy words and all that thou canst say- He takes no other amour to his bed. II. God, for this world bright and gay, I in Thy Mansion of Time, Lovingly, reverently pay Rent with the run of a rhyme. 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